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cassieuncaged · 2 months

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Grave Bound Redux: Book 1 - Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Elias Grodin x Maggie Wilson (my OC)

Summary: A young, pacifist man chooses to serve in the Vietnam war instead of going to prison on drug charges.

TW: slight medical gore, mentions of death, injuries, use of tobacco, language, etc

WC: 1.8K

Tag List: Taglist: @roofgeese, @chadillacboseman, @theelderhazelnut, @quantum-lover, @elderglocks, @galaxycunt, @voidika, @spacestephh, @emotionalcadaver

March 1966

At least there’s air conditioning.

It was a small amenity among the constant rot and bloodshed. Maggie remembered her mission, the same statement that was printed outside and at the front of the building.

CONSERVE THE FIGHTING STRENGTH.

She wasn’t completely sure what that meant for her, attempting to use her nursing degree to guide her like a beacon through the storm.

Except there was none.

All the first lieutenant nurses like herself were scampering around the makeshift infirmary until their feet were bloody and raw, meeting the choppers and jeepsters at the door and hauling new patients in. Some were lucky to have only been sprayed with a bit of shrapnel or nurse a minor concussion while others lost limbs or succumb to infections.

It seemed rather gauche, the posters she’d seen back in the states, promoting women to volunteer as nurses in the hopes of coming back happily engaged while the reality was far more grim. The young nurse had seen more gore and viscera than she’d ever expected, holding the hands of the injured and dying while they wailed for their wives and mothers. She lived for the quieter days, when the men were in good spirits and particularly healthy.

“Caldy’s got it out for me,” Rachel, another first lieutenant complained as they dressed a bed with the cleanest linens available. She was small, typically pretty with chestnut hair, big brown eyes, and an interesting gap between her front teeth. Unfortunately, God had seemed to bless her with a mouth that never seemed to close. While all the men adored her, their major didn’t.

“Oh?” Maggie offered flatly, wholly disinterested in the new drama. She was more invested in the news about another airstrike over Hanoi, wondering if the NVA was planning on retaliating. That was likely.

“I swear that old bat has it out for me.” A scowl stretched across Mariano’s impish features as they both continued to fuss over the sheets. Blue eyes drifted back up to white plywood on which their mission statement was printed in bold, totalitarian lettering.

SUPPORT THE US FORCES

“She’s doing her job,” Lt. Wilson echoed back without much thought, knowing better than to gossip under Major Caldwell’s sharp nose. “We all are.”

“Always such a goodie goodie,” Rachel scoffed, surveying the wrinkled bed clothes as she adjusted her ponytail. “No one out here cares whether we live or die, Mags. We’re just some glorified Donut Dollies who fix boo boos and pretend to be surrogate girlfriends.”

“Don’t be so callous,” she finally snapped, growing tired of her partner’s grousing. “These men have no one out here except themselves because of a broken system. The least we can do is try to help.”

Her eyes flitted across the rows of beds as a few of their healthier patrons were led through the front doors and back into the heat. No one paid them much mind as the other nurses rushed by in their army greens. Rachel’s shoulders slumped slightly, uncharacteristically self aware at the nurse’s words. This was the best most of the men got out here: air conditioning and a kind smile.

“I hate when you’re right,” she mumbled, heading to the next bed as Major Caldwell broke Maggie from a self satisfied stupor.

“Wilson!” Her voice was flinty yet commanding. “Stop dawdling and help the sergeant here!”

“Yes, ma’am!” the red head saluted, calming frizzy ginger locks as her boots thudded against wooden planks. Others filed in around her, filling empty beds as she shuffled to the side of the next patient.

He was older than most of the intakes, probably pushing thirty with mousy blonde hair that sprouted from a sweat stained headband like a mushroom. Wide lips spread into an easy smile when she approached, wrapped around a cigarette. The man was in better shape than most, sporting a bloody leg. No apparent compound fracture. That was a good sign.

“Must’ve died and gone up to the pearly gates to meet an angel like you.” he cooed in a gravelly timbre, crystalline eyes captivated for a moment, clear like a freshwater river. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“1st Lieutenant Wilson,” she offered briskly, picking up his papers from a rickety bedside table. “And you’re Sergeant Grodin.”

“Aww, c’mon,” he whined playfully, “We don’t need titles around here. They don’t mean a whole lot anyways. Name’s Elias.”

There was something disarming about him that flattened her hackles, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. Most of the soldiers inane flirting made her uncomfortable with creeps gawking at the outline of her bra or calling her ‘toots’ and ‘babe’. But this one was amicable, kind even as he thrust his hand forward.

Chivalry wasn’t dead, it seemed.

“Maggie,” she offered meekly, allowing a large tan hand to devour her own. Despite the callouses and scars, he gently held her hand as though she were an injured bird.

“Maggie,” he repeated; she liked how it sounded rolling off his tongue. He spoke with a drawl. “Pretty name for a pretty face.”

“Thanks,” a blush bloomed upon full cheeks, painting the woman tomato red as she attempted to control the situation. She pulled cheap latex gloves upon small fingers before turning to face the sergeant once more. “Shrapnel embedded in the shin?”

“Yeah,” he hissed as she gently prodded at the bloody wound, pulling a putty knife from her boot to cut the leg of his fatigues. “That standard issue?”

“Is around here,” she winked, finding herself becoming more relaxed in his presence. Rolling the mangled canvas up a sinewy leg revealed round bloody pits that had burrowed their way into the bone. Too deep for her to dig out alone. “Nothing compounded, thank the lord. But those pellets are right against the bone. Doctors will have to dig em out to avoid any gangrene or jungle rot. In the meantime, I’ll get you on a morphine drip.”

“Looking forward to it,” he grinned dopily, taking a drag on his smoke, watching diligently as she sashayed away.

……

Three days in the 95th whizzed by, leaving Maggie’s heart aching as it grew closer to Elias’ impending discharge. His leg was healing up nicely, stitched with no sign of a gangrenous infection. A few boys from the 101st were bound to pick him up in the morning and get him back out in the bush.

It had been a long time since she'd made a real human connection in a war torn land. She’d been stationed in Da Nang since early January though it felt more like years. Rachel had been a confidant since training before the holidays, a jovial light in the proverbial dark. But any befriended patients were tragically ripped by her side, one way or another.

After doing menial chores and tasks for Major Caldwell, Maggie scurried over to Elias’ bedside. Her ginger curls were extra springy, pinned back to reveal the smattering of freckles across rosy cheeks. A dab of Chantilly perfume was even pressed to the inside of each wrist. A husband wasn’t expected though she wanted to be a pleasant memory for the man. Like a picture of Betty Grable tucked into a soldier’s pack during the second world war.

Tired blue eyes widened excitedly when Sergeant Grodin realized he had company. A open lipped smile revealed adorably gapped teeth, not unlike Rachel, while the morning sun brought out the little freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

“I must still be dreaming,” he chuckled, pushing himself up onto muscular arms. He wore a mossy t-shirt though his headband was gone, hair wildly askew. Maggie tried not to stare, tried not to imagine him clean and coiffed, proffering a bouquet of tulips. That could never happen. Maybe if she met him at the St. Mary’s in Buffalo, doing rounds. Maybe in another life, but not here.

So she smiled weakly, reaching outwards to bring the back of her palm to his brow. Elias allowed his eyes to flutter close, humming at such a tender form of intimacy. The boys often kept themselves busy during leave but doubtfully found much affection. It was a simple luxury.

“A little clammy, but that’s normal.” she noted, not noticing that a long finger wrapped itself in the chain of her dog tags. He examined the little piece of tin carefully.

“Margaret P Wilson.” he read outloud. “What’s the ‘P’ for?”

“Patricia.” She thought of the name on all of his documents, “What’s the ‘K’ stand for?”

“Kenneth.” He let go of her tag, grinning as she straightened herself; thankfully, the day was early and slow. The other nurses could handle their patients and Major Caldwell wasn’t squawking yet.

“I like it,” she declared quietly, “It’s delicate.”

“I get that more with ‘Elias’.” he groused as she took his vitals, passing over a waxy cup filled with some low dose painkillers. “Nothing like hearing you’ve got a 'queer' name.”

“It’s unusual,” Maggie added, “I like unusual.”

“Me too.” His hand devoured her own for the first time since they met. It felt like the world had melted away around them before the moment was torn away.

“Wilson!” Caldwell screeched, “Get Sergeant Grodin on his feet and out the door. Boys are here to get him and we’ve got more beds to fill!”

“Guess that’s my cue.” he announced waving a tall man, his dark skin glistening with sweat. The other man was shorter, a jagged scar splitting a serious face. “Boys from my division. Ready to pick me up."

He wobbled up to his feet, peeling off his shirt as dog tags jangled against a sun kissed and freckled chest. Maggie attempted not to stare, averting her eyes as she turned pink yet again. Elias grinned slyly, pulling his uniform back over his head, matching baggy cargo pants.

Their gaze met for a moment, blue on blue, a pull as strong as a magnet to steel. He thought she was pretty, too sweet to be out here trying to heal and comfort the dying that continued to pile up. Elias reached forward, grabbing a slender wrist in a massive hand.

“Cheer up buttercup,” he squeezed gently, earning a little grin. Maggie didn’t want him to go, enjoying their silent moment together. “I won’t give up that easy.”

“Be as safe as you can.” The young nurse offered, different from the maternal instinct in which she treated the other patients with.

“Elias!” The short, gruff man called impatiently as the other soldier flirted with another nurse trying to focus on her duties. “Haul your ass over! Time to go!”

“Aw shucks, Bob! Cool your heels!” he waved a hand dismissively, grabbing a few articles of clothing before looking at the woman one last time. “Until later.”

Maggie said nothing, watching the man sashay with the slightest hint of a limp, silently wishing him good luck.

He was going to need it. They all did.

#fanfiction #my fanfiction #oc: maggie #otp: dog tags and flower crowns #maggie x elias

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hollybee8917 · 2 years

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Left For Revenge-

Plot: Andy is a feared and respected mob boss who is not to be crossed. When he is, he seeks revenge. What he finds in the process is a girl to fall in love with which could spell trouble.

Warnings: Swearing, murder, mentions of rape, arson, violence, torture, language.

Abigail shivered against her restraints and tried to push herself between the bed and the wall. Loud pops sounded from the hall on the other side of the door. She trembled as the door burst in. A man dressed in a brown button down and black pants stood in the doorway. He took in the sight before him of the young woman dressed in rags and chained to the wall. The woman tried pressing herself even further back but the man advanced toward her with a puzzled look on his face. Then the reality of the situation sunk in and a new expression the woman couldn’t read crossed his face.

“Stay here and stay down.” He snaps at her before disappearing the way he came. The screams and gunfire gave way to silence and Abigail raised her head to peak over the bed. Then she saw him.

The newcomer was handsome with piercing blue eyes and a hard countenance. He turned to the side and shook his head with a click of the tongue, “Joe, Joe, Joe. First you encroach on my business. Then you try to take my territory. Then you go and blow up my house. Now you’re in the trafficking business? You really want to go that low, huh?”

The man pulled Joe Spadero into the room making Abigail flinch at the sight of him. Razor Joe was pushed to his knees but he spit out, “What do you really want Barber?”

Barber smirked, “You know why I’m here, Joe. Did you even have to ask that question? You blew up my house and killed Lou so I am taking out your guys and burning your house down. Or that was my plan until my boy found this pretty young thing. Now, I’m intrigued and judging by your face, this is your prize. So now,” Barber leaned in extremely close to Spadero’s face, “I may just take her.”

“You filthy son of a—” Joe received a dirty rag in the mouth and was hauled to his feet by the Twins. Barber turned toward the girl and calmly waved her to the wall, “Watch your eyes.” Without warning, he had pulled a revolver from beneath his coat, pointed it at the chain links on the wall and fired three times, freeing the girl. He tilted his chin up, “Come here.”

Abigail slowly inched toward him; her eyes cast to the ground. As she approached, the man sniffed, “Now that I have your girl. I think it is time to do something to your house. You have a mighty fine library downstairs. Perfect for kindling.”

Andy motioned to his men who stood at the doorway, “Blackjack, Hatchet, go downstairs and see what you can find by way of igniting fluid. Venom and the Twins, go make a pile of books in the library to start burning and put some plywood on the pile. Lucky and Shorty, you’re with me. C’mon Joe, you’re gonna see some fireworks.”

Razor Joe was pushed down the hallway and Andy followed behind with the young woman cautiously walking by his side. As they walked, Andy addressed her, “Name’s Andy Barber, the Viper of Massachusetts. I am boss of the mafia in the state. Follow my lead and I’ll make sure you’re safe. Got a name?”

Abigail dropped her head and murmured, “I’m Abigail.”

Andy sniffed, “Abigail. Very well, Abigail. Once we get out on the lawn, I want you to get into the second black limo. Understand?”

Abigail nodded silently. The group descended the staircase without a word. As they passed by the library, Abigail caught a glimpse of three of Andy’s men as they struck matches and tossed them on the pile of books before retreating to join the line. Joe struggled against his restraints but was pushed out the front door.

The mob boss shot a look at Abigail and she stepped to the limousines then climbed in the back seat of the one in the rear. Andy turned to Joe, motioned to his men to tie Joe Spadero to a tree. Once this was done, Andy chuckled to himself, “Joe, Joe, Joe. This could’ve been avoided if you had just stayed in line. But now,” he shook his head, “you dug your own hole. Have a good night, Spadero. And don’t try this again. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving. Actually, I want to be sure you don’t try it again.”

Andy leveled the gun at Joe. Abigail sat mutely in the limo keeping her eyes low. She jumped at the sound of a gunshot. Outside the car, Andy turned away from Razor Joe Spadero and entered the limo that held Shorty, Lucky and Abigail. As the limo pulled away, Abigail looked back to see her place of captivity up in flames, lighting up the night sky. A body was slumped against a tree. She glanced at Andy Barber and wondered what would come next.

~~~

The first light of morning was creeping over the edge of the horizon when the limos pulled up a tree-lined drive. Andy gently shook Abigail awake, “Abigail, time to wake up. We‘re here.”

Abigail rubbed the sleep from her eyes, “Where is here?”

Beside her, Andy drifted his eyes to building before him, “This is a private medical center close to my property. All the doctors and nurses here are privately paid and know how to keep their mouths shut about my business dealings. I brought you here because I want to make sure you are not hurt too badly.”

The girl shook her head, “I’m okay.”

With a snort, Andy replied, “You and I both know that’s not true. I will be leaving you here for the day and the doctors will be doing a full checkup on you.”

“I’m okay, really.” Abigail sighed.

Andy’s lips curled, “That was not optional. I will be back to collect you this evening.”

He turned to Shorty and Lucky, “You two stay here and keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t try to run.”

Lucky and Shorty nodded quickly then Andy was gone.

~~~

What seemed like many hours and too many batteries of tests later, Andy appeared in Abigail’s private room where she sat fully dressed on the bed, “How are you feeling?”

Abigail lowered her eyes, “I’m okay.”

He motioned to her to follow without another word. She did.

As they made their way back out to the car, Andy stopped her, “I hope you understand why I can’t let you go. It would be too risky having you out there knowing what you know about the events of last night and about the mafia world. So,” he sighed resignedly, “you are coming with me where you will stay until I decide if I can trust you enough to let you go. Got it?”

The brunette nodded silently and the pair stepped out into the dim sunlight. A different car was waiting out front for them. Andy’s driver opened the door for them and waved for Abigail to get in first. Then Andy slipped onto the seat opposite her. With the door shut, Andy and Abigail sat in silence. About halfway through the ride, Abigail sat up straight with a realization, “Where are Lucky and Shorty? I haven’t seen them in a while. They were with me but left a while ago.”

Solemnly, Andy stared at the young woman, “I pulled them away to deal with some unfinished business. Which leads me to you. Abigail, now that I have you here with me, you have to follow some rules. Rule one: you are free to move around my home and enter any room you like, save my bedroom and my office. Those I will point out to you when we arrive. Two: When I have meetings with my business associates, you are not to be visible. I will tell you ahead of time when they are to arrive and when they do, you may go about the house but do so quietly. My third rule is that you are welcome to anything in the kitchen and if you are so inclined you may cook. If you cook, you must clean up after yourself immediately. I do have a private chef that comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so you won’t have to worry about food. Rule number four: You may move about my property but you are not to leave it. If you do, I will know and there will be consequences. I cannot guarantee your safety if you do decide to take a wild hair and try leave. My men will also be around the property keeping an eye on it and on you. Lastly is rule five. You are not to disturb my men when they are working. You may ask questions of any of my other staff but the men you have seen over the last twenty-four hours are some of my employees and they do have jobs. Do you understand what I have told you?”

“Y-Yes, I understand.” Abigail gulped, “May I ask you a question?”

Andy waved is hand so the woman continued, “Are you going to kill me like Joe killed the other girls?”

The mob boss stiffened, “What other girls?”

The brunette opposite looked away out the window, “There were other girls from other families. Spadero and his men would take have their way with them and then one by one they would disappear. They were all killed. I don’t know why I was the only one left.”

“Hm,” Andy looked Abigail up and down, “I think I know why. When you said other families, did you mean other mafia families?”

Abigail nodded and Andy balled up his fists, “So Spadero was trafficking women from other crime families. No doubt the heads of the families are or were looking for them. If it gets out he killed them, his estate would be in trouble. No doubt they will go after Spadero’s heirs. That is not my concern. My concern is you. What family are you from?”

Across from him, Abigail shifted in her seat, “My name is Abigail Peretti. My family is not involved in this world. At least I don’t think so.”

“Peretti? As in Dom Savio Peretti from the Italian Mafia now based in Boston?”

The woman glanced at her hands, “My grandfather’s name is Savio but he was a farmer in upstate New York. He died three years ago. My father took over the farm. Until he died at least.”

Interest piqued, Andy leaned forward, “How did your father die?”

But Abigail looked out the window and said nothing.

@chuckbass-love @time-for-a-library @the-fallen-nightmare @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @patzammit @saiyanprincessswanie @buckysteveloki-me

#andy barber #chris evans #defending jacob #original character #mob!andy barber

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unknownjpegs · 3 months

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type

“So, what is it?”

Benji glances up. On the other corner of the barricade, Tino's raised eyebrows are obscured by his helmet’s edge. He doesn’t have to see them to know they’re hitched up. Teasing, right, just banter. He reminds himself of that.

He lifts a shoulder. It’s sore from a fight earlier, flesh bruised an ugly mottled purple from the end of someone’s rifle. He lowers it and covers the wince with a snarky chuckle.

“Check your ears lately?”

“I eat my apple a day. The doctor says I'm a very healthy young man.” Tino promises.

“Young,” Benji grumbles. “Yeah, sure.”

It’s a dismissal, a distraction. Tino ignores it, as used to Benji's prickly teasing as he is. “You’re dodgin', kid.”

What's your type, Sticks? What're you into, freak o' fuckin' nature like you?

“I’m fuckin’ not,” he denies. “Already told ‘em all I had to say on the subject.”

“Which was not a whole lot.”

“Which was not a whole lot.” Benji agrees, pointing a gloved finger at him. “For a reason.”

The helmeted head tilts. Go on, unsaid. Benji’s kind of full-up on getting asked questions for this particular night. It’s a bad enough situation to be in, doing shit he needs to shut the human part of his brain down to accomplish. Worse that he has to do it was a bunch of — well. The lot of them aside his current companion, to be honest.

“S’weird. The fuck do I wanna chat shit about that with them for?” He waves a hand in the air, wishes there was a cigarette between his fingers. He could use one desperately. “And ‘sides, it’s always funnier when you see them all worried. Freaked out, right, like aw shit, what if it’s some fucker like me?”

Tino ignores the bait again. Or rather, sees through it. He doesn’t prompt much with his simple, quiet “yeah?”, but Benji finds himself continuing anyway.

“Weird.” He flattens a self-labeling palm to his chest, over his armor’s coarse material. “And what’s that say about them, right, if I’m keen?”

“Aw, Benji. They're all full of shit. Hot air. They're trying to pass time, same as anybody else."

“Lad shit?”

“Suppose!” Tino laughs, shaking his head. His hands hang in between his knees as he assesses Benji. “Maybe they are too, you know? Keen, I mean. Maybe that’s why they’re asking. Might get the stick out — well.”

“Jump off, T! Think I’d rather eat lead paint.” The other shoulder shrugs, his mouth scrunching up in an agreeing frown. “Exactly, man. And we’d still be up here in comparison to ‘em, hey?”

Tino watches him lift both hands: one high, one low. “Well. I don’t have a type isn't really an answer. At least, it's not fully true, huh?" He shakes Benji’s wrists and then tosses him back towards his chest, and he tries not to laugh to enable the behavior more. “Come on. You're allowed to have fun sometimes."

“Jokes, man.”

“Full of them!"

“Knock knock.”

“Awful,” Benji says, moving the plywood board from the doorway and stepping aside.

“Didn’t even say the punchline yet,” the massive black-clad soldier whines childishly. It has to duck to make it in, filling the formerly solitary space.

“I already know.” Benji gestures to the grungy piece of paper caught between two gloved fingers. “You got it, huh?”

Xavier makes a confused noise, shaking his head slightly before it tilts down to where Benji gestures. “O-oh. Yeah.” He leans against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. “Your little note. That’s kinda cute, you know. Leaving me notes. Meet here. Oh-five hundred.” He offers Benji a sly, suggestive grin. “Do you like me, yes-slash-no.”

Yes, Benji thinks a bit deliriously, looking up at the other man through his lashes. Yes, fucking yes. I’m so fucking daft for it, but we just —

Xavier takes a swinging, lazy step closer to him, bringing the scent of gunpowder and another cleanly spicy note that is starting to become alarmingly recognizable. Him, is what his brain offers. Followed by a series of day-dream soft images that Benji shoves quickly from his thoughts before they can really project clear. He imagines cramming them into a great iron chest, sitting on the lid, locking it firmly shut.

“You want the honest answer to that question?”

Xavier’s pout goes deeper. Theatric. He puts both hands over his chest. “Depends. If you say no, does that mean we get to try again? Maybe do another shot?” His eyebrows wiggle.

Benji’s face flames at that, the memory crashing directly into the mess of thoughts he’d been trying to tamper down.

“No,” he huffs. Then he yanks Xavier into the room with a fist in his black kevlar vest.

Benji, cross legged on the ground, unfolds from his bent position. His stomach hurts; not from the posture but the force of his laughter. It hurts his cheeks, makes him gasp for breath, feel a little bit hysterical. It’d been a rough twenty-four hours. Shit mission where they’d lost one of the young idiots who’d been there that night, sitting around a table with him and Garrick and the rest. Talking about types, cold cots, all other explicit, immature manner of laddish bullshit. Benji even thinks the kid lying cold might’ve been the one to ask him.

He tries not to think about that right now. He’s having a better time thinking about their card game. He’s got a good hand, but it hadn’t started that way. In fact, he has a feeling it might have been dealt to him on the sly. Purposefully shit. And rather than call Xavier out on that, he’s decided to let him play it cocky. Think he’s gonna win on a raw deal like that, the little shit. He figures the look on his face when Benji still manages to win win will be payment enough.

Benji’s been thinking a bit about looks on faces. Particular ones. Particular faces. Especially how it’d all gone down the last time they’d run into each other. Cars, bullet wounds.

You, doc? Got a type?

Nah, Benji’d said, no type. Not him. Not Benji. Those rumors could run their course, play out how they inevitably would even if he tried to curb it a bit. ‘Benji doesn’t have a type’ coyly delivered as a suggestive tidbit of gossip. Same way someone might pat the wheel of a test car and tell the driver to ‘have a go’. People tended to think no type meant door’s open, rather than the reality. Benji’s door was firmly shut except, of course, the exceptions that truly didn’t have a type. And Benji preferred it that way — preferred that people weren’t sure what the rules for entry were. That the door was shut in the first place, how they would even go about prying it open.

Across from him, Xavier’s eyebrows are hitched into his hairline. He’d taken his dark helmet off, tossed the goggles into the bowl of it. Immediately, he’d done that. Had barely waited to clear that it was Benji coming around and not another soldier who would — should — shoot him dead.

Benji takes in his features, the soft curves of his bare chin where the strap of his helmet had indented pale skin red. The knowledge of Xavier’s quickness to set defenses aside, of putting himself into a position where the only end could be a new hole in his skull, is almost enough to cut Benji’s laugh off entirely.

Why’s your gun over there, out of reach? Why is mine there, too? What are you even fucking doing here, man? Benji wants to ask him as he swipes at his chuckling mouth, huffing the last few breaths of a wild, surprised-from-him laugh. What am I doing here, for that matter. You have a type, Xavier? Do you have a fucking type?

“That was shit.” He says instead.

“It actually was,” Xavier agrees, peering over the top of his cards at Benji. He’s hiding a smile of his own behind the fan of them. The corners of it are visible, the scrunch of his eyes telling. Benji would like to stop noticing that sort of thing. It would make sense for Benji to stop himself from noticing that sort of thing.

Xavier slaps one of the cards down and continues. “Which makes that so embarrassing for you. You should absolutely be ashamed of that. It wasn’t funny and you almost pissed yourself over it, dude.”

“Exact reason it really weren’t funny — ‘cuz it’s not, is it?” Benji says defensively, still trying to catch his breath. His heart’s hammering away from the adrenaline. Strange, because they’ve both got their rifles stacked away, boots and gloves gone. It feels normal. It feels like it should be the source of his adrenaline, the stiff coldness preparing him for something. But it’s not. He knows it’s not.

“S’fucking stupid.”

“I think you just have a really, really dogshit sense of humor.” Xavier says innocently. “And also I think you owe me.”

He lays the rest of his cards out in a showy flourish, straightening up and kicking his legs out. In that position across from Benji, they’re long enough to crowd him on either side. Benji spares them a judgmental glance, and pretends not to be disappointed that Xavier draws himself in again with an apologetically shy smile.

Oops, sorry, Benji imagines him saying. Imagines him batting his eyelashes too, all dramatic how he does for the setup to another shitty sort of joke. Sometimes I just forget how much space I take up.

“Disagree.” Benji says. He stops fighting the disgusting, victorious smirk and puts his own cards down. They've beaten Xavier's hand by an incredibly slim margin. His loss morphs the rakish grin into a pout, which Benji struggles to look at directly. Instead he casts his gaze out the open window of the derelict warehouse, pretends to survey the landscape. Be interested.

“What the fuck,” Xavier is muttering, his brow pinched as he studies Benji’s winning hand in disbelief. “How. I thought —”

“Whoever taught you that shuffling thing? Where you cut the cards with duplicates?” Benji holds up a king of diamonds, and then flips through the deck until he finds another and sucks his teeth. “Yeah. Figured.” Xavier’s face flushes prettily, but his smile isn’t small or bashful. There’s a fierce little glint to his eyes. There’s not a single ‘aw, shucks, you caught me’ to him at all.

“Fuckin’ hell, man. Get a refund. They suck.”

“I’ll have to practice more.” The corporal says. He rolls to his knees suddenly. Benji’d think it was funny that he gets shadowed like that still, that he’s that fucking tall, if he weren’t so entranced with the way Xavier shuffles right through their game, both their winning hands.

“Fucking hell. Don’t start.” Benji warns him.

Xavier ignores that. When he settles into Benji’s lap, their remaining pieces of armor make an awful, clattering scrape fill the space.

“Don’t.” He goes again, but there’s more air to it now. Do. Do it.

The corporal settles with his hands slipping up Benji’s sides, running over his sternum and behind his neck. “Speaking of things we should totally practice more…”

“Booo.” Benji drops his head back to groan, catching himself with an arm. Actually, he ends up catching both of them — Xavier goes limp and leans as far forward as he can, following Benji’s slight recline. He drapes them together, chest to chest. He isn’t sure if the weight of Xavier balanced atop his thighs is as nice as his brain screams it is, or if maybe Tino was right. Keen.

Won’t help. Bad idea. But maybe it won’t go anywhere, so he won’t have to end up putting too much thought into it at all. And, as Xavier leans down, Benji’s thinking about that kiss. How good it was, with the hint of desperation and messiness. It was nice to be kissed like that.

Like this, he supposes, because they are then. Being kissed the way Xavier does it requires his attention. Demands, really. Not focus, because it feels natural in ways Benji doesn’t quite care to examine. But his brain goes nice and quiet; at least it’s firing enough cylinders to understand it needs to offer more juice to his body than his thoughts. Let him focus on the filthy press of their tongues together, the curve of Xavier’s ass in his palms, the way their hips twitch at different times to different sensations.

“Been up to anything fun without me?” Xavier breathes against his slick lips, panting. Four fingers rub firm, appreciative circles in the back of Benji’s neck. He’s weak for that touch — warmth, like scalding water straight from the kettle, settles below his stomach. When it slips through the rest of him, extremities and chest and hot red on his cheeks, Benji shivers.

“Oh, loads. Lots of parties and everything. Real low-key.” He says. They kiss again, mouths and breaths erotically noisy enough to get him trembling again. “Fuck.”

“Forgot what you were going to say. Yeah. Have that effect.” Xavier asks smugly. The hand he doesn’t have buried in Benji’s hair slides over his shoulder, settles flat on his chest. Xavier blinks down at it and flexes his fingers. “Uhhh.”

“Uh-huh?” Benji’s turn to be cocky. “Seems contagious.”

Both big hands leave his body then. Benji glances up at him, steeling himself for eye contact. It’s always intense, always makes it hard to match. Benji thinks the color is the issue. Off-putting and vibrant, clashing with his fiery fucking hair —

“How much time ’til your regroup?” Benji lifts his hands away from their tight cinch on the other soldier’s waist, flashing ten minutes. Xavier sighs. “Lame. I could do this for, like, hours. Practice, I mean. Totally innocent practice. Real average shit, normal. Like, I’m so normal about how goddamn thick your thighs are, Benji, oh my God.”

His weight drops more fully, pressure pulling a groan from Benji that doesn’t feel put-on or cheap. He can’t remember making noise with someone recently that didn’t leave him feeling disingenuous or distant from himself.

“I want that as my ringtone.” He leans fully against Benji then, forcing him to brace and collect that wait with hands on his waist. Xavier’s probably a day or two out from a shave. The burn of his cheek on Benji’s neck as he kisses down his mouth and chin is nothing short of brilliant. Benji worries his bottom lip, trying and failing to swallow another rumbling moan that threatens to be much louder than the previous.

“Oh, shit. And that would be the text noise.”

“You’re so fucking strange.” He snorts, tilting back against the onslaught. His stomach fuzzes as though the hot water has been carbonated, the silliness of the compliment making him bashful. The heat remains just as palpable as where they’d left off to snipe at each other, especially when Xavier’s mouth slips lower. Wet and warm, eager bites down his jaw and neck. A sloppy swipe of a tongue over his pulse. Where Benji is most fragile, those curling pouty lips press. His jugular is an inch away; his enemy even closer. Xavier could kill him like this. His rifle is across the room, his guard down, and Benji…

“You totally would have circled yes. Oooh, you like me so much— hn.”

Benji fists a hand in red hair and pulls him back with a firm grip there. A swollen pink mouth parts in a gasp that makes him feel wired and dangerous.

“What if I got rules before we practice?”

“Like?”

Benji grins. He rubs his smiling lips against Xavier’s jaw. “Like no more cheating at cards, hey? You gotta win fair and square.”

“Tough sell,” Xavier wheezes, but in the same breath: “I will literally never cheat at cards again if that means —”

Benji pulls him down to put their mouths back together. He tries not to focus on the swell of emotion in him. How it feels right, how he can focus on the taste and pressure and slickness. Xavier licks into him with a high groan that sounds edgy — as if it’s been sitting around waiting for the perfect chance to come loose. Like Xavier needed such a noise to leave him, not just wanted to make it for Benji’s sake. So, he doesn’t stifle another noise.

Green. Benji thinks later once he’s finally back to their stationed spot and his unit. Green, green, green.

The exhaustion spinning his head. All of the thoughts spin messy, darks and whites and colors without separation. Things he’d been trying not. To think of that day in the forefront, things he’d been trying to remember to the back. Before sleep takes him by force, Benji’s memory offers him the pop of gunfire, the dead kid sitting around the table with them and asking about types. He’s thinking of needing to restock his kit, that he’d like to get a letter back to Saha by the end of the week, that he’d like to go home, that he needs to swap out his side piece, that he’d like to stop carrying at all.

And Benji’s also thinking green. Because it had been true, what he said to the others. Nah. No type. But now he’s thinking green and tall and maybe strong in the shoulders. Redheaded. Combative. Funny — but that sharp, witty way. How there’s ironic humor in a shit joke. And he’s thinking, too, that he would get on well with someone who wasn’t ashamed to cheat at cards.

Or get caught.

#writing #bp #tl #xw #bp x xw #core au

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rouge-reverie · 4 months

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+*:ꔫ:*About A Dowry of Blood...*:ꔫ:*+ﾟ

Hello!! I read a Dowry of Blood by S. T. Gibson some time last year... I finished reading it as of the 9th of March, 2023--and the book hasn't left my mind... though I can't say it's in a necessarily positive way,, ★★☆☆☆ - 2/5 Stars

268 Pages

Warning for spoilers under the cut...! Please remember to be nice, as this is just my opinion and is in no way a reflection of anyone or anything,, :>

A Dowry of Blood is [or was]... a very conflicting and interesting read to me. It's so well-loved from many reviews and commentaries that I was... sorely disappointed with this read.

I'm not usually one to enjoy writing my own spiteful reviews, but with something leaving this sort of taste in my mouth, I feel it's better to drop my ideas somewhere and see where it takes me. I am not a published author, nor will I ever be.

The prose is gorgeous,,, to a fault. There comes a point when I'm reading that I realize the ebb and flow of words are becoming—simply put—redundant. And I notice, the more I read, that the prose is making up for something, with its five-dollar words that aren't used to the fullest narrative potential—and budding but not yet flowering flow.

The prose is used to cover for a lack of plot and research. Backgrounds seem to be painted on cracking plywood, still wet and ready to smear, only to be propped up unfinished, as if made for a school play.

That is to say, the writing doesn't exactly take me anywhere when I read. I don't feel the ground, or smell the food in the air, just as if I watched a play with poorly done backdrops,,,

As poetic as the prose may seem, when the time comes, 268 pages of the same kind of lines and slow drag will leave most people bored or unsatisfied. I found myself in the same position, dreading reading or even finishing A Dowry of Blood. Phrases and symbols would be miles longer than necessary, and dusted over, or properly ignored, important moments of their lives and what the characters had done as payoff.

The lack of research shows when someone with prior knowledge of Dracula and its origins reads this book. I had barely remembered this was supposed to be a story about Dracula and his spouses—the man himself was never mentioned by name and no references to the story of Dracula were ever brought up outside of about one singular paragraph.

The other two spouses, Magdalena and Alexi, should be full of culture, rich traditions, and unique movements—but they're not. No one is. Characters are flat, giving the feel of blank and square printer paper. I never saw any depth or reason to enjoy the characters or their relationships.

Constanta's actions were as questionable as the rest. Her lack of communication in her relationship paved the way for this story, but left a bitter taste in my mouth. Her actions were contradictory to her writings, and I could never properly connect with her. She felt fake and easy to poke holes in.

Dracula, never once fully named, was blank as well. I could see how this poses a literary narrative—one where Constanta never got to truly see who Dracula was—but leaving him so,,, baseless was also his downfall. I couldn't see a reason to root for or against him.

Alexi felt pushed, naive, and only so young, and it's difficult for me to find words to describe him other than this pushed—and almost stereotypical—character that someone has carelessly shaped him into. The author frequently mentioned his young age, but it never played a role in any conflicts. He felt like a fetish, something to only be looked at and enjoyed, and never got the treatment other characters would get, with him carelessly tossed in at the end.

Magdalena is also a character I can barely describe. I can't go much far past that statement, as she truly seemed to be filler, along with Alexi.

The romance never felt... there. With Constanta and Magdalena consistently calling themselves "sisters" as they would give their bodies to each other, and even Dracula calling his spouses "Children", it gave me no reason to see anyone truly being in love with each other. The advertising describes a rich polyamorous relationship, but I don't feel like that was ever truly shown. It felt more like watching affairs or some poor attempt at what one would think is polyamory.

A story that proudly boasts about its seductive and gothic themes, with violence and broken promises--proceeds to flinch away from these very themes, leaving me with a forgetful and overall unenjoyable experience. Revelations felt tired and all the same... and its exploration of abuse and its patterns was too simple and never fully explained.

A Dowry of Blood by S. T. Gibson is not a story I intend to reread. Its prose grows old and tired and gives way to a slow and uneventful read. This book took me over a month to finish, when I can usually finish a book of equal or bigger length in only a few days.

#dreamland || reviews and analyses #bookblr #books #bookworm #book review #reading #books and reading #a dowry of blood

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ledenews · 1 year

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Dr. Bill Mercer: 'If You Are Homeless, You Don’t Live Very Long'

There was a man who lived under the Market Street Bridge in Center Wheeling for two years without anyone really knowing he was there. His shelter was sturdied by scraps of plywood, his floor was partially carpeted, and his fireplace was small and purposely directional for personal heat only. He was homeless because he experienced financial hardship but, according to Dr. Bil Mercer of Project Hope, the man eventually qualified for public housing and has since moved on with his life. “He’s one of our best success stories,” said Mercer, a recent “public service” inductee into the Wheeling Hall of Fame. “But after he left the area for his new home, other people moved in under the bridge and that’s when the big fire happened that closed the bridge last summer, and that was because of a turf battle; one group going against another. This large encampment was removed lost year after complaints were received concerning criminal activity. “That’s happened more than once here, and once a camp has been ransacked and cut up, the only option is to clear it out,” said Mercer, a recent “public service” inductee into the Wheeling Hall of Fame. “But we’ve also had homeless encampments cleared here for no reason other than it exists, and those clearings have only hurt the people who are just trying to survive.” The Market Street Bridge remains closed with no timeframe for reopening announced by the W.Va. Division of Highways. The bridge, constructed with an experimental polymer material, was damaged by the large blaze and was immediately blocked to traffic. A more recent nighttime fire was reported this past week under the Chapline Street Bridge, and fire investigators reported signs of a homeless encampment beneath the span. “There are not many good situations when it involves homelessness, and every situation is different, that’s for sure,” Mercer said. “I just hope we can do better this year when it comes to clearing camps again because there is data that shows that when an encampment is cleared, the health issues get much worse. “I just think we have to remember that mental health and drug abuse play factors with what happens in these camps. I know some people don’t remember a thing about what has happened because they were on meth at the time. It’s not a good situation for anyone.” Dr. Mercer has treated people in many different homeless encampments, including those located along the Ohio River. Ever Changing Faces There are nearly 600,000 Americans experiencing homelessness today in the United States, and the numbers only have risen during the last decade, according to the federal Centers for Disease and Prevention. California and New York possess the top two homeless populations. West Virginia is 43rd and Ohio is ranked 10th. The Buckeye State, the CDC reported, has slightly more than 10,000 people who live homelessly, and West Virginia registered under 1,500 residents without homes. The East Wheeling and downtown areas are populated by a number of non-profits that offer homeless services, including the Catholic Charities Neighborhood Center, the Greater Wheeling Soup Kitchen, Youth Services System, the House of Hagar, and the Wheeling Homeless Coalition. The country’s drug epidemic is a primary reason for homelessness, Mercer said, and so are mental health, poverty, and domestic violence. Very rarely has Mercer encountered people living homeless in Wheeling because they WANT to live homeless in Wheeling. Local residents have voiced concerns over the litter that has collected near past encampments. “We have some young homeless now who have told us they’ve made the decision not to work and pay bills like everyone else and instead live in a tent and eat for free,” the general physician said, “We don’t get a lot of it, but some have said they are here because everything is free. Some people love living in their tents and once you’ve done that for five or six years, it is your new normal.” The vast majority of those currently living along the banks of the Ohio River and Big Wheeling Creek, or along the hillside above East Wheeling, are between the ages of 26 and 38, Mercer estimated. This spring, though, the doctor has noticed an infusion of youth. “One reason we see younger people living in the tents now is because if you are homeless, you don’t live very long. We had 13 deaths last year,” he reported. “I have not known too many of our homeless who have gotten passed the age of 58, and this year we’re seeing a lot of people in their 20s and their 30s because some are runaways and some made the mistake of getting into the drugs at early ages. “Like I said, I just hope we can do better this year,” Mercer added. “I hope we can help more people than we ever have before.” Read the full article

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evansmeadows20 · 1 year

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Return On Investment (Roi) On Tankless Water Heaters

Next study the heating unit, robust and muscular an infrared heater, consider elements with sturdy aluminum, this indicates that the reflectors will direct the radiating heat down and out. Basically be positive the heater is sufficient and sends the heat where the time most needed, and tend to be best previously used. A few days later the furnace installation people visited install my new heater. Having checked on where I wanted to do have it installed a room, they first laid down metallic covered part of plywood about 3 sq ft. This was guard the floor against extreme heat and fire damage. They squared everything up and positioned the heater along with of the metal floor protector soubassement. They measured and calculated where help make matters the hole in the ceiling and roof for that stove pipe, coupling box, and chimney to go through. Then the sawing began. It didn't require much time before there a hole in the roof, and ceiling where by the base of metallic chimney was poking.

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#HeatWell Portable Heater

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fullpaclocator · 2 years

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Itunes curious george episodes season 3

Betsy's brother Steve also promises to help, but when he becomes distracted by his videogame, they lose track of time and have to get the xylophone out the door very quickly. George's desperate attempt to recover his friend's most prized possession leads the monkey on a race through the labyrinth of the city's garbage system.Ĭurious George Gets All Keyed Up: Betsy prepares to play the xylophone at a school concert one evening, and George, who has always been mesmerized by Betsy's music, volunteers to deliver the xylophone to Betsy's school while she goes to the beautician that afternoon. But when the hat arrives, George mistakes it for a look-a-like garbage box and tosses it down the trash chute.

After dropping the hat off at the dry-cleaner to have it fixed, The Man asks George to wait at home for it to be delivered while he goes on a neighborhood jog. Renkin's chicken coop! Curious George and the Trash: Just as he is preparing to have his new driver's license photo taken, The Man with the Yellow Hat suddenly finds himself hatless - thanks to George, who accidentally crushes it. What he needs is a design plan to make this work - and forgiveness for accidentally stealing supplies from Quint's dock and Mrs. But he quickly learns that creating a house from scratch just might take more than a pile of plywood and a handful of nails. Armed with his Handy Monkey Tool Set, George gathers as many building materials as possible. Up A Tree: When George tires of table manners and house rules, he decides to build a tree house in the country yard - a nest of his own where using his feet to eat corn on the cob and to paint on the walls would be perfectly acceptable. Can George use his sharp investigation and engineering skills to create an exact Hundley replica? Hundley's allergic to cats! Lucky is inconsolable, having to stay away from her new friend, so George decides to build a substitute dog for Lucky. But it's not such a fast friendship for Hundley, who sneezes when Lucky affectionately rubs against him. It's love at first sight for Lucky when she meets her first dog - Hundley, the proud lobby dachshund.

Cat Mother: Professor Wiseman entrusts George with Lucky, a tiny kitten too young to take care of herself. But only if George can dig super monkey-fast, and in the correct direction, will he be able to save his gopher friends from being removed from their home. George warns his new pals about the looming trap. Gopher Getter - the man who plans to de-gopher the entire field. Just below the mounds, Mama, Papa, and Junior Gopher have found a hiding place away from Mr. Monkey Underground: When George stumbles across a gopher hole in the field near the country house, he suddenly finds himself inside a secret world of underground tunnels. What he doesn't realize is that he and The Man inadvertently brought along their new "friend" in a picnic basket - and that one little skunk is about to wreak a whole lot of havoc in a certain apartment building. After trying and failing to make friends with the creature several times - and being subjected to multiple baths of tomato juice after repeatedly getting "skunked" - George is relieved to get back to the city and away from all of those smelly encounters. But wait, it's not a cat, it's a skunk! And George is fascinated. Skunked: There's a strange-looking cat eating George's peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And when one of the birds gets trapped in the balloon, it gives them the idea they need to help get them down to earth. Renkins and The Man with the Yellow Hat ever catch up with the flying duo? Not before George and Bill's windy flight path carries them on quite an adventure - and toward an array of feathered friends who land on their basket. Renkins demonstrates how a hot-air balloon works, George and Bill bound into the basket and they soon find themselves accidentally airborne - alone! Will Mrs. Up, Up and Away: A tether, a basket, and a heap of hot air: George discovers that it takes all three for a balloon to score a successful lift-off.

#Itunes curious george episodes season 3

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unicornofgt · 3 years

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Gt Mech Suits | Chapter Eight

— MASTERPOST —

Chapter Warnings: swearing, brief death mention

Night had set in by the time Heph found the rogue camp. It hadn’t been hard, considering their habits. As usual, the caravan parked in the hills—easily fortifiable. It was more crowded than the last time he’d come to visit.

As per routine, he was stripped of all weapons. He wasn’t bleeding out or starving, so payment was required to stay. Heph traded one of his pairs of socks and a canister of clean water. He threw in a couple smoked rabbits to ensure him an audience with the headwoman.

Heph was accompanied by two guards who led him through the caravans. A man in a wheelchair tossed a handful of scraps in a rickety pen, sending a flock of skinny chickens rushing to his feet. A woman leaned against a door frame, keeping watch over a pair of children playing with dolls made of cans. A teenager kept guard over a trip of goats, grazing on the scarce shrubs. A dozen or so people huddled around a campfire, turning over hot dogs and something else Heph had learned not to question. He searched for faces he recognized, but they were all unfamiliar. He frowned.

People came and went, but not this many.

Among the vehicles and wagons, desperate structures had been erected to accommodate the swell in population. The further into camp, the worse it got. Cardboard, plywood, bins, tarps, scrap metal—all assembled in ramshackle forts. Sleeping bags were rolled out across pathways. Hammocks hung between clotheslines. Unfortunately, it was unsurprising. The Alliance didn’t protect anyone who became a liability when disaster struck, and Heph doubted they were about to start now.

At least the abode of the headwoman was familiar. The yellow caravan wasn’t larger than any of the others, but its sides were painted with depictions of monsters—sirens, cretans, harpies, nemeans—the like. Wind chimes made from scraps of metal and glass sang as the equally decorated door was opened, revealing warm lantern light and monster skins draped across the wooden floor. A maroon privacy curtain divided the back of the caravan and a sitting area, where a mismatched tea set sat on the table.

A woman sat in the center chair behind the low table, dressed in simple jeans and a brown leather jacket. Despite her humble attire, she sat upon her chair like a queen; brown eyes warm yet firm and short grey hair in tight ringlets. The piercings along her ears glinted in the lantern light as she tilted her head, giving him a tired but fond smile.

“Hello, Heph.”

He shifted his weight off his bad leg, flashing her a strained smile. “Hello, Naomi. You’ve gained quite a few more wrinkles since we’ve last met.”

The headwoman scoffed. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to comment on a woman’s appearance unless it’s complimentary?” Naomi gave him a teasing grin and gestured to a chair. “Sit, please. It’s bad luck to leave a man like yourself standing.”

Heph tilted his head in gratitude, sitting down adjacent to the table. He didn’t remove his coat.

Naomi shook her head. “You’re right, though. There’s a lot of new faces around here. Some of them—young ones—have never left the city. Some of them still think the Alliance will help us.” She snorted. “It’s been quite an adjustment.”

“I’ve seen.”

“I wasn’t expecting a visit, but it’s always nice to know you’re still kicking.” Naomi cocked her head. “Tea?”

Heph shook his head.

She shrugged, pouring herself a cup. Her fingers fiddled with her Star of David the same way his fiddled with his eye patch. The carved monster bone had worn smooth over the years, a reminder of her lasting leadership. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Heph sighed. “It’s not good.”

Naomi sighed too, shoulders dropping a little. “It never is, with you. Tell me.”

He grunted, sitting back and crossing a leg over his knee. He began to work out a kink in his ankle. “Two nights ago, I ambushed a soldier.”

She smiled coyly, taking a sip. “How gentlemanly of you.”

He grunted again. “I thought he was alone, lost. He was foolish. Injured. Unarmed. No food. He still fought me, of course. Then he called for backup and—”

“Is there a point to this story?” Naomi asked, humor sparkling in her eyes. “Or should I prepare to be subjected to more accounts of your rowdy adventures?”

Heph met her expectant gaze. “A giant.”

Naomi’s brows shot up. “What?”

The scars along his face prickled and he had to hold his hand to keep it from trembling. Heph shook his head as he recalled the event. “He cried for backup and a giant came running. Not a mech—a giant. A flesh and blood, godforsaken giant. And she was big—bigger than—I—” He struggled. “Must’a been at least a hundred feet.”

Naomi’s eyes grew dark, wrinkles creasing on her forehead as she narrowed her gaze. “I see.”

“You don’t believe me.” He sighed. “You think I’m delusional. Seeing things where they aren’t.” He jammed a finger on the table between each word, “She. Was. There.”

Naomi sighed, pinching her nose. “No—it’s—” She fiddled with her star again, shaking her head. “This morning, our scouts spotted soldiers. A lot of them. And mechs—at least four, maybe more. They’ve set up camp at the mouth of the canyon—like they’re waiting for something.” Her eyes settled on the cup in her hand, watching the steam rise. “I’ve seen enough shit out here to know when things are weird—and when they’re about to get even weirder.” She fiddled with the handle, spare hand searching for her necklace. “The portal’s shown no signs of slowing or going dormant. The city’s a hellscape. I haven’t heard of reinforcements yet—it must be very important if they’re sending troops outside the city.”

Suddenly weary, Heph sighed, running a hand over his greying beard. “I’ve just—I’ve always thought—those mechs were just a little too—they had to have dredged up—”

Naomi held up a hand. “I know. At this point, nothing surprises me. Not after knowing you.” She set her tea down. “It’s not safe here. We’re moving soon.”

Heph let his leg slide down to the floor again. “Moving?”

“Tomorrow, as soon as we can get everybody ready.” Naomi crossed her arms. “I’m not keeping my people within ten miles of that Alliance muck. Especially not after what you’ve just told me.”

“But—” Heph stopped himself. His eye fell to the skins on the floor. “The giant... She looked young. Late twenties; couldn’t be a day over thirty. And she didn’t—didn’t look angry, when she saw me, saw what I’d done—just worried, for the other little guy.” He looked up at Naomi. “I don’t know what those two were doing, but that boy was not equipped to be out here. Which tells me he’s not one of theirs—not—” He wet his lips. “—not anymore. And if they get their hands on her, she’s a goner. Or worse.”

Naomi leaned forward, propping her chin up with a hand. She raised a brow. “Are you asking me to do what I think you’re asking?”

Heph avoided her gaze. “You’re right. Things are weird. And they’re about to get even fuckin’ weirder.”

“Heph.” Naomi’s voice was firm. “I trust you, you know that, right?”

“I’ll take that tea now.” He groaned, pouring himself a cup. It was bitter, but hot. He sighed, rolling his eye. “Yes, I know you trust me.”

“And I trust your judgement. If you are absolutely sure you saw a giant—and there’s an entire little army at that canyon, then there’s something going on here. Something is going to happen. And I can’t have my people caught in the middle of it. We’re too close to the portal as it is, we need to head south.”

Heph stared at his reflection in his tea. The scars—three, six, nine, ten—cut through his leathery skin, though they had long since healed. His hand traced his eye patch, mulling over his next words. Quietly, he said, “She would’ve stepped in. She wouldn’t hesitate.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. Her tone was ice cold. “There is a good fucking reason she’s dead.”

Heph locked her gaze, desperation burning in his chest. “That’s different. This is different. The situation is completely different. Naomi, this is a child we’re talking about.”

“Late twenties is hardly a child.” Naomi sat back, gesturing to either side of them. “That’s a full life out here. You forget that, with us old timers. This giant is dangerous. We don’t know her, where she comes from, or who she is. Even if we did, I can’t take that risk. You know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I know.” Heph agreed, fiddling with the handle of his cup. “But will she be more or less dangerous under the influence of someone else?” He caught her gaze again. “Think about it, Naomi. Somebody is going to get their hands on that giant. So why not you? Let the soldiers capture her, then move in. If they kill her, they kill her. Threat over. But if you meet her and she’s gentle, if she’s good, she could help you with all these new folks. I’m sure she’d be grateful to be freed. And if she’s not, then kill her yourself. Either way—threat eliminated and out of the Alliance’s hands. They can’t afford to keep sending soldiers out here. A giant could be a great defense.”

Naomi shook her head, laughing. “That’s insane. A hundred feet tall, I don’t even know how I would feed such a thing—”

“Naomi, please—”

“Enough.” She stood. “I know why you want to do this and the answer is no. Don’t ask me to chase ghosts. I have enough.” Naomi’s voice was firm. Her eyes had lost all trace of humor. “We leave tomorrow when everyone is ready. You’ve paid your stay.” She stepped closer, gaze softening. “And you’re welcome to travel with us, though I already know your answer.”

Heph sighed and finished his tea, swallowing back the bitter taste. He stood to leave, hand hovering on the door handle. He looked back at Naomi, her weary face illuminated in the lantern light.

Heph shook his head. “I think I’ll stay, just for the night.” He turned the handle and the chimes rang. “We’ll see how things are different in the daylight.”

Tag list: @the-gianttiny-lurker @gayzillas @smallsoysauce @smol-and-scared @carp-ay-nay-tem @hayray06 @smallcherri @cockatrice-revolution @winged-scaly-attic-dweller @pnn-legend @eclipsisanarki @justagiantpotato @bioluum @f-to-fitmale @chamomile-g-tea @burstomega @manicmarsupial @undercovermindflayer @nyxtricks @rosesilvermoon @artorbust @ryn-holt @yomoegg @kinda-shy-kinda-write-a-lot @catlinen @not-in-the-library @stormnye @sayer-raider-art @my1angelina2love @ackabada @ennui-gt

#ahahaha #some new characters?#don’t mind if i do #gtms #gt mech suits #gt #g/t #giant tiny #giant #tiny #giant/tiny #sci fi #sfw giant/tiny #sfw gt #sfw g/t #oc: obermann #oc: bagley #oc: naomi #oc: heph

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hannahcoursey · 4 years

Text

Take a Sip Part 1

Author: Hannahc56

Word Count: 3,088

Request: Hi there, hi! Could you maybe do a fic where the reader accidentally gets roofied and Dean comes to the rescue?

PART TWO.

----

The drive home was deadly. You could have cut the tension that filled the leather lined interior with a knife. You sat in the back, your arms crossed, tapping your foot anxiously against the floorboards. Sam sat passenger, which was usually your seat next to Dean, but since you were the furthest from being on his good side right about now, you settled for the back.

The Impala shifted through the gears, revving high at the command of Dean’s lead foot. He was pissed. The radio was silent, the volume turned all the way down, you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. When you looked up in the rearview, you met the old Winchesters hard glare and immediately cast your eyes down, shifting over a little so that you were just out of his line of sight. When the three of you pulled up to the motel room, Dean’s door was open before he even had it in park. You sighed. Sam turned around and gave you a sullen look.

“He’s only mad because he cares,” He said, bracing you for the fight you were undoubtedly going to get into the second your foot crossed the threshold of the dingy room the three of you were sharing.

You took a breath and shook your head. “Yeah well, I’d hate to see how he treats his enemies,” You flashed a sarcastic grin and Sam let out an unenthusiastic chuckle before you both exited the car.

“I’m gonna go see if there’s a bar around, maybe blowing off some steam would do some good for us.” Sam mumbled as he turned on his heel and walked towards the front desk to ask around. You watched him as he walked off, silently wishing you could avoid the confrontation that was waiting behind the door in front of you. Let’s get this over with. You turned and walked up to the door, consciously trying to keep your hand steady as you turned the door knob, the thin plywood door creaking open. Dean paced back and forth in front of the bathroom door, between the two queen beds, neglecting to even look in your direction when you walked in. You slowly pushed the door shut behind you and tried to even your breathing, the anxiety already kicking in.

“Dean-” You began, but you stopped when his head shot up in your direction. If looks could kill.

“No, Y/N, just stop,” He said, his voice cold and void of emotion, “Whatever you’re going to say; don’t.” He finished. You licked your lips and tried to swallow, but your throat felt tight and closed.

“No, Dean,” You began, trying to steady your voice, but you already felt hot tears pressing against the back of your eyes, “You’re mad at me, because I used myself as bait when you had a set of fangs inches from your neck,” You stepped closer to him and his eyes never left you, hard and unwavering. “You can be mad all you want, but you cannot look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.” You pursed your lips, holding your ground. He stepped closer to you, staring down at you as he towered over you.

“You are reckless,” He spit, his words venom, “And you’re blind to the things around you and it’s going to get you killed,” His voice rose as he continued, “I’m not going to stick around and watch you kill yourself!” He finished, his voice roaring in the close proximity. Tears welled in your eyes and you blinked them away, staring up at him as they spilled down your scratched cheek.

“Good!” You yelled back, equally as dominant as his words spoken to you, “Luckily for you, you won’t have to!” You finished, your face inches from his as your voice bounced off the barren walls of the empty motel room. The both of you stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, hot tears burning down your face, before you turned away and left, slamming the door behind you.

The cool air of the late night felt refreshing against your damp cheeks as you used your sleeve to wipe the evidence of any tears off of your face and stormed into the dark. You glanced over your shoulder into the room Dean stood in. In the sliver of the curtain that was open, you could see him swiping the stuff off of the top of the table by the window in a fit of anger, followed by the muffled noises of the things smashing against the ground. You turned and looked straight again as a few leftover tears slipped between your lashes before you rubbed them away. You crossed your arms, protecting yourself from the cold and headed down the road.

After about an hour of walking alongside the highway of the motel had been sitting on, you saw a shimmer of lights in the distance. As you got closer, the ambience of a frat bar filled your senses. Girls in cropped university wear and guys with their shirts off and weird greek letters painted on their chests spilled out into the parking lot as the thumping bass of their pop music filled your ears. You rolled your eyes. I hate frat boys.

As you approached the bar and walked in between the social groups of whatever college was close by, you kept your head down and pushed through the front doors. The atmosphere inside was worse than the parking lot; Crappy music blared from large speakers on a stage with a DJ, while kids who were obviously too young to be out drinking at a bar danced closely with friends and lovers, covered in a sheen of sweat. You hesitated, every inch of your being dreaded a place like this, college kids and DJ’s weren‘t really your scene. But what else did you have? You thought of Dean and the motel room you assumed he’d already destroyed out of the anger and frustration he had trouble controlling. You thought of his words and how much worse things could get if you two spent the night screaming your heads off at one another and your heart sank in your chest. Looks like this is gonna be my best bet for the night. You moved your way through the crowds of teenagers, pushing past them to seat yourself at the bar. The bartender rushed over to you, a young man who was obviously overwhelmed by the amount of people in the room he had to serve, and laid a napkin out.

“I’ll be right with you,” He flashed a gorgeous but hurried smile at you, and before you could even nod a thank you in his direction he was already on the other end of the bar refilling drinks and taking tabs. To the right of you was a young couple, the girl perched on top of the frat guy's lap, swallowing his tongue. You cringed and turned the other direction where a few guys hung out, laughing loudly at something the one had said. You let out a deep breath and stared up at the television set in front of you. Football, of course, college football. The bartender quickly made his way back, took your order and hurried off again.

Through the drone of people talking and music blaring, all you could think about was Dean. He wasn’t your boyfriend, he wasn’t anything close to that. But the past few months felt different with him. Your relationship wasn’t like the one you shared with Sam. On dozens of occasions, you felt eyes burning in the back of your head, only to see Dean’s green orbs staring at you as if he was trying to memorize the way you moved and the freckles on your cheeks, before he turned away. Your face would glow with the red heat his gaze on you left and you’d find yourself stuttering your next few sentences. He was so in-tune to you and everything you did. Without saying a word, he could tell when you were upset by the way your face twisted for a half second before you masked your anger behind a blank stare. He’d creep down the hall and peek his head in your door when he knew you were having a rough day. Sometimes he’d say nothing - He’d slip into your room and lay down beside you, wrapping you up in his arms while hot tears slipped down your cheeks after a bad hunt and he’d stay silent. But you were always alone when you woke up in the morning. You never knew how to take these gestures, the intimate moments the two of you shared that crossed your mind whenever he laughed or threw a sarcastic wink in your direction. The relationship you had with both of the brothers was the only thing you had going for you in your life - the thought of messing something up enough that they would no longer be a part of your everyday was terrifying enough to keep your feelings for the eldest brother at bay. It was getting to the point that hunts were becoming reckless, Dean was right about that. You’d step in when you weren’t supposed to, the deadly selflessness of the brother rubbing off on you. Dean would painstakingly offer himself up before anyone laid a hand on you and it was becoming an issue.

As you let yourself drown your thoughts plagued by Dean, a hand reached past you and set down a fresh glass of bourbon directly in front of you. You turned, following the arm to the man it was attached to as he took a seat next to you. It was one of the guys that had previously been goofing off with each other next to you, smiling at you smuggly.

“I heard your order,” He cocked his head to the side, “Can’t say I wasn’t surprised to hear a pretty girl like you was putting back bourbons,” He stuck his hand out, “I’m Ryan.”

You sat there, taking in the way he spoke and observing his movements as he talked. You stuck out your hand slowly. “I’m-” You hesitated, “I-I’m Deanna” You sputtered. Redness rose to your cheeks as the embarrassment flushed through you. Deanna? Really?

“Deanna, that’s a nice name,” He nodded and looked around the room, “You come here with anyone?” His eyes floated around another moment before they landed back on you. He looked nice enough, but the way he looked you up and down made your skin tingle with hesitancy.

“Nope, I’m with me, myself and I,” You answered with a grin, taking the drink he’d given you and putting it to your lips, “And I plan on keeping it that way.” You finished and threw the drink back, guzzling the neat bourbon down in a few swallows. As you wiped your mouth, his hand slipped to your thigh. You froze for a moment before placing your hand on top of his and pushing it off. “I’m sorry, I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t play games like this,” You said, brushing the invisible fingerprints he left off of your upper thigh, “Go find some sorority girl, that seems a little more up your alley.” He hung his head for a second and laughed sarcastically.

“I knew you’d be a tough one, the way you walked right into a bar by yourself shows a lot of confidence, you know. I respect that in a woman.” He said, leaning in closer, his hand coming up to your face, “I like hard to get, it’s sexy.” He said low. Before he got any closer, you slapped him across the face, causing his friends behind you to make a noise of surprise. His sleazy demeanor changed to anger as he touched the side of his cheek.

“I said no, dickbag, leave me the hell alone.” You spat and turned to sit forward in your seat. He stood up and spun you in your barstool and leaned close, his arms on either side of you, hands leaning on the bar as he looked down.

“When I said I knew you’d be a tough one, I meant I knew that this could go one of two ways,” He said, his eyes dark. As he spoke, your legs began to feel wobbly and your eyes felt fuzzy. You could no longer make out the slight red on his cheek from where your hand had made contact before and the pattern of his shirt blended colors. “It could go the easy way or the hard way,” He said, leaning closer, his face brushing against your cheek, his lips right at your ear, “Which is why I put enough roofies in there to knock out a horse.” He finished, pulling back with a grin that stretched from ear to ear plastered on his face. The bourbon.

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach and you pushed him away from you, his friends laughing and taunting again behind him. Fucking college kids. You stood up and the world seemed to spin faster. Balancing yourself off of the wooden bar, you took a few steps, looking in the direction of the door. Before you could get any further, you felt hands pick you up and throw you over their shoulder. All you could see were the blended colors in the pattern of Ryan’s shirt. Your heart beat so fast in your chest, it felt like it was going to burst. You curled your fists up into balls and with every fiber you had, pounded against his back. But it was no use. Your fists unraveled and died with the words on your tongue. You heard him talking to his friends about taking you home safe and tried desperately to answer, to fight, but your eyes fluttered heavily and your tongue felt like cement. Suddenly, you somehow slipped from his grasp and crashed hard onto the sticky bar floor, the moisture a mix of spilled beer and overpoured shots saturating your face. You heard loud, deep voices and fists pounding onto skin. Large hands made their way to your shoulders, pulling you on your back and moving to rest on your face. You tried so hard to fight it, your arms flailing in every direction as the man tried to force them at your sides. You fought monsters, vampires, demons, anything this messed up world spit at you and out of all of them, the thing that gets the best of you is an idiot with drugs. But when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t the dark eyes and smirk of the guy with the roofies, but warm green orbs and freckles. Dean. Tears slipped down the sides of your cheeks as he wiped them away with his thumb. You opened your mouth to talk, but could hardly manage a few strangled whimpers. His eyes searched yours for answers, desperately trying to help you, to reach you as he leaned down closer. Swallowing hard, you licked your lips.

“R-Roofies,” You managed to hardly cough out in a whisper. When Dean pulled his head away, his eyes were filled with fury, his mind changing paces, searching for the guy who’d done this. Mustering all the energy you could, you reached up and touched his cheek. His eyes returned to their worried but warm state when you made contact, his anger dissipating.

“I’ll get you home sweetheart, okay?” He said, nodding at you, but you couldn’t nodd back, you could only blink heavily. His hands slipped under you and he pulled you up, close to his chest. Your heart pounded hard in your chest, anxiety bubbling in you even in his arms. As he walked out of the bar, the cold air of the outside hit you and the comforting sound of the rumbling Impala filling your senses. You heard the sound of the door opening and closing before Sam’s grumbling voice came closer.

“What the hell happened man? What-” He started before Dean cut him off.

“Roofies, some asshole friggin’ slipped her something Sammy, open the back.” Dean said, his voice tight, his anger apparent even with your eyes half shut. Dean laid you down in the backseat of the Impala, before pulling away, his hands leaving you. You reached up, pure anxiety filling your blood as you grabbed his hands frantically. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna be back, alright?” He said, but you shook your head, inaudible whimpers leaving your lips.

“D-Dean,” You answered, panicked, reaching for the collar of his shirt. Your vision was coming and going in waves, your anxiety being the only thing that kept you conscious. Dean hesitated, looking down at you. His hands wrapped over top of yours that had a death grip on the collar of his jacket, his knuckles bloodied.

“I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” He sighed, letting out a breath. Climbing in with you, he shut the door, Sam climbing in the driver's seat. The blackness taunted at the edges of your vision causing you to panic, still gripping onto Dean’s jacket. He put his hands over yours once more and coaxed you to lay in his lap, looking down at you. “Just shut your eyes Y/N/N, okay?” He said, holding your hands tightly. You shook your head quickly, fighting the dark pull of unconsciousness. “Y/N, I’m right here baby,” He caressed the top of your head, lulling you to sleep off whatever was in your system, “I’m not going anywhere, I promise you’re safe now, I have you,” He leaned down and lightly brushed his lips to the top of your head, your breathing slowing gently, “I got you, you’re safe,” He whispered into your hair, “You got me and Sammy, no one’s gonna lay a hand on you, okay? Just shut your eyes for a little,” He continued to talk you down, as your eyes fluttered despite your protests, slowly slipping under. Had you’d been awake, you would’ve seen the way Sam’s eyes become glossy at the sight of you, at the way his big brother talked to you, like you were the only person in the world. You would’ve seen Dean blinking away the water that coated his eyes as he watched you silently panicking in waves, watching you suffer. Before you could protest any longer, you slipped into a deep sleep, safe in the back of the Impala, cradled in Dean’s arms.

-----

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lumilasi · 3 years

Photo

Here’s Milo’s updated look; since Shou will no longer be a telepath, I decided to give Milo his Atlas moth theme instead. I’ll do Milo’s brother separately later, as I’m thinking of maybe changing his name. His outfit doesn’t need as much tweaking.

Milo’s bio below:

Name: Milo Chiba

Nicknames: Gremlin, troublemaker, curtain-moncher (basically everybody)

Age: 16

A young telepath and an adoptive little brother of Akiko & Shou Chiba, and the twin brother of Lucas

Family: Adoptive parents Kaede & Ryoushi, blood twin brother Silas, big sister Akiko and big brother Shou, an ancestor spirit of sorts called Spectra, who is said to be the origin source for certain light & magic spirits, such as Gouken Shura

Love interest: Mari Haruko, a moth spirit

Friends: Yago (a chimera), Yuuki (A bakeneko), Shizuka, (a water spirit). Mari (A moth spirit) and Karuna, Mari’s big sister and a wingless wind dragon

Rival: He and Yago often butt heads due to both being chaotic, temperamental gremlins. He also sometimes butts heads with Yuuki, Lucas’ boyfriend over his brother’s attention, though that stuff is even less serious

Powers:

Being a telepath, Milo can communicate via telepathy (duh) but he can also use telekinesis, and break things with his mind (often accidentally)

He can use his telepath aura to summon moth wings made out of light and use them to fly and hover. These wings also work as shields against any kind of dark magic.

He’s naturally fairly agile and strong, having been working in a farm for most of his childhood since being adopted.

Milo (like his brother) can sometimes communicate with his ancestor through reflective surfaces, though he has no control when this happens.

Milo is immune to possession; he is simply too hard-headed for any possessing entity to be able to get through.

Weaknesses:

He struggles to control his own telepathy strength and might accidentally cause unnecessary explosions and damage. He also struggles to use the more mental aspects of his power, such as accessing people’s thoughts. He can only really do it easily with his twin and big sister. He and Lucas both share a phobia of large bodies of water given they almost drowned as children while at sea.

His depth perception isn’t the greatest due to having only one working eye, which also contributes to his clumsiness. The area around his injury also sometimes itches, and he might scratch the burn until it bleeds.

Personality:

Milo is known as the weird gremlin kid who’s socially awkward and chaotic, but generally means well. He mostly communicates with sounds, gestures or having Silas translate for him, as he’s selectively mute due to trauma. Sometimes he might use telepathy too, but he tends to do this rarely, and only with people he trusts the most.

He’s overtly curious and a bit temperamental, which can lead into trouble sometimes. Milo is bit of a hothead too, and is often seen gnawing at Shou’s head or clothes when he’s mad at him, or tumbling down a hill with Yago in a feisty fighty ball of limbs.

BG story:

Milo and his brother don’t really remember what happened or where they came from exactly due to trauma, other than they were in a shipwreck, with Milo getting burned and losing his eye during the ship’s sinking, as there was a fire. They managed to float on a piece of plywood down a river, ending up to the village the Chiba family lived, getting adopted by them. They did still remember their names. Their powers begun to activate when they were around 7, two years after their arrival.

Because this was starting to cause trouble, Kaede requested help from her old friend, a kitsune named Rikka, who guided them to a man called Gouken Shura, who began training the boys to help them learn to control their powers. Shura, it turns out, was a being likely created by the entity who was the source of the boys’ powers.

Milo and Lucas still don’t know where they came from, other than likely from a foreign land due to their names and accent; they had to have lived locally for a while though, since they were able to communicate with the local language easily.

Fun facts:

Milo’s clothes were made by Akiko, she based them on the moth figure Milo kept seeing in his dreams, supposedly representing his telepathy powers. His old clothing when they were found also had similar colors and detailing.

Milo has a massive appetite, and has ended up in an eating competitions more than once, usually against Karuna or Yago.

Milo is stronger than his brother in terms of raw power, but Silas is better at controlling it.

Milo gets to talk with their ancestral entity more, but the entity can’t possess him directly, like they can Lucas.

Milo is considered so utterly pure-hearted, that many of the Soul Eaters he knows feel almost overwhelmed around him. He’s also dumb in that pure childlike way.

Milo mainly “speaks” telepathically with Lucas, Akiko, Yago, and Kaede, sometimes with Yuuki too but only in dire situations.

He knows sign language - naturally - due to being mostly mute, but not everyone he interacts with does, hence he tends to not use it that much as people may not understand him that well anyway. Outside his immediate family, the only people who know some sign language are Shura, Mari, and Shika

#Lumi's art scribbles #Lumi's chaotic creations #kureshima bathhouse #Milo Chiba #my OC #Character Design #character reference #original character #My OCs are my babies #My drapes monching mothboy #I guess I'm gonna try and do the thing I meant to do during june #which is update my ocs in between fanart and fic updates

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loversandantiheroes · 4 years

Text

Hotel Hobbies - Interlude

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay, fic brain shorted out a little bit and I started thinking about this story a little too hard to let it go where it wanted to. But we’re back now, hey ho, with a little interlude before chapter 2 kicks in. Summary: Wake up calls and morning-after ruminations. Warnings: Nudity, grumpy!Reader, Whiskey is a menace even from a distance, more swearing. Rating: Mature Word Count: 1801 Previous: Prelude / Part 1 Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder

It's still dark when a faint buzzing wakes you, followed almost immediately by a muffled curse against your back.

"What the hell-?"

Whiskey gives an irritated grunt. "My phone. Shit."

He gets up, still stark naked, and stumbles across to where his jacket had been discarded, digging through the inside pockets. He punches through whatever message he just received and gives an annoyed little huff. By the blue light of the screen you can see his eyes are far clearer than they should be for a man who just rolled out of bed before the sunrise.

"Time is it?" you groan.

"Quarter-to-five," Whiskey answers.

"Jesus." You bury your face back in your pillow, muffling your next words. "Can't the spy shit wait for daylight?"

He chuckles. "Not according to Ginger, it can't."

"Whoozat?"

"Colleague," he says simply. He bends down over you, nuzzling your ear. "Duty calls, honeybee. I gotta go."

He presses himself down against you, his morning wood warming your hip. It's an invitation, maybe even a challenge. Make me late. If it weren't so fucking early and you weren't so goddamn tired, you might actually take him up on it.

You fumble your hand down, find his hip, and smack a little halfheartedly at his ass. "Lock the door on your way out."

A chuckle in your ear. "Yes ma'am. If you've got the inclination, I'll catch you at the bar tonight."

He kisses the smooth patch of skin behind your ear, raising goosebumps. The impulse hits to swat at him. It's too early for phone calls and conversations, and it's certainly too early for this man you barely know to give you any desire to drag him back into bed.

Instead you reach back, ruffling your hand through his hair. "Hmph. See you, cowboy."

The hairs of his mustache tickle your ear as he smiles, humming. "I hope so."

There's a rustling as he pulls his clothes on. You will yourself to close your eyes and drift back off before he gets to the door. It doesn't work. He's in your line of sight and you can't quite help but watch him dress, even if it is so dark that it doesn't make for as nice of a show as it would be otherwise. There's a light jingling as he hitches his jeans up and does up his belt. He stops for a moment before dropping down to the floor, rummaging around as though he's lost something. You could help, but early wake up calls have never done much for your disposition, and you bury yourself a little further into your pillow instead. Sounds filter through as you doze. The rustling of cloth, the whisper of soft rope being pulled free and coiled up.

The door opens and Whiskey stands there for a moment, an outline in black against the lit hallway. A disheveled version of those black painted plywood silhouettes that always seem to lean up against flea markets and roadside stands in the middle of nowhere. His face is shadowed, but you can feel his eyes on you.

Squinting against the light, you prop yourself up on your elbow. "What is it?"

Whiskey shakes his head. "Nothin' at all. Just admiring the view before I go."

The words don't have the teasing edge you expect. You tell yourself that's just a byproduct of being woken up so goddamned early, but somehow you're still glad you can't quite see his face.

"You're blinding me, cowboy," you tell him, unable to put as much annoyance behind the words as you'd like. "And you're not the only one who's got to work today."

Whiskey half-turns, light spilling down the front of him. His shirt, divested of more than a few buttons, hangs open and rumpled under his jacket, the white of it a stark contrast against the tan of his skin. His head dips. You can almost see the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "'Course. Sweet dreams, honeybee."

You slump back down into your pillow. "Don't die out there."

"I will do my level best."

The door clicks shut, leaving you in darkness with the outline of his frame against the doorway stamped in fading colors on your vision.

⁂

The next time you open your eyes it's considerably lighter, sunlight peeking through the edges of the curtains, and someone is knocking at your door.

Groaning, you roll yourself off the bed, snatching the covers and wrapping them around you. "Who is it?" you call out with the irritation only the suddenly and involuntarily conscious can muster.

The answer comes muffled through the door: "Room service."

The wall clock gives the time as 8:15. A marked improvement from the last time, at least. But, Jesus, couldn't anybody let you sleep?

Scowling rather spectacularly you unlock the door and throw it open. Standing in the hall is a young man barely out of his teens in a hotel uniform with a white-covered cart. When he gets a look at you he blanches, though only a little. It wouldn't surprise you if this poor kid had seen people answer their doors wearing far less.

"R-room service," he says again, trying not to look anywhere that might be considered uncouth.

It's an effort, but you try to soften the thunderous expression you know is on your face. You cross your arms over your chest, pinning the covers in place. When you shake your head you can feel the rough tangle of your hair bob and weave. God, you must look a wreck.

"Wrong room, hon, I didn't order anything."

Nor could you afford it anyway, though you don't bother to add that thought. And what a pity, too. The plates on the cart are covered, but the unmistakable smell of bacon comes wafting up and your stomach growls to life immediately. The conference's usual spread of danishes and coffee aren't going to be nearly enough to keep you going this morning.

"Oh, uh..." the young man pulls an envelope from the cart and thrusts it towards you. "It was ordered for you, ma'am. Already paid for."

Frowning, you take the envelope. It's hotel stationary, heavy and cream colored. The card inside marked with a heavy, looping scrawl.

Breakfast is on me, honeybee. You earned it.

"Oh you asshole," you mutter through a begrudging smile.

The kid blanches, and you flap the card at him. "No, not you, not you, you're fine. Jesus, come on in." You shuffle to the side, tossing the edge of the blanket behind you to keep from tripping as you make your way over to your purse to fish out a tip. The spread is generous but not obscene, laid out on the little table near the window. Bacon and eggs, toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a decanter of coffee. Your stomach gives another even more insistent growl, and you push a ten dollar bill into the kid's hand. Job done, he hurries out, pushing the cart into the hall with a speed that rather exceeds what you'd call professional.

Closing the door behind him, you comb a hand through the disaster of your hair and head directly toward the overwhelmingly appealing smell of bacon and coffee. Something digs into your heel and you wince, fighting with the coverlet to find what on earth you've stepped on. Dropping down to the floor, you find it – a small, pearl-white button. A little smile curls the corner of your mouth as you remember the immensely satisfying sound of buttons popping from the night before. There's another one nearby, glinting in the light. Two more at the edge of the bed. You gather them up, justifying it as a service to housekeeping. Small objects could damage vacuum cleaners, couldn't they?

As your fingers close on the last button, you catch sight of another glint under the bed. This one much too large to be a button. You might've missed it if you hadn't taken the bedding for a cover-up. You stretch your arm underneath the bed, reaching so far your shoulder begins to twinge in protest before your fingers close around the object. You know what you've found even before you pull the thing up, recognizing the feel of cold stainless steel. Whiskey's utterly ridiculous belt buckle flask. The front is engraved, something you hadn't noted last nigh. Statesman – Kentucky – Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

You briefly consider dropping the thing off at the front desk. It'd be an easy enough way to close the door on this brief little affair. But even though you never actually accepted Whiskey's invitation for tonight, you already know you're going to turn up. You'd hoped last night's encounter would've broken whatever spell of intrigue he possessed. That once the mystery had been dispelled and he'd proved himself to be every bit the boring shit-kicker you'd expected him to be, you could let housekeeping wash him out of your sheets and be done with it.

But then he'd turned out to be a decent lay. And then he had the audacity to buy you breakfast. The less repugnant he turned out to be, the more it irritated you. Sure, he was still sticking to that ridiculous Redneck James Bond story to cover up whatever he actually did, but it's not as if you'd bought that anyway.

"Asshole," you mutter again, knowing full-well how fucking ridiculous it is to be mad at the man for not being a complete piece of shit. And, even more damning, for leaving you actually wanting to see him again.

You stack the flask and the handful of loose buttons on the nightstand. "Only going to return this," you mutter. "Not to see him. Not to fuck him. Just to return this."

The lie doesn't sound any more convincing out loud than it did in your head. Especially when you can still feel that pleasant, well-used ache that makes your legs tingle when you walk. Even acknowledging its presence is enough to make that lingering heat kindle up into something much more pressing, and part of you wants nothing more than to throw yourself on the bed and sink your fingers into your cunt until it eases again.

In protest of this, your stomach gives another growl, loud enough to make you jump. Like it or not, you do have to work today – libido be damned – and like hell you're going to do it on an empty stomach.

It's only as you're slathering butter onto your toast that you pick up on the one thing you haven't noticed this morning, and a little grin quirks the corner of your mouth. Your dress, shoes, and bra are all still lying on the floor where you left them. Your panties on the other hand, are nowhere to be seen.

#agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations #of the mild variety #gonna aim for getting chapter 2 wrapped up by the weekend so cross your toes

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human-still-developing · 2 years

Text

Newly-Repaired

Bush all round - bush with no horizon, for the country is flat.

Pause.

I sit at the countertop of the newly-repaired kitchen, alone.

It’s raining outside, fat droplets against the broken red dirt and into the cracks of the parched empty creek that sighs and hisses like a brown snake. The sun wouldn’t have set yet, but the clouds cast a brooding shadow that makes the sheep skittish so my children join the farmhands in heralding them into the pen by the northern fields.

Seventy kilometres to the nearest school leave the young boys idle most of the day so they cherish the escape into the humid rain that still vaguely smells of smoke. That leaves me alone, nothing but the creaking house in the stifled countryside where not even the wind dares to blow.

She is used to being left alone…As a girl she built the usual castles in the air; but all her girlish hopes and aspirations have been long dead.

But it’s selfish of me to complain.

Selfish, when the fires that lashed through the bushland and blistered the eastern paddocks into chars left our house untouched. Selfish, when by coincidence the prized sheep were with the stock and station agent while our neighbours wept in the remains of their annual merino harvest. Selfish, when my husband came home and drove us 130 kilometres to Dubbo to eat gelato and watch the cars pass as new widows dug pits into the least unscathed parts of their land.

“Dora,” he promised, hand on my heart with earnest eyes, “This world may not be the one you wanted but I promise we’re going to be okay.”

There is nothing to see, however, and not a soul to meet…monotony which makes a man long to break away and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ships can sail - and further.

Because if this is his okay, the stagnant nothingness of a wound slowly scabbing, then I’m not okay at all.

###

Rewind.

It’s twenty years ago, before Tom is my husband and just a boyfriend with an ironic sense of humour who prints the damn story and leaves it on my doorstep. It’s a blistering, forty-degree summer (and ink is expensive, young lady, I bet that boy has his eyes on you) so my grandmother invites Tom inside and we find ourselves packed into the small living room next to the beating fan while she bustles into the kitchen to find him something to eat.

“The Drover’s Wife,” I read, unimpressed. “Your father is a farmer and I sure am not your damn wife.”

He laughs and winks and I curse my heart for falling for the foolish boy.

Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens, and thinks.

Ten years later, Tom lines our squat house with a picket fence while Martha pulls down the Newly-Weds wreath from our door for the destination wedding in church square next weekend. He laughs when his father gifts us his best breeding ram and three stocky ewes, laughs when I insist he drive me to Peak Hill to pick the best paints for our nursery, laughs when we make life and love and our fantasy in the half-acre just south of Tullamore.

She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little else to think about.

And then times get tough.

He leaves. Long hours that turn into days, into weeks until he rocks up on the doorstep with a scowl and foul mood. Tom punches the wall once, fist straight through weak plywood walls as he crumbles to the ground with bleeding knuckles and an aching heart. We don’t talk for a week and he moves downstairs to the living room.

It’s been too long without rain, Tom whispers into the old satellite phone when he thinks I’m asleep one night, and if it goes on much longer, we’ll have to sell the property.

The day before my husband signs our land away, there’s a thunderstorm. Thick, gurgles of rain on the yellowed grass, the constant tap-tap-tap of a kitchen leak. Windows shake, curtains shiver as Frank from next door whoops and his girls splash in the puddles.

We laugh, we cry and Tom kisses my mouth and promises to do better.

He does, he tries until we wake up on the fated morning with smoke in our eyes.

###

Fast Forward. Replay.

Tom returns on a Saturday. The rains have left the roads wet so he leaves his boots outside while the boys scramble into his arms. He’s picked up a can of paint, blue like the old nursery, and he makes idle conversation about kitchen feature walls in Sydney. We let the ‘hands go home early and it's not too long later when the boys are tucked into their beds and we have the house to ourselves, inky darkness punctured by the dim light of an old halogen.

I curl into his side and watch the rain patter against the window frame.

Living out here is tough on the best days, near impossible on the worst. Sometimes it rains so hard that parts of the roof fall through and we have to move to the outhouse with the earthen floors. And other times it’s so dry that everyday could be our last with our sheep and land.

We’ve seen fire, we’ve seen floods, we’ve seen hardship.

But perhaps Tom did have a point, all those days ago. Life, with the endless horizons and open paddocks and chirping birds, is okay. Life, with a loving husband who tries, with my boys with boundless energy to spare, is enough.

I smile into my husband’s side as he kisses my temple. Maybe it's just for this night but there is something oddly comforting about being by his side in this imperfect world we created.

And she hugs him to her worn-out breast and kisses him; and they sit thus together while the sickly daylight breaks over the bush.

Maybe, just maybe, we really will be okay.

#creative writing #inspiration #literature #my writing #words #writers #writblr #writers on tumblr #drover's wife #henry lawson #oceania #australia #countryside #roads #droughts #bushfires

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slippinmickeys · 3 years

Text

Five Seconds (2/8)

As I mentioned, this is the sequel to Of The Eight Winds. I will be posting the first two chapters today and then one chapter a day until next Monday. You can also read it on AO3 here.

Chapter Two

It was decided the best place to go would be the Midwest -- far from family on the coasts. They’d avoid the biggest cities -- Chicago, Detroit -- but still stick to denser populations; mid-sized cities on the edge of farmland -- it would give them the ability to lose tails in the chaos of town or hit the road quickly and disappear into the woods. A college town where no one would think anything of a new family moving in at the beginning of a semester. It was early May and the summer semester would begin soon at many universities. Frohike said he had a trustworthy contact nearby, so they settled on Lansing, Michigan.

The inheritance from Mulder’s father’s estate would keep them afloat for as long as they needed. Now they just needed to tell the kids.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Frohike handed him a shoebox. Mulder opened it to find new IDs for the whole family. They were now the McDonald family of Okemos, Michigan. The driver’s licenses looked real, as did the passports. Mulder thumbed through everything slowly.

“How’d you get these so fast?” he asked, looking up.

Frohike shrugged. “Best not to ask.”

Mulder leveled a look at the older man.

“If either of my kids ever come to you for a fake ID, I’m hiring a plane and skywriting your location,” he said.

Langly snorted from his chair.

“This is your new address,” Frohike said, handing Mulder a piece of paper that he threw in the box. “Subleased a furnished house from a professor traveling on sabbatical. Darlene will meet you there at noon on Friday. Don’t be late, she gets cranky.”

“Darlene?” Mulder asked.

“Darlene Frohike,” Byers piped in. “Melvin’s sister.”

“You have a sister?” Mulder said, surprised. He pictured Frohike with breasts and long hair and felt one eye start to twitch.

“Go to her if you need help,” Frohike said, “she lives nearby.”

“You have a sister?” Mulder said again.

Frohike glared at him.

“They used to run pacifists over the border into Windsor, Canada during ‘Nam,” Langly helpfully piped up. “She can roll.”

“She can roll?” Mulder asked.

“Her kung-fu’s the best,” Frohike said seriously.

Mulder held up the box of fake documents.

“Family affair, huh?” he said, and Frohike shrugged.

Mulder thumbed through everything one more time before departing the bunker. They’d been generous with Scully’s height and his weight. He could picture his wife’s smirk already.

“Hey, Mulder?” Frohike called out just as he opened the door. Mulder glanced back at the three men. “Be careful.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder called a family meeting as soon as the kids walked in the door that evening. After the news they’d received the last time their parents had sat down with them like this, they both looked at them with trepidation.

“God, you’re not about to tell us Mom’s having twins, are you?” Lily said, plopping down on the couch in the living room. Will lowered himself down next to her, his eyes darting back and forth between his parents. When neither Mulder nor Scully laughed, Lily’s face fell. “What’s going on?” she asked seriously.

Mulder had debated with Scully how honest to be with them. While he thought they were old enough to handle the full truth, neither wanted to scare them. And yet they needed to know the severity of the situation. A parent’s eternal dilemma.

“Our family is in some trouble,” he started, sharing a look with Scully. “And we’re going to need to leave town for a while.”

“When?” Lily asked, “For how long?”

“What kind of trouble?” Will asked.

“There are some people that are after your mom-” Mulder started, and both kids interrupted him quickly.

“What kind of people?” Lily asked, at the same time, Will, whose voice rose almost an octave, said:

“After her for what?”

Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. He was perched on the arm of the chair Scully occupied, and she reached out and took his hand.

“I think we need to start from the beginning,” she said. “The very beginning.”

She gave his hand a squeeze and began talking. Starting with the abduction of Samantha Mulder, Scully gave a thorough, yet succinct account of the ins and outs of their current predicament, making the whole outlandish tale sound coherent and almost reasonable. Both kids listened to her raptly and remained calm, and Mulder once again thanked his lucky stars for the woman next to him. For all the tumult they’d experienced through the years, there was no one he’d rather have by his side.

“I have a friend -- some friends -- that have set us up with a new life-” Mulder said, when Scully was finally done talking.

He was interrupted by Lily.

“The friends who you visit at Arlington Cemetery? The ones we’re not supposed to know about? Those friends?”

Mulder looked to Scully who wore a surprised smile.

“I haven’t said a thing, Mulder,” she said, looking to him.

“Lily hid in the trunk of your car once,” said Will.

“Will!” Lily shouted at her brother.

“Lil, is that true?” Scully asked her daughter, concerned. Lily wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m not sure whether to be terrified or impressed,” Mulder said. Then shook his head. Back to the topic at hand. He would worry about that later. “Anyway, those friends have set us up with a life in the Midwest for a year, probably less. Until the heat is off. Until we’re sure we’re all safe.”

“Where in the Midwest?” Lily said with trepidation.

“Michigan,” Scully said.

“They’ve got good hockey in Michigan,” Will offered, and Mulder wanted to hug the kid for his optimism.

Lily looked pained. “What about school?” she said. “What about UVA?” She was supposed to start college there in the fall.

“Lil, these people are not above using you to get to us. The only safe thing is for you and Will to come with us. It’s not even for a year. You can defer. Just the fall semester,” Mulder said.

Lily fell back against the cushions on the couch. Scully and Mulder shared a look.

“And we have to leave soon,” Scully said, “before graduation.”

Will reached out and put his hand on his sister’s knee, his face all sympathy. To her credit, Lily looked at her little brother and gave him a thankful look, a small uptick of the lips. Will turned back to his parents.

“When do we have to start packing?” he asked.

“Tonight,” Mulder said.

XxX

A day later found Mulder in the attic with Lily and William, going through boxes, taking the few things that they had in storage that they thought they might need. Mulder had grabbed a tent, a few sleeping bags, a kit knife, various useful odds and ends.

Will was over in the corner and had unearthed a box of old pictures and held one up for Mulder’s perusal.

“What’s this one from?” his son asked.

Mulder came over to take a look. It was a glossy 8x10 of him and Scully facing each other, framed in profile, hovering on the edge of a crime scene. He remembered it, now. It had been taken by a federal crime scene tech who’d finished documenting a scene and had needed to finish off the roll of film. Mulder had seen him snapping and had handed the guy a fiver. Two weeks later it arrived in an interoffice envelope, accompanied by three dollars and a post-it that said “keep the change.”

In the photo, Scully was looking up at him, the sun at her back slanting on her autumn hair so that it shone like a halo of spun gold. She was wearing a dark suit, as was her wont, the bulge of her service weapon at her back, one arm out and gesturing at something out of frame. He was struck, as he always seemed to be, by her exquisite beauty; her face was a composition. A work of art. A call to prayer.

“God,” he said, a little awestruck, “look how young we were.”

“Mom used to be really pretty,” Will said, and though he said it kindly, Mulder turned to him slowly.

“I’m sorry, ‘Used to be?’” he said.

Will looked nervously between his father and Lily.

“She’s still pretty?” Will said, more as a question than a statement.

“God damn right,” he said, “Every day I thank my lucky stars that she still deigns to share my bed.”

“Dad, don’t be gross,” from Lily, who at 18 didn’t mind her parent’s displays of affection so long as they weren’t public.

“Gross?” Mulder said, pointing at each of them. “Gross? You were born of the loins of an ethereal creature of heaven, the both of you. Don’t blaspheme.”

“Says the guy who just said ‘God damn,’” said Lily, cheekily.

Mulder grinned and turned back to the photo.

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first your eye I ey’d, such seems your beauty still,” Mulder said, looking at it.

“Which sonnet?” Lily asked.

“104,” he said, and they shared a smile. Another silent moment of admiring the photo and he set it down, turned to his children. “All right,” he said, “pack what you need. Let’s get a move on.”

He added the picture to his own cache.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Something caught Lily’s eye as her father was folding up the old box of photos. The corner of a glossy 5x7 was sticking up from the edge of the box -- in it, she saw her father’s face, smiling, looking extremely young.

She helped him shove it back into the corner of the attic with a scrape of cardboard on plywood and he stood, head still bent down in the cramped space so as not to crack his skull on the slanted beams.

William was already heading back down the rickety ladder onto the landing below them, the hollow sound of his steps on the aluminum like the beat of a drum.

“You okay, Lil?” her father asked, his eyes squinted at her in concern. She was still kneeling by the box.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling at him, and glanced around the attic, at the memories their family had built up over the years. She hoped they’d be able to revisit them one day. Deep down she was afraid this might be the last time she saw some of these things -- an old box of her brother’s LEGOs, her Raggedy Ann, the doll’s black button eyes fixed and sightless, a wispy cobweb hanging limply off her yarn hair.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” he said, and reached down to help her up.

Before she took it, she reached out and pulled at the glossy photo, sliding it easily out of the box and slipping it surreptitiously into her back pocket as she stood. It crinkled in her jeans as she walked toward the attic ladder with her father behind her, as she moved on toward she knew not what.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully sat in her car with her keys in her hand, staring at the woman’s house, debating whether or not to get out.

She had faith in her husband and all her things in a suitcase, but there was still a small part of her that didn’t quite believe the tale Olivia Kurtzweil had told them. In all their years working together on the X-Files, Mulder had always been the engine, and she had always been the brake -- and the impulse to tap the pedal when faced with the fantastic had never left her, even after more than a decade out of the basement office.

She drummed her nails on the steering wheel once and then made a decision, shoving the keys into the pocket of her coat, double checking that her service weapon was in order, and sliding out of her car and onto the sidewalk. She wanted one last talk with the woman before committing to this drastic course of action.

It hadn’t been easy to find Kurtzweil’s address -- even with the Bureau’s resources at her fingertips. She’d had to call in a favor to a friend with ties to the State Department to get it.

The street Kurtzweil lived on was quiet, just outside of Pentagon City. Parking on the street was by permit only, and there were hardly any cars. The house was a one-story ranch with a long porch, big enough for two rocking chairs, which were tilted at an angle toward each other just-so. The landscaping was impeccable and there weren’t any bugs in the porch lights. Olivia ran a tidy ship that Scully could appreciate.

She hesitated one last time at the door before reaching for the doorbell. She’d debated the merits of coming unannounced and had settled on the element of surprise -- hoping if the woman were lying about anything, unprepped and unrehearsed, Scully might be able to suss out lie from truth.

She heard the bell ring inside the house and waited for muffled footsteps or perhaps the bark of a dog. She was met with silence. She gave it about another ten seconds before ringing the bell again. When there was still no answer, she walked over to the garage and stood on tiptoes to peer through the window. There was a BMW parked inside. Scully made her way back to the door, and reached up to give it a knock. When her knuckles hit the wood the door gave an inch and suddenly feeling unsettled, Scully pushed it slowly the rest of the way open.

Just inside the door there was a purse laying on its side and a cascade of unopened mail fanned out on the floor. A chill ran up Scully’s spine and she reached for her sidearm, suddenly glad she’d brought it.

“Olivia?” she called tentatively, before taking a step inside, the gun held out in front of her, listening sharply for any hint of sound. None came.

She swept the perimeter of the entryway, all her senses on high alert. Hearing nothing, she called out Olivia’s name again. Still silence.

She turned the corner into the main part of the living area -- an open concept living room, dining room, kitchen, and nothing looked out of place. She edged her way slowly into the kitchen, and that’s when she saw it; two feet sticking out behind a large island in the kitchen.

Scully darted forward and slid to her knees next to the woman, quickly taking in what she saw before her: Olivia Kurtzweil had been shot, a double-tap to the head and one to the heart--a professional kill. Knowing she wouldn’t find it, Scully reached out to feel for a pulse in the woman’s neck. Her body was still warm.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder stood in the elevator, his finger hovering over the ‘12.’ It was one of the newer office buildings outside the district, a high rise of dark glass and steel. He thought maybe he should have called first, but hadn’t wanted to risk it. Finally, he depressed the button and the elevator lurched to life.

On the twelfth floor, the doors opened to a brightly lit lobby, the walls and floor all stark white granite. There was a sleek reception desk ahead, manned by an even sleeker looking young blond woman, who looked at him expectantly as he approached.

“Hello,” she smiled, not showing teeth, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Lauren Williams,” he hedged, and the woman’s eyebrows shot up.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked.

“No,” he said, and started to wonder if he should have come at all.

“Okay,” the woman said slowly, narrowing her eyes, “I can call her assistant and ask if she can see you. Your name?”

Mulder felt like a bug under a microscope.

“Tell her it’s Fox,” he said.

She nodded.

“One moment.”

Mulder glanced at his watch. They were supposed to be on the road in four hours. This was a last minute stop for him, a barely thought-out ‘what if’ plan C in case the whole thing went to shit.

When he glanced back up, the receptionist was looking at him expectantly.

“She’ll be out in a moment,” she said, and Mulder smiled his thanks and took a few awkward steps back.

There was a small waiting area to the left of reception, but the seats looked more modern than comfortable, and the entire space had a disinfected don’t-sit-here vibe to it. Set dressing.

After a moment he heard the efficient clicks of approaching heels, and turned to see his ex-wife coming out of a metal door that he’d thought was a wall.

“Fox?” she said, her face one of pleased surprise.

“Lauren,” he said, as she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. You look well.”

She did. She was in a crisp grey suit that was likely Chanel or Hermes, and trim as ever. Her face looked sculpted and her skin clear and bright. Not a wrinkle to be found. A mild cloud of the same perfume she always wore clung to her, lending her an air of sophistication where it may have made other women seem like they were trying too hard. She leaned back, holding onto one of his forearms and gave him an assessing look.

“You look… worried,” she finally said, her eyes narrowing a bit in concern.

He didn’t reply, and she turned to the receptionist.

“Thank you, Amanda,” she said smartly and inclined her head toward the metal door/wall which clicked open as they approached it.

She led him down a long hallway, with glass conference rooms lining one side and open concept work stations along the other. At the far end, she opened a floor-to-ceiling glass door and led him into a large and immaculate corner office.

Mulder raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, “it’s been a while.” She shut the door behind them and gestured to a small sitting area off to the side of the office. It was more welcoming than the lobby seating had been, and he slid into one of the chairs gratefully.

“Executive Vice President,” she said proudly, and took the chair opposite him. She settled into the leather of the seat and leveled a look at him. “You okay, Fox?”

Mulder glanced at the door, at the bustle of the office beyond it. No one seemed to pay them any mind.

“I’m…” he started, “we’re in some trouble.”

“You and Scully?” Lauren asked kindly, “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Mulder smiled, “she’s good, she’s…”

He fumbled a bit. Not quite sure where to start.

“Is it money?” Lauren asked. “Do you need-”

Mulder cut her off, laughing uncomfortably. He and Scully both made a very good living, and his father’s estate would have kept them more than afloat even if they didn’t. He huffed a deep sigh, and she sat quiet and patient, looking at him in concern.

“Our family is in danger, Lauren,” he finally said, “and we need to disappear for a little while.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Is it Scully’s work at the FBI?” she started, “Is it-”

He once again cut her off.

“Listen, I don’t want to tell you much for your own protection. The less you know, the better.”

She nodded, her brow furrowed with concern.

“The reason I’m here is… we’re going away for a while. Headed to the Midwest.” She remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “Do you… does your aunt still have that hunting camp up in Michigan?”

He saw a small smile crack through her unease. Lauren’s Aunt Clio was half Williams Family Secret, half Williams Family Legend. A bright, effusive personality, she was blustery and smart, and unpretentious to the point of embarrassment, as far as Lauren and her upper-crust-endeavoring parents were concerned. She lived in Ohio, where she and Lauren’s father had been raised, ten years the man’s senior. She kept a hunting camp in the eastern Upper Peninsula of Michigan called Camp Hi Early. She hunted deer throughout the state’s archery season and had told a story at Mulder and Lauren’s wedding reception about running at a bear with an axe from the outhouse. The story had mortified Lauren at the time -- Mulder had just been delighted. Aunt Clio had been drinking straight whiskey at the party, and had just been about to tell Mulder a story of running ‘shine when Lauren had pulled him away and to the dance floor. Mulder had never forgotten it, or her.

“Aunt Cli died last year,” she said with a begrudging smile. Mulder marveled. The woman must have been close to a hundred years old. Lauren’s eyes met his. “But she left me the camp.”

“You still have it?” Mulder asked, amazed, “it doesn’t seem like your kind of… scene.”

Lauren laughed.

“That it’s not. But there’s a mining company that has its eyes on the northern 100 acres, and if they get their hands on it whether from me or from someone I might sell to, Clio Williams will haunt me from the grave.”

Mulder laughed, felt something loosen in his chest.

“If you need it, it’s yours, Fox,” Lauren said, the humor dissipating from her voice.

He leaned back in the chair.

“We probably won’t need it,” he said, “it’s just something I thought of as a distant Plan C. But if we need to get out fast -- if we need to go somewhere we can’t be found…”

Lauren nodded and stood, moved over to her desk.

“It’s rustic, Fox,” she said, and sat down in the chair, pulling open a desk drawer. “And not charming-rustic. It’s rustic-rustic. And likely in disrepair. I sent a local handyman out there this past spring. He assured me that the roof doesn’t leak and the windows aren’t broken, but that’s about it.” She was rifling distractedly though the drawer. “I’m not sure how well outfitted it is, and It’s probably overrun with mice and squirrels. He said it looked like a moose had been gnawing on the siding…”

“It’ll be a last resort,” he said seriously.

Lauren paused and looked at him.

“Bad?” she asked.

“Pretty bad,” he nodded.

She winced and stood, an envelope in her hand. She made her way over to him and raised it.

“This is the key to the padlock on the cabin door,” she said, “and a map to the camp. The handyman I hired drew it up for me, not the other way around, mind you. I haven’t been out there since I was a kid and Aunt Cli took me up there to teach me to shoot. There’s the boondocks and there’s this. I’m talking county highway to a dirt road to a two-track. A seasonal road that the county doesn’t plow. I don’t even know if an SUV can get in there. The road to Camp may be impassable...” she handed him the envelope.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” he said.

Lauren reached out and squeezed his shoulder, the concern on her face cutting rare lines into her perfect skin.

“I want you to check in with me, let me know you’re okay,” she said, “do you feel safe doing that?”

Mulder nodded, put his hand over hers where it rested on her shoulder, squeezed.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m serious, Fox,” she said, “if I call, you answer your fucking phone. I’m scared for you. For the kids and Dana.”

“I promise,” he said, giving her hand one last squeeze before he rose to leave. “I’ll send you a number when I’ve got one.”

His phone rang then, like a premonition. He answered.

“Mulder?” Scully said into his ear, her voice shaky with panic. He heard the slam of a car door. “We have to leave. Now.”

#MSR #AU #Of the Eight Winds #My Fic #Fanfic #X-Files

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