#aluminum dog door

[thecapricunt1616]

Chapter 2 The Bear & His Honey

Chapter Inspo: Quote - "The only heaven I’d be sent to, is one where I’m alone with you." Summary: (18+ ONLY FIC) Carmy gets heated in the kitchen, makes Winnie lunch, & Meets the famous Sugar. A/N: Heyooo!! I am so proud of myself for like not having writers block and actually continuing a fic I started LOL! I think this one is longer than the last, like 7k characters or smth. I can't make promises abt. when I'll post next, but I can try to make it this week! I hope you're all enjoying so far. Warnings: Swearing, Yelling, smut, alcohol, tad angsty if you can even call it that, and then just overall feminine yearning!! ***As per usual; Reblogs, Likes, Comments, & Constructive Critiques are not only welcomed, but much appreciated! Without further ado, here we go! Woooo!***

𝒞𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒪𝓊𝓉 𝑀𝓎 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉!

Chapter 1 Here

__________________________

I followed him in to the screaming, bustling pit that was his kitchen. “BEHIND!- Jesus Christ, Tina, watch it - I said Behind! Should I just drop this, huh Chef?!”  Someone cried out, the intensity of the atmosphere causing my chest to tighten as if clawed hands were achingly squeezing ever so slowly around my lungs. 

 “Gosh” I muttered, trying my best to take everything in, every sense of mind becoming slightly overwhelmed. Carmen briskly showed me to his small office, the insanity of his kitchen not even strumming a nerve for him it seemed. He showed me to a desk covered in too many papers in the corner, before thumbing through them until he found what he was rummaging for. “Ah! Yes. Here we go!! Alright. You look at this” he turned to me, handing it over. 

“With that big-booky-brain of yours, sure you could figure some changes to make the dishes sound extra special ‘mm?” He mused. I glanced over the piece of printer paper, nothing more than a piece of plain white paper adorned with dish names and descriptions of them followed by pricing. 

“Uhh…sure thing. ‘M not that smart, slutty books about muscley guys with wings and mind reading abilities only get you so far…” I said jokingly, my eyebrows furrowing as I my eyes glaze over the intricate ingredients I’d never heard of. 

“Alright, uhhh.. you’re gonna have to go more into detail about what you’re getting up to at the bookstore when I get back” he teased and closed the door to the office behind him as he headed to the kitchen. 

I continued reading over the ingredients, adding an appetizing verb here and there, hoping that was what he was looking for. I lean on my hand, looking over the other papers on the desk. Mostly food shipment orders, different labor receipts, jumping in my seat a bit when I hear a huge crash and what sounds like a bunch of aluminum clattering. 

“FUCK, JESUS! ” Carm yells, his voice booming through the kitchen and it was suddenly silent, as if every single thing stopped. “How many times have I told you guys, do, NOT leave empty FUCKING pans ON THE EDGE OF YOUR GOD DAMN STATION. Everyone look over your FUCKING station, RIGHT THE FUCK NOW - if there is an something that needs to be washed- it goes IN THE SINK. NOW. Move!” 

The only response is a chorus of “Yes Chef!” 

“Marcus get the fuck over here deal with this these fucking sheet pans!” He barks. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat, contemplating if I should just grab my purse and go. My eyes flick to the door when I hear the handle, and Carmen walks back in, his face a bit flushed from his outburst I’d assume. 

“Hey” he said casually and smiled a bit, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He was holding a plate that honestly, looked amazing. “So, not chilli, so sorry, but- we do have Mac salad, and then this fire pork stew type deal, oh, and your onions, and a burger, and a hot dog- feelin frisky today, Winnie?” He puts the plate in front of me with a soft smile. 

All tension I was feeling vanished like sand between my fingers. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips and I look up at him. “And my ketchup?” I asked and he rolled his eyes, taking the ketchup and mustard bottles from his apron and setting them down in front of me. “Sorry, your majesty.” He teased.

I take the ketchup, squeezing a good amount over the top. “I guess… I am feeling frisky” I said, doing the same with the mustard. “Yea? You reading up on more winged muscle man porn while I was out there?” I laughed as I cut up the hot dog and burger on top, a real laugh. Not something someone could usually drag out of me since my brother. But for some reason, Carmen seemed to be very good at it. 

“Ohhh yeah. I was just all spread out here on top of your desk rubbing one out - the yelling you were doing really did it for me. Finished right before you came in.” I teased with a feline smirk, watching as his cheeks heated slightly. “Yeah- sorry about that” he rubs the back of his neck. “Uh- Marcus he just left all these fucking pans and Syd ran right in to them - keep tellen ‘em to put shit where it goes.” He sighed a bit. 

“No, no, no need to be sorry. A book store and a kitchen are 2 very different places to work, just glad everything’s alright” I took a bite, my eyes widening at the amazing flavor. It definitely wasn’t home, but that was okay. It was fucking amazing. I bring my hand up to my mouth to cover it as I speak, unable to wait another second to tell him. 

“That? Is Fuuucking heat dude. Wow.” I said swallowing and immediately going for more. “Really? You are…unbelievable” he chuckles, sitting back with a small smirk on his lips. “No you are unbelievable, Chef, great work. 5 stars on yelp” I giggle and he shakes his head rolling his eyes in amusement. 

“Why thank you, your review is valued” he gets up and leans in. I swear I feel my heart stutter in my chest when his chain brushes my temple as he reaches around me and grabs the menu I had been scribbling notes on for him. I could smell the musk of his cologne, a bit of tobacco from his cigarette, and a tinge of salty sweat from being in such a hot kitchen all morning. It was intoxicating. I wanted to bury my nose in his chest and just inhale, I could get drunk off the scent.  “Sorry” he said softly, sitting back down and looking at the menu. 

My cheeks had to be on fire, and I’m sure if his chain grazed my face again, its icy touch would sizzle at the contact. I swallow the bite I had forgotten about in my mouth when he was so close and look over at him. He was still looking over the menu, eyebrows raised slightly, “mm, like that” he mutters, rubbing his chin in contemplation. 

“Wow, look at what your slutty books taught you, ‘opulence to the core in your mouth’ hmm? What were they describing?” He smirks, his eyes meeting mine. I swear I could burst into flames and be left as nothing but a pile of ashes. I can’t remember a time that I’d been so melted by the attention of a man. 

“Uh-“ I stutter, clearing my throat, trying to rack my now empty brain (other then that pesky vision buried deep, of him rage fucking me over his desk. Sending waves of soaking warmth to my core, so strong I’m more petrified of the vision of me getting up and his chair being wet with my arousal) “Oh, you know…” I trail off with a shrug, my gaze finding my plate again and taking another bite to avoid embarrassing myself any further. 

“Well, I just may have you edit these more often little miss vocabulary” he continues reading over. “I like this, exactly what I wanted. Thank you” he smiled softly, setting the paper down on the desk. Our hands brush, and goosebumps immediately rose everywhere from my shins to my jaw. 

I look over at him, to find him looking right back at me. “This is…like so good” I said to take my mind off the ache growing between my thighs and he grinned. “Glad you like it. Swing by anytime I’ll make one for you, on the house of course. Gotta make sure we treat our official menu editor well” he rested his hands on the top of his curls with locked fingers. His biceps looked much more pronounced this way, the tattoos I hadn’t been able to see on the back of his arms making an appearance. 

He looked as if he was a fucking statue, a Greek god carved from the masterful hands of Myron. He is beautiful. He has such a strong nose, a muscular jaw and neck, god his fucking neck. Those veins, I can imagine when he gets all fired up they protrude powerfully. I trail back up to his nose, god that fucking nose. My core clenches around nothing at the sudden dirty image of messily riding his face comes to the front of my mind, his beautiful blue eyes darkened in lust due to his blown out pupils, his beautiful sexy nose nuzzling my bundle of nerves, my arousal dripping down his neck and chest as he drinks up all he can. Flushed at the Hollywood porno in my mind, I quickly shut it out like slamming a door and my eyes flick to his beautiful blues, a satisfied smirk on his blush pink lips. 

“What?” I questioned, my cheeks growing hotter. “Mm. Nothin’. Enjoying the view or somethin’?” He questioned and I look at my plate. “No- I mean, well” I stuttered, picking up another bite and putting it in my mouth to avoid the confrontation as it had worked for me shortly before. 

He playfully smacks a hand over his heart “wow!” He said earning a giggle from me “here I am, slavin’ over the stove like a damn housewife for you to make your- whatever the hell - and you have the gaul to insult me!! In my own restaurant at that!”  He feigned offense, a real smile adorning his features, eyes crinkled, dimples on proud display. 

“You’re cute! There. Is that what you wanted, Carmen? Your ego stroked a little? Awww, Carm, you’re such a handsome little boy” I laughed, leaning in and pinching his cheek playfully. He rolled his eyes, swatting my hand away with a grin. “So you only go out with guys with wings, that it?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“Wow!! Look at you, big player!” I gently kick his clog with my boot “you askin’ me out?” I asked, my heart picking up speed once more. “No, I just asked if your preference is a buff dude with wings. But since you mention it, sure, I’d love to go out with you. Thanks for the offer” he teased, a pesky smirk on his lips. 

“Wooow!” I drew out and laughed. “Wow!! Big sexy muscle man can’t ask a girl out, hmm? Need to trick her in to asking you?” I took a sip from the water bottle I’d brought in my bag. His cheeks heat, raising his eyebrows he says “well I’m no big sexy muscle man, I’m just ahh…how did you put it?” He asked. 

I leaned in, gently adjusting the pendant of his chain to face front and center again before resting my hand on his chest, palm flat, and feel the heavy thump of his heart when I speak again “a very handsome little boy” I said softly, my eyes flicker to his lips as he gently tugged his bottom one between his teeth. “Mm” he hummed, I felt the vibration under my hand. “That was it. Yeah” he said just above a whisper, his voice richer, deeper, like the dark chocolate cake described on the dessert menu. 

The door flies open and I jump back in my seat, resuming eating as naturally as I could manage. “Bear! There you are, Jesus Christ. Since when do you take breaks? The fuckin’ glassware company left three boxes of cocktail glasses off- three Carm!” A very loud blonde storms in, dropping her large purse in a slump at my feet and kicking it under the desk like I wasn’t even there. 

“Sorry,” she gives me a sympathetic smile “just restaurant shit.” She looks back at him “who did the order?” He asks. “Syd!! I told you, Carmen, you are putting too much on her plate right now! Stop being such a jagoff” she pushes his arm gently “and fucking divide the work!! Fuckin- fuckin’ teach Manny how to order!! I don’t know!” She said exasperated and frustrated. 

“Sugar I’ll call them, I’ll fix it, I fucked up.” He admitted with a sigh and rubs his face. “Yes. You did. And you better fix it. Or else how in the fuck are we gonna do your stupid little house cocktail on family night in three days?!” She asked, holding up 3 fingers and waving them in front of his face as he shook his head. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He muttered and ran his fingers through his curls. “Sorry should I-“ I grabbed my purse from the back of the chair and motioned to the door “ahh fuck. Ye’ I’m so sorry I-“ he blinks hard, thinking. 

“What time do you get off?” He asks “5:15 usually” I said and got up, my plate of food mostly gone. “Shit…uhh..” he rubs his chin in contemplation. “Can you swing by at like- 10? If not, it's totally fine, we- we can have a drink? If you want..” he offered. I nod, a soft smile gracing my features. “Sure thing, I’m a night owl anyway. See you at ten, Chef, thanks again for lunch, it was great”. But before I leave the office, I lean in and whisper in his ear. 

“Be a good, handsome little boy while I’m gone. No more yelling over dropped trays, mm?” I rub my hand over his bicep giving a gentle squeeze and my eyes flicker to his lips, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows thickly, bright red flushing his cheeks.  “S-see you at ten” he stuttered in reply. I shut the door behind me, giggling quietly to myself as I hear who I now knew as ‘Sugar’ saying “Where’d you meet that pretty thing?”

Read Chapter 3 Here!

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The First Motorhome!

Remember when things were so much simpler?  The Ford House-Car Q-dog

This is one of only six Ford House-cars said to have been made per year in the mid-30's at the Ford plant in St. Paul, Minnesota, according to an article in a 1993 "Old Car​s​" magazine.

Very few others - perhaps none - remain on the road and certainly not in such amazing original condition!

When discovered in a garage under a heavy cover in northern Minnesota in August of 2001, it had only 19,000 miles on the odometer and the owner's manual was still in the glove box in like-new condition! 

The RV had always been garaged and treated with much 'TLC' as a collector vehicle. 

The all wood lined interior was still the way it appeared in the '30's complete with framed photos of the original owner on his travels, mainly to Florida, and his cabin in the North Woods. It also had other memorabilia from that era.

The Ford House-car was built on a '37 Ford Pickup frame and cowling and was powered by a 60 horse power, flathead V-8 with aluminum heads. The rear framing is all wood, with the metal skin wrapped around it. The roof structure is all wood over which the heavy, waterproofed canvas top is still very securely fitted. The structure of the body is solid, appearing to be all oak hardwood and it's still in a remarkably unaltered, undamaged condition! The door frames are thick, solid oak as are the window frames although those have been painted over. 

This House-car was a big hit at this campground once we got that great old 'flattie' V-8 hummin'! Note the expanding roof (it's that 'extra' roof piece barely visible in the picture) and the original dark green color, which has been repainted. All four side windows open while the back one tilts out in three positions. The windshield also tilts open at the bottom for 'natural' AC while driving. Here are a few shots of the Ford House-car on the road...

Here's a look at the interior.

It's a slice right out of 1930's just as the original owner had it. All the windows have curtains for privacy and there are pull-down shades on the back window, as well as on the driver's and passenger door windows. Note the wide storage cabinet under the bed.

The wood headliner gives the 'cabin' a warm and inviting rustic feel. You can also see it has a ceiling vent and the canvas expanding roof portion visible in this picture. Four wood pieces securely support the expansion when it's in the 'up' position, while clamps secure it when it's down while traveling.

Note the cedar branches hanging in the corners to give the cabin a natural, north woods aroma. Cabinets and the aluminum sink, that includes a wooden cover insert, are visible on the left. All the antiques inside, as well as on the walls, came along for the ride. Also note the collapsible table behind the driver's seat. 

It's amazing how simple vehicles were back then! No computerization to be concerned about!

[bwabys-scenarios]

Reunited

Part 10

Illumi x Reader

Part 9

Part 11

Dawn breaks, as the airship carrying (Name) and her friends approaches its destination. The Third Phase of the Hunter Exam is about to begin.

(Name) startles awake when she hears an announcement play over the speakers.

“I apologize for the long wait. The airship will soon arrive at its destination.”

The girl rises from her place on the floor, watching the other woman do the same out of the corner of her eye.

(Name) stretches lightly and heads to the bathroom to get a quick shower before they land.

—————

The applicants gather on top of a large pillar, looking around in confusion.

“What is this?”

“There’s nothing here.”

(Name) joins her group, checking over her bag as she does.

“Ahem.”

Everyone turns to give Beans their full attention.

“Everyone, the exams Third Phase will begin here, at the top of trick tower.” Beans smiles. A man tilts his head, looking at Beans in confusion.

“Trick Tower?”

“To pass this phase, you must reach the tower’s base alive. The time limit is seventy-two hours. With that, we will now begin the Third Phase. I pray for your success!”

“No way.” Leorio whispers. (Name) begins to stretch her limbs to limber up.

The crowd disperses to check out their surroundings. (Name) attempts to do so as well, but before she can get more than ten feet away, she falls into a trap door.

The other four in her group remain unaware of her absence for around 5 minutes, until Gon’s eyes scan the area around them.

“Where did (Name) go?”

—————

“Ouch…”

(Name) stood slowly, rubbing her hurt wrist gently. She’d landed on it when she fell, and although Leorio had bandaged it and given her an ice pack, it still ached.

She was in a plain room, the only visible detail being a circular table holding several bracelets. On the wall behind the table was a sign.

“The five of you must follow the will of the majority to reach the goal.” (Name) read aloud. She let out a cry when the roof of the room opened up and another person fell in.

Though saying they fell in wasn’t accurate, the man landed perfectly. (Name) felt a twinge of jealousy at his safe landing. Her throbbing wrist was a constant reminder of her less than graceful tumble.

The man in question was the disguised Illumi, who (Name) recognized as Gittarackur. She studied how he surveyed the room with a careful eye, his gaze only faltering when it landed on her.

“Hello, I’m (Name). You’re Gittarackur, right?”

“… yes.”

Illumi’s eyes didn’t leave her figure, noticing her pained expression. His eyes softened ever so slightly when she leaned towards him, holding out her good hand. He shook it firmly, trying his best to be gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gittarackur. I hope we can work together to get out of here.”

For a moment Illumi wondered if she was this kind to everyone. The way she smiled her pretty smile and shook his hand so delicately… did she do that with every person she met?

His thoughts were interrupted by the loud growl of his stomach. He had trouble sleeping last night and had slept in, which was unusual for him. Because of that, he hadn’t been able to eat breakfast. If his mother was here, she would scold him.

“Oh, did you eat breakfast? It was really good! I stuffed some extra bacon and toast into my bag. Want some?”

He felt something in his chest flutter. Her concern for him seemed to cause a reaction, what that was exactly he didn’t know. He could only nod quietly and watch her unpack the toast and bacon she had wrapped in aluminum foil.

Illumi had seen her packing the extra provisions before, so he decided to trust that she hadn’t poisoned. He was decent at reading peoples character, and (Name) didn’t seem like the type to poison him.

Once the food was in his hands, he devoured it like a starving dog, forgetting his manners. (Name) began packing her bag back up as he did.

—————

The two sat in silence as three other people fell into the room, one after the other. The first was a short man, second a tall one, a third a scrawny one. None of them seemed too interested in team work, so (Name) stuck by Illumi. Once the last person had fallen in, they all put on the bracelets and began the phase.

The group made their way through several doors, deciding which way to go each time. They mostly chose the same answers, besides when there was an option for left or right.

(Name) kept a close eye on “Gittarackur”, who she felt oddly connected with. She wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt like the best choice of a companion while she was separated from her group.

After one last answer, the group arrived at labyrinth like structure. The walls were 20 feet tall, and covered in vines. It smelled like decay, almost causing (Name) to vomit up her breakfast. She steeled herself, leaning against the doorway for support.

“So, this is our trial.”

The short man squatted down and began stretching his legs out, a confident smirk on his face. “I’ll just climb to the top and walk right out of here. See ya, losers!”

Before anyone could stop him, he climbed up the walls using the vines. (Name) marveled at his climbing ability, clapping as he easily reached the top.

“Wow, that’s amazing! He-“

She felt someone’s hands cover her eyes. (Name) almost wish they had covered her ears too, because the sound of screaming was almost worse than what she would have seen.

Illumi watched as the man was sliced in half by the talons of a harpy like beast. The harpy let out a satisfied screech as she began to tear into the flesh of the man, the sound of skin ripping and blood splashing the rock walls of the labyrinth echoing through the halls.

Once the harpy had eaten its full, it carried the remains off, perhaps to feed its young. Illumi waited until it was out of sight to pull his hands away from (Name)’s eyes. He bristled when he spotted big tears falling from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

Her hands shook as she turned to look at him, her eyes wide with fear. “Will that happen to me?”

Illumi felt the world around him pause. He wondered why he felt the need to comfort her right now, why her trembling hands and watery eyes made him so angry and so…

“No. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That was that. He grabbed her hand and they continued through the labyrinth. He made sure to keep her on the opposite side the man had been devoured on.

——————

They’d been walking for about 4 hours when (Name) asked for a break. The group of four sat down, (Name) passing out drinks and food to everyone. Only Illumi noticed how small her own portion was. Another feeling washed over him. He was beginning to think this girl was more trouble than she was worth.

“Gittarackur!”

(Name) leaned towards him, whispering into his ear. Illumi jumped, having her so close that he could smell her strawberry lilac perfume made him… uneasy? Again he couldn’t place the feeling. She grabbed his hand, setting something in the palm of his hand.

“Shh, I only have this one left. Don’t tell the others.”

When he opened up his palm to peer in, he saw a shiny piece of butterscotch candy. The wrapping crinkled when he moved it, causing (Name) to frantically look around and press a finger to her lips.

He held back the urge to roll his eyes, opening it quietly then placing it on his tongue. (Name) perked up, her eyes observing his face fit a reaction that never came. Her lips formed a pout and she crossed her arms.

“Do you like it?”

She tried her best not to look disappointed when he shrugged. Illumi took a bit of pleasure in the way she huffed and packed her bag, finding it cute.

“It’s good.”

(Name) stopped at his words. She peered up from her bag to see him smiling, albeit a bit of a creepy smile. Nonetheless she smiled back, zipping her bag and placing it on her back.

While the two had been busy, the tall man had vanished. The last man, who neither of them had spoken to, seemed somewhat… suspicious. Illumi decided to keep a closer eye on him than before.

Another two hours passed on in silence, only occasionally interrupted by the sound of (Name) tripping over vines. Illumi had applied over 5 of (Name)’s bandaids to her slowly growing collection of scrapes.

“Can’t you be more careful? Didn’t anyone teach you to watch where you walk?” Illumi asked, applying the sixth Hello Kitty bandage to her knee. (Name) whined lightly, pulling her knees to her chest to pout.

“I am! It’s just…”

She looks away, her eyes on the vines.

“It’s like the vines are reaching out to grab me.”

Illumi stops, blinking slowly before reaching out and grabbing her ankle. (Name) starts to question him when he pulls her up by her leg, looking at her ankle questioningly.

“H-hey! Put me down!”

(Name) wiggled, trying to escape his ironclad grip to no avail. She instead chose to focus on keeping her skirt down. Even though she was wearing shorts underneath, it was still embarrassing to have a stranger holding her up by her ankles like she were a vegetable.

Illumi stared at her ankle, a theory forming in his mind. Her ankles were red, as if they had rope burn. He was sure if it now.

“The vines… are alive.”

He let her go, focusing on the scrawny man from before.

“What happened with you and the other man?”

The scrawny man started laughing, tears welling up in his eyes. “That man was my BROTHER. We came here to do the Hunter Exam together, hoping to pass so we could get some good paying jobs. But…”

He punched the wall, his fist breaking upon impact. “Those damn vines. While you two were having a relaxing picnic, my brother and I decided to sneak away to get out before you. Makes it easier to get through the phase when you have less competition right?”

He laughed humorlessly, biting his trembling lip. “My brother goes ahead of me to make sure it’s safe. He’s always been like that, my big brother. Always there for me, always protecting me…”

The man sighs, dropping his broken hand.

“Not this time. When he didn’t come back I went to get him, and what did I see? These fucking vines had encased him. Twisting him up like a pretzel, begging me to just kill him.”

(Name) held her hand over her mouth, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“And I did. How could I ignore my brother’s pain? I’ve helped him put sick animals out of misery, I’d be a hypocrite to let my own brother suffer like that.”

Illumi stood in front of (Name) protectively, waiting.

“Is that it?”

The man rolled his eyes, letting out a haughty laugh.

“Oh no no, of course not. The vines, they attached themselves to me. They’re alive, a network of living organisms. My brother is in there, and he’s hungry.”

He pulled out a hatchet, twirling it expertly.

“So I’m gonna feed you to them. Your blood will keep my brothers consciousness alive.”

The man gripped the handle of his hatchet, his broken hand cracking under the pressure.

(Name) closed her eyes, and when she opened them the man was dead on the floor. Illumi wiped blood off of the killing needle, his face neutral.

“Those vines cause hallucinations when they’re cut. He must of cut some when enacting his mercy killing. Vines must of made him think his brother was still alive and needed to feed.”

He began walking again, this time making sure to stay in the middle of the path to avoid the reaching vines. (Name) followed close behind.

She tried not to think about how easily her companion had taken a life, instead deciding to focus on the exam.

——————

The two reached the end of the labyrinth without much fuss. (Name) leaned against the now vine-less wall and sighed out in relief.

“When this exam is over I am going to sleep all day long.” she whined out, rubbing at her aching wrist.

(Name) and Illumi exit through a stone door, a voice saying they were 2nd(Illumi) and 3rd(Name) to complete the exam. It had taken them a total of 12 hours and 2 minutes.

Once they had entered the room, Illumi turned to see Hisoka sitting on the stone floor, leaning against the wall.

“I figured you’d already crossed the finish line.”

Hisoka only grinned, his eyes flitting to (Name) for just a second before another door opened.

“ALL RIGHT! I’m the first to fini-“

“Hanzo, applicant #294, is the fourth to pass!”

“Huh?”

Hanzo glances around the room, his gaze passing over each applicant before he cries out.

“No!! I don’t believe this! I came in fourth…”

(Name) laughed nervously, scooting behind Illumi to avoid Hisoka’s prying eyes. Illumi noticed this, looking between the two suspiciously.

“Let’s rest. We’ll have to wait around 60 hours for the other applicants to finish.” Illumi said, sitting down on the dusty floor. (Name) huffed, plopping down beside him with a pout on her lips.

“What if I have to pee? This sucks.”

Illumi tilted his head. “You can just go to a corner, I guess.”

(Name) groaned, covering her anguished expression with her hands. “Gittarackur, I am NOT going to pee in front of a bunch of guys, especially Hisoka. I feel like he would be into that.”

She whispered the last part into Illumi’s ear, looking over at Hisoka warily. Illumi raised an eyebrow, a smile pulling at his lips. He didn’t respond to her statement, only leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.

——————-

TAGLIST

@tsukilover11

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[mariacallous]

The phone or computer you’re reading this on may not be long for this world. Maybe you’ll drop it in water, or your dog will make a chew toy of it, or it’ll reach obsolescence. If you can’t repair it and have to discard it, the device will become e-waste, joining an alarmingly large mountain of defunct TVs, refrigerators, washing machines, cameras, routers, electric toothbrushes, headphones. This is “electrical and electronic equipment,” aka EEE—anything with a plug or battery. It’s increasingly out of control.

As economies develop and the consumerist lifestyle spreads around the world, e-waste has turned into a full-blown environmental crisis. People living in high-income countries own, on average, 109 EEE devices per capita, while those in low-income nations have just four. A new UN report finds that in 2022, humanity churned out 137 billion pounds of e-waste—more than 17 pounds for every person on Earth—and recycled less than a quarter of it.

That also represents about $62 billion worth of recoverable materials, like iron, copper, and gold, hitting e-waste landfills each year. At this pace, e-waste will grow by 33 percent by 2030, while the recycling rate could decline to 20 percent. (You can see this growth in the graph below: purple is EEE on the market, black is e-waste, and green is what gets recycled.)

“What was really alarming to me is that the speed at which this is growing is much quicker than the speed that e-waste is properly collected and recycled,” says Kees Baldé, a senior scientific specialist at the United Nations Institute for Training and Research and lead author of the report. “We just consume way too much, and we dispose of things way too quickly. We buy things we may not even need, because it's just very cheap. And also these products are not designed to be repaired.”

Humanity has to quickly bump up those recycling rates, the report stresses. In the first pie chart below, you can see the significant amount of metals we could be saving, mostly iron (chemical symbol Fe, in light gray), along with aluminum (Al, in dark gray), copper (Cu), and nickel (Ni). Other EEE metals include zinc, tin, and antimony. Overall, the report found that in 2022, generated e-waste contained 68 billion pounds of metal.

E-waste is a complex thing to break down: A washing machine is made of totally different components than a TV. And even for product categories, not only do different brands use different manufacturing processes, but even different models within those brands vary significantly. A new washing machine has way more sensors and other electronics than one built 30 years ago.

Complicating matters even further, e-waste can contain hazardous materials, like cobalt, flame retardants, and lead. The report found that each year, improperly processed e-waste releases more than 125,000 pounds of mercury alone, imperiling the health of humans and other animals. “Electronic waste is an extremely complex waste stream,” says Vanessa Gray, head of the Environment and Emergency Telecommunications Division at the UN’s International Telecommunication Union and an author of the report. “You have a lot of value in electronic waste, but you also have a lot of toxic materials that are dangerous to the environment.”

That makes recycling e-waste a dangerous occupation. In low- and middle-income countries, informal e-waste recyclers might go door-to-door collecting the stuff. To extract valuable metals, they melt down components without proper safety equipment, poisoning themselves and the environment. The new report notes that in total, 7.3 billion pounds of e-waste is shipped uncontrolled globally, meaning its ultimate management is unknown and likely not done in an environmentally friendly way. Of that, high-income countries shipped 1.8 billion pounds to low- and middle-income countries in 2022, swamping them with dangerous materials.

High-income countries have some of this informal recycling, but they also have formal facilities where e-waste is sorted and safely broken down. Europe, for example, has fairly high formal e-waste recycling rates, at about 43 percent. But globally, recycling is happening nowhere near enough to keep up with the year-over-year growth of the waste. Instead of properly mining EEE for metals, humanity keeps mining more ore out of the ground.

Still, the report found that even the small amount of e-waste that currently gets recycled avoided the mining of 2 trillion pounds of ore for virgin metal in 2022. (It takes a lot of ore to produce a little bit of metal.) The more metals we can recycle from e-waste, the less mining we’ll need to support the proliferation of gadgets. That would in turn avoid the greenhouse gases from such mining operations, plus losses of biodiversity.

The complexity of e-waste, though, makes it expensive to process. As the chart above shows, even an ambitious scenario of a formal e-waste collection rate in 2030 is 44 percent. “There is no business case for companies to just collect e-waste and to make a profit out of this in a sustainable manner,” says Baldé. “They can only survive if there is legislation in place which is also compensating them.”

The report notes that 81 countries have e-waste policies on the books, and of those, 67 have provisions regarding extended producer responsibility, or EPR. This involves fees paid by manufacturers of EEE that would go toward e-waste management.

Of course, people could also stop throwing so many devices away in the first place, something right-to-repair advocates have spent years fighting for. Batteries, for instance, lose capacity after a certain number of charge cycles. If a phone can’t hold a charge all day anymore, customers should be able to swap in a new battery. “Manufacturers shouldn't be able to put artificial limitations on that ability,” says Elizabeth Chamberlain, director of sustainability at iFixit, which provides repair guides and tools. That includes limiting access to parts and documentation. “Repair is a harm-reduction strategy. It's not the be-all-end-all solution, but it's one of many things we need to do as a global society to slow down the rate at which we're demanding things of the planet.”

At the core of the e-waste crisis is the demand: A growing human population needs phones to communicate and fridges to keep food safe and heat pumps to stay comfortable indoors. So first and foremost we need high-quality products that don’t immediately break down, but also the right to repair when they do. And what absolutely can’t be fixed needs to move through a safe, robust e-waste recycling system. “We are consuming so much,” says Baldé, “we cannot really recycle our way out of the problem.”

[trivialbob]

Some people

This morning I went to a restaurant drive-thru. A huge semi was parked in the approach lane. It's four-way lights were flashing. A long aluminum ramp ran from a side door down to the building's delivery entrance. A man steered a hand cart loaded with cardboard boxes of food down that ramp.

A woman in front of me drove right up to the trailer, like the enormous truck and trailer were in line for the drive-thru. I drove around them and up to the speaker. Another vehicle drove around the woman and the delivery truck. Only then did she realize the truck wasn't there to buy food.

All those clues she missed!

Later I took my dogs to the off-leash park by my house. At the gate a small container has always held plastic bags, in case someone forgets to bring their own. It's usually full of grocery or bread bags donated by others.

For the last two years someone has been tying individual new plastic poop bags to the fence in about five places around the park. These are colorful bags pet supply stores sell in small rolls, the kind that some people put in little carriers attached to leashes. Sometimes I find these bags tied to low tree branches in one part of the park that is far from the chain link fencing. The bag donor also put up signs that remind people to clean up after pets.

Don't miss all those clues that you have to pick up after your dog!

One way to think of this is that a kind and generous person cares deeply about the dog park. We should all take care of public property. The other way is that someone is being a bit of a nag. There wasn't previously a problem with dog waste all over the park.

This fall the bag thing escalated. Someone else (I assume this because they use different colored bags) has been tying strings of three or four bags every two feet along a section of fence where the small dogs play. They remind me of Steven Tyler's microphone scarves.

These bags, probably unlike the Aerosmith scarves, are of the cheapest quality. They degrade in the wind and sunlight. I know because I tried one once. It fell apart when I separated it from the other bags.

This week someone tied a 13 gallon kitchen trash bag along another fence. It's filled with old grocery and bread bags. The ratio of available bags, new or used, to pooping dogs is probably 50:1.

I think we've reached the point where all the efforts to encourage pet owners to pick up after their dogs is starting to make the park look rather trashy.

[transboysokka]

Things in my Emergency Bag uwu

Flashlight and batteries

Cash and coins

2 weeks of meds

Birth certificate/passport/etc

Change of clothes

Big 5L bag for water

Emergency blanket, pillow, toilet

Disposable cutlery

Plastic wrap and aluminum foil (good for insulation and injuries, making rope)

Masks

Pen and paper

Toothbrushes

Lighter

Rain poncho

Q tips

Knife

Duct tape

Slippers and gloves

Plastic bags

Solar phone charger

Paracord

Whistle

Dog food for my dog

Water

Non-perishable food

Maybe some other stuff, I forgot

I’d like to get a decent first aid kit in there too

Always ready by the door in case of earthquakes or air raids 👍

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 46/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

They arrive in Blaine, Washington to a drizzling summer rain that runs down the windows of the van in thick ropes. Driving alongside the rocky shore of a mist-veiled bay, Scully feels anxious and impatient. She wants to get where they’re going, but at the same time she’s afraid that something else will go wrong. 

“Is that the ocean?” Abby asks distractedly.

“It’s ocean water,” Scully answers, her nerves frayed beyond the point of function. “It’s called a strait.”

“What’s a strait?”

Scully sucks in a breath and Mulder reaches over the console to lay a hand on her forearm. 

“It’s a passage that connects two larger bodies of water,” Mulder explains patiently. 

“Is that the beach?”

“Yeah, it is,” he tells her, running his hand down Scully’s arm and interlacing his fingers with hers. 

“Can we go there?”

“Maybe,” he answers honestly, stealing glances at Abby in the rearview mirror. “We’ll have to see if the rain lets up.”

Scully squeezes his hand and he squeezes back. It’s been a blissfully uneventful final two days of their cross-country drive, but the lack of action has only heightened her constant awareness that the other shoe may still be poised to drop. With the Smoking Man and Diana both dead, they could easily make the mistake of assuming they are no longer in danger, but the project was so far-reaching there are bound to be others who are motivated to kill them simply for knowing what they know. Every door slamming down the hall at a motel, every stranger giving them more than a passing glance, every police car behind them on the highway has her heart racing and her palms clammy, and she just wants to go home and feel safe. 

But home is a place she hasn’t been yet, and safe is a concept that feels as foreign as her new identity. She has Mulder, and the kids, and a dog who reeks of river water, and that just has to be enough for now. 

Mulder slows and watches the house numbers until he finds the ones that match the address Byers gave them, then pulls into the driveway of a powder blue two-story house situated a stone’s throw from the water. It has the characteristic low roofline and aluminum windows of 1960s architecture, and something about it immediately sets Scully at ease. Mulder kills the engine and looks over at her, watching the side of her face while she takes in the beachfront home. 

“Are we here?” Abby asks, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning between the front seats for a better look. 

“I think so,” Mulder tells her. “I guess we’ll have to knock and find out.”

Before they have a chance to get out of the car, a door on the side of the garage opens and someone steps out cloaked in an ankle-length, bright yellow rain slicker. Scully feels a little flare of nervousness again as they approach the driver’s side door and rap on the window. Mulder rolls the window down and the person lifts their head, revealing the smiling face of a man in his late sixties with a graying beard and friendly hazel eyes. 

“You must be Steve and Lisa,” he says brightly, sticking his rain-soaked hand through the open window for Mulder to shake. “I’m Tom. We were expecting you yesterday and we were just deciding whether we should worry or not, so I’m glad you finally made it. You can go ahead and pull your car into the garage, just give me a second to open it.”

Tom disappears back through the same door, and a moment later the garage rolls open. There’s a vehicle already parked on one side that’s concealed beneath a heavy gray cover, and Mulder pulls into the empty space beside it. The garage door closes behind them, and Scully’s stomach tightens. 

Tom reappears, his slicker discarded and his bald head shining under the yellow garage lights, and Mulder steps out of the car. 

“This is what you’ll cross the border in,” Tom says, patting the other vehicle. “She’s got B.C. plates and is already registered under your new pseudonyms.”

The men continue to talk as Abby and Scully watch. Frenchie jumps over the middle seat and forces her head between Scully’s seat and Abby’s waist, and Scully can hear her tail thumping against something. 

“Who’s that guy?” Abby asks. 

“He’s going to help us get to our new house,” Scully says. “He seems nice, doesn’t he?” She says it just as much to reassure herself as Abby. 

“How come he doesn’t have any hair?”

Scully laughs and reaches up to touch Abby’s cheek. 

“I bet he’ll tell you if you ask him.”

Peter whines from the back seat. 

“Y’okay, Bear?” Scully asks, craning her head around to see him. 

“Frenchie’s hitting me with her tail,” he complains, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks around, confused by the change in their surroundings. “Is it night time?”

“Nope. We’re just parked inside a garage right now. We’re going to stay here tonight and then tomorrow we get to see our new house. Isn’t that great?”

“I’m sick of driving,” Peter grumbles. 

“Me too,” Scully says with a sigh. 

She startles when the passenger door pops open, then turns to give Mulder an irritated glare.

“Sorry,” he says with a grimace. “You ready to head inside? I’m gonna take Frenchie out for a bathroom break.”

“Okay,” Scully says uneasily, then adds in a near whisper, “Everything seems okay?”

Mulder nods and squeezes her thigh. 

“No alarm bells,” he says quietly. 

She pulls in a deep breath and nods, trying to settle her overstimulated nervous system. Mulder gets Frenchie on her leash, then puts on Tom’s rain slicker and disappears through the side door of the garage. 

Scully helps Peter out of his car seat and takes each of the children by the hand. Tom is standing in the open door to the house, a warm smile plastered to his face as he waits for them. She wonders how many times he’s done this and for what kinds of people. He certainly seems comfortable enough welcoming fugitive strangers into his home. 

“I assume you like dogs since you have one, but get ready for the furry welcoming committee,” he says as he steps aside and allows the three of them to walk into the house. “You’ll be staying downstairs, but let’s head upstairs first so you can say hello to Lea.”

Scully ushers the children up the stairs ahead of her, and as they near the top a cacophony of yips and barks begins to reverberate off the walls. Abby stops and covers her ears, turning to give Scully a wide-eyed look of worry.

“It’s okay, sweetpea,” she says, laying a hand on Abby’s back. 

“Lea!” Tom hollers from behind her. The boom of his voice makes both her and Abby jump, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“What?!” a female voice hollers back. 

“Restrain the hounds!” he shouts through cupped hands. 

They wait a moment, listening to the skitter of claws on hardwood and high-pitched pleas for compliance. 

“The coast is clear!” the female voice announces, and they continue the rest of the way up the stairwell. 

The smell of grilled onions and garlic fill Scully’s nose, and her stomach growls loudly. The stairs empty into a busy living room full of mis-matched furniture and knick-knacks, nearly every square inch of the bright blue walls covered with kitschy art and framed photographs. One wall of the room is almost entirely windowed, affording a sweeping view of the bay that is currently obscured by the heavy rain. 

Tom steps around them and guides the way to the kitchen, where an older woman is standing in front of the stove pushing something around in a pan. She’s stout and well-wrinkled, and her hair is short-cropped and purple. Tom kisses her cheek and she smiles, then turns to look at Scully and the children. 

“These are the Davenports,” Tom says. “Well, minus one. They’ve got a lab with ‘em, too.”

“Welcome to our home,” the older woman says warmly, not moving from her station in front of the stove. “I’m Lea. What should we call you while you’re with us?”

“Not your legal names,” Tom interjects. “We prefer not to know.”

Scully lays her hand on top of Peter’s head. 

“This is Bear,” she says, then moves her hand to Abby’s head. “And this is Bunny.” 

“Well hello, Bear and Bunny,” Lea coos before addressing Scully. “And how about you and your husband?”

Scully resists the impulse to correct her. 

“Steve and Lisa is fine,” she says. “Thank you so much for helping us.”

Lea’s smile shifts into something a bit pained that makes Scully’s throat tighten, and she looks away. They hear the snap of a door opening and closing, and then the wet ruffle of a dog shaking rainwater out of its fur. 

“That must be Steve,” Tom says, ducking out of the room to show Mulder and Frenchie around. 

“You guys don’t like watching TV, do you?” Lea asks the children with a skeptical squint. 

“Yes!” they say in chorus, jumping excitedly. “We do!”

Lea reacts as though this is mind boggling information, then sends them into the living room to explore the hundreds of channels on offer via satellite. Scully moves to follow them, but Lea stops her, then gives her a long appraising look. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

Her expression is so open, so genuine, so maternal, that Scully feels as though she could drop to the floor at her feet and tell her everything. In the days since leaving Ellicott City she’s barely had time nor brain space to think about her own mother and how worried she must be, but suddenly she’s overcome with the need for comfort and reassurance, and she finds that she can’t bring herself to lie. Not trusting herself to speak as she feels her bottom lip begin to tremble and her eyes blur with pooling tears, she just shakes her head. 

Lea switches off the burner on the stove and walks toward Scully with open arms, a gesture that she would typically not find helpful. But she allows Lea to hug her, and is comforted by relaxing against the softness of her body as Lea pats her back and tells her she’s sorry for whatever they’ve been through. Scully cries quietly, letting tears slip from her cheeks to the shoulder of Lea’s pink housecoat. She feels a hand on her back and turns to see Mulder behind her, the front of his hair dripping wet and a look of alarm on his face. 

“Did something happen?” he asks, and Scully shakes her head and wipes her eyes, feeling embarrassed. 

“Moms need mothering too, sometimes,” Lea says, giving Scully one more gentle pat to her shoulder before she turns to address Mulder. “Steve, I take it?” she says, offering her hand to shake. “He’s quite sexy, isn’t he?” she adds, looking him up and down, though it’s unclear to whom the comment is directed.

Mulder throws Scully a bemused smirk and shakes the older woman’s hand. 

“Lea, I told you to stop sexually harassing the guests,” Tom says in mock seriousness, then gives Lea a slap to her ample backside. 

Scully can’t help but smile. She feels safe here. She trusts these people. Mulder wraps an arm around her shoulder and gives her a questioning look and she nods. She’s okay. Okay enough to make it one more day. Okay enough for now. 

-

The rain clears up in the blink of an eye. One minute it’s coming down in sheets, and the next the clouds are receding to reveal a brilliant blue sky and the gently lapping waters of Birch Bay. Lea informs them that dinner will be ready in an hour, and the kids beg to go down and explore the beach. 

Mulder looks over at Scully and sees her shoulders slump with resignation. He’s worried about her, but he knows that expressing this sentiment will only result in her making a more concerted effort to hide her exhaustion. He knows this because with each passing day he remembers more and more. The details are still hazy, but the feelings are sharp as knives, some of them cutting so deep he almost wishes they’d stay forgotten. He knows that he’s made many mistakes, and he’s been responsible for her being hurt—both physically and emotionally—many times. The more he remembers, the more protective he feels of her and their relationship. 

“I can take them, why don’t you go downstairs and rest?” he tells her, and she immediately opens her mouth to object. “I know you’re fine,” he says, taking the words from her mouth, and she levels him with a deadpan expression, “but did you happen to see the giant bathtub down there?” 

He can see that she’s considering it. Her mouth screws up to one side, her eyes slightly narrowed. Lea comes around the corner from the kitchen, a bottle of wine in hand. 

“I’ve got about twenty different flavors of bubble bath and a tall glass of shiraz to sweeten the deal,” she says, and the corner of Scully’s mouth quirks. Mulder can tell that she’s fond of the older woman, and he’s grateful for it. 

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” she says reluctantly, then adds a quiet, “Thank you.”

He kisses her cheek, and is surprised when she follows it by kissing him on the lips right in front of Tom and Lea. He pulls away and looks at her for a beat, and while neither of them says anything, he feels optimistic for the first time in a long while. 

The beach is littered with smooth rocks and jagged shell fragments that completely obscure the sand, and there’s a line of dried out seaweed marking the boundary of high tide. Mulder sits on a log with Frenchie beside him and watches the kids as they squeal at dead crabs and throw rocks into the water. Across the bay there’s a long stretch of land with blueish mountain peaks rising up beyond it, and the air smells wet and clean. It’s peaceful here, and he tries to give himself permission to relax. 

It’s hard for him to fathom how much his life has changed in the span of a couple weeks. He can barely remember the person he was before and the way that he felt when he thought his life with Diana was one that he chose. As much as his true self felt like a stranger to him when he first reunited with Scully, the version of him that Diana and the Smoking Man created now seems like an apparition. It only reinforces for him how little Diana really understood him, much less loved him. She suppressed the parts of him that are most intrinsic to who he is, and tried to mold him into the man she wanted him to be. It was Scully who sought him out, who reminded him who he is and what he stands for. It was Scully who set him free. 

Frenchie rests her head on his thigh and looks up at him with worried eyes. He runs his hand down her back and pats her rump, and her tail thwacks loudly against the log. Scully isn’t the only one who saved him. Despite everything, he feels like the luckiest man alive. 

“Daddy, look!”

He follows the sound of Peter’s voice and sees him standing beside a precarious tower of rocks, sticks, and shells as tall as his waist. 

“Good job, Bear,” he says fondly, his heart tightening when he sees the look of pride on the child’s face. 

A strong gust of wind pushes in off the water and the tower topples over, and Peter lets out a long, agonized whine. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mulder says, wrapping Frenchie’s leash around a jagged end of the log and trotting down to where Peter is pouting over his wasted effort. “You can fix it, I’ll help you. We’ll build it again, okay?”

Peter nods sadly, his bottom lip puffed up and trembling. Mulder crouches down beside him and rubs his back. 

“Just start again,” he says, and Peter huffs a sigh before he sets about re-building his tower. 

Another strong breeze runs up Mulder’s back, making him shiver, and he’s hit with a wave of deja vu. He looks over at Peter, then to Abby a bit further down the shore, attempting to skip rocks. 

Just start again. 

He smiles, though he also feels like crying. He is one lucky bastard, there’s no doubt about that. 

-

Lea, unsurprisingly, is a fantastic cook. They sit around a large oval table and watch the sun begin to sink towards the horizon as Lea serves them enchiladas with homemade salsa and cheese quesadillas for the children, as well as strong margaritas with generously salted rims for the adults. Frenchie has integrated herself into Tom and Lea’s pack of four dogs—ranging in size from a chihuahua to a standard poodle—and the five of them sit patiently behind the children, ready to snatch up any dropped food. 

For an hour or so, Scully forgets what brought them here. Tom tells them stories of ill-fated border crossings, speaking in thinly veiled euphemisms as he describes discovering a trunkful of dildos in a car being driven by two nuns in full habits. Scully laughs so hard she thinks she might wet herself, and Mulder won’t stop smiling at her. 

“Looks like it’ll be a five-star sunset tonight,” Lea observes, her eyes on the horizon and her hand laid over the top of Tom’s on the tabletop. 

They all turn and look at the yellowing sky and the way it highlights each layer of the landscape in a different shade of burnt orange. It looks unreal, like a painting. 

“See those mountains way back there?” Tom asks, pointing with his free hand. “That’s where you’re headed. The Great White North.”

Scully sighs and slips her hand onto Mulder’s thigh under the table. Close enough to see, soon close enough to touch. Home. Freedom. A fresh start.

“Have you helped many people cross?” Mulder asks, and Tom closes his eyes briefly, nodding. 

“Over a hundred,” he says, opening his eyes and looking over at Lea. “You’ll be our last, though. Time to close up shop.”

“Really?” Scully asks. “Why’s that?”

“I’ve been putting off retiring for years so we could keep it going. Seems like the big man upstairs finally decided to force my hand and see to it that I’m needed at home more than I am at the border.”

Lea gives him a sad smile and turns to address Scully. 

“A few months ago I found out I have breast cancer,” she says matter-of-factly. “My prognosis is decent, but I’ll need a lot of help after my mastectomy. Tommy’s gonna be promoted to nurse maid.”

“Greatest honor of my life,” Tom says, lifting their joined hands off the table and kissing the backs of Lea’s knuckles. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Scully says, half memories of her own battle with cancer drifting through her tipsy mind. 

“I’ve had an amazing life,” Lea says as she stands and begins to clear the table. “If I get another ten years, great. If not, I’m still one lucky bitch.”

Abby gasps and they all look over to see a devilish smile on her face. 

“You said a bad word,” she informs Lea cheekily, and they laugh. 

Lea takes the children downstairs to show them all the toys they’ve amassed over the years while Mulder and Scully stay at the table with Tom. He retrieves a large manilla envelope from another room and his demeanor shifts from lighthearted and jovial to stoic and serious, which makes Scully nervous. He sits across the table from her and Mulder, the sunset framing his bald head, and puts on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. 

“I’ve done this more than a hundred times over the last thirty years, and I haven’t been busted yet. That said, I need you to pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you. I haven’t been busted yet, but that doesn’t mean that everyone we’ve tried to help has made it across. If you deviate from my instructions and something goes wrong, I can’t help you. I won’t risk rotting away in jail while Lea goes through cancer treatment alone to save your asses. I don’t mean any offense by that, but if it’s me or you…it’s me. We clear on that?”

Scully looks over at Mulder and sees him nod confidently. 

“Okay. First things first, you can say goodbye to Steve and Lisa. We always set you up with a new identity just before you cross over in case anyone’s been tracking your current pseudonyms or anything went sideways on your way here. You’ll take the Camry in the garage with you tomorrow and leave the van here, and we’ll get rid of it for you. Sorry we don’t have a bigger vehicle; we didn’t know about the dog.”

Tom pulls a set of keys out of the envelope and puts them on the table. 

“From here on out you’re Jack and Bella Manningham. The kids are Ruby and Zack. This has directions to your new place, and here are the keys for that,” he continues, depositing another set of keys on the table. “Everything else you need to get started is in here, your birth certificates and all that shit. Passports too, which you’ll need to have ready tomorrow. I’ll take your other documents and shred them. Anything that has details about your previous identities needs to be out of the car and off your person when you cross the border, got it?”

He stops and meets their eyes, one at a time, and waits for an affirmative answer. 

“Once you cross over, you’re on your own. You might have other folks you can contact, and whether or not you feel safe to do so is on you. But I’m not going to give you my contact information and I ask that you don’t try to look me up for any reason. I get you over the border and that’s where our relationship ends, capiche?”

Again, he stops to get a clear sign of understanding from each of them. 

“My shift starts tomorrow at 8:00 am. I’ll give Lea a call on my break around 10:00 and let her know which lane I’m working. I’m usually on lane four, but every now and then they move me and it’s very important that you go to my lane. If you end up in someone else’s lane, I can’t help you. Could you cross in another lane? Maybe. But I’ve seen your faces on the news, and that means other border agents might have too. You should wait until Lea gets my call, and then head up to the crossing.”

“What if we’re directed to another lane?” Scully asks, margaritas churning in her belly. 

“You won’t be,” Tom says confidently. “Get in lane four, and stay in lane four. When you get to the window, I won’t give any indication that I know you, and you should do the same. I’m going to ask for your passports, country of citizenship, and reason for travel. You’re going to tell me that you’re Canadian, and that you’ve been visiting family in Seattle and are headed home. I’ll look over your passports, and then ask you to open your trunk. Use the button in the car to open it, okay? Don’t get out of the car; that will just give better video footage of you to anyone who's looking for it. I’m going to take a look in the trunk, then give you your passports and send you on your way. Do you have any questions?”

“What’s the purpose of checking the trunk?” Mulder asks. 

“Makes it look like I’m doing my job,” Tom says plainly, and Mulder nods. “I don’t mean to scare you,” Tom says emphatically, leaning in. “I just need you to take this seriously. Do exactly what I said and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

Scully sits back in her chair and pulls in a deep breath. 

“Okay. Thank you, Tom.”

“You bet. Now let’s make some more margaritas and go watch that sunset.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[arthistoryanimalia]

Andy #Warhol was born #OTD (6 August 1928 – 22 February 1987). Here’s a unique life-size portrait of Warhol holding his dachshund Archie by his friend Jamie Wyeth, on display at Brandywine Museum of Art:

Jamie Wyeth (b. 1946) First in the Screen Door Sequence, 2015 Oil on canvas on honeycomb aluminum support with American folk art "found object" construction of wood, metal, screen & hardware Brandywine Museum of Art

“In some of Jamie Wyeth's more recent work he has begun to cross the boundaries between painting, sculpture, and real life by using objects like doors and windows as the starting point of his compositions. He adds paintings, specialty lighting, and other objects to make what is sometimes called an "assemblage" a collection of things brought together to make a single work of art. First in the Screen Door Sequence is an actual wooden screen door that Wyeth found decorated with patriotic stars and stripes. It was already a piece of American folk art when Wyeth added a painted panel depicting a life-size portrait of Andy Warhol holding his dog Archie.”

[owenspets]

Pet Carriers for Dogs: Combining Comfort and Convenience for Your Furry Companion

Pet carriers for dogs are essential tools for ensuring your canine's safety and comfort during travel. Designed with both pet and owner in mind, these carriers come in various styles, including soft-sided, hard-sided, and backpack options, to suit different needs and preferences. They feature well-ventilated interiors, durable materials, and secure closures to keep your dog safe and comfortable on the go. Whether you're heading to the vet, taking a road trip, or flying with your furry friend, a high-quality pet carrier provides peace of mind and convenience, making travel stress-free for both you and your dog. With options that cater to different sizes and breeds, finding the perfect carrier is easy to ensure your pet travels in style and comfort. For more details visit our website www.ownpets.com

[tastylemonbread]

A dog is found in the snow. Its eyes still open, frozen to glass. Who knows how long it's been there. I tell the others at the base and we decide to bring it in, let it thaw and look for a chip or anything that might let us return the little guy to its owners.

The next morning, us six men are chasing after a single dog through our halls. Our footsteps pound frantic and its paws pitter-patter on the floor.

Our medical examiner is, to say the least, perplexed. The dog seems, physiologically, completely normal. It's been with us for two days now, and it seems to like us plenty. I hold the thing in my arms and rub it behind its ears as doc takes a blood sample. It doesn't even seem to notice the needle go in. The big doggy digs its way closer to my chest and licks my face to leave a stench worse than I've ever smelled before.

Our medical examiner tells us it'll be another couple days until we get any result from the blood. Until then, we have to keep putting our canned goods on the highest shelves we can find. The big doggy tears through anything we leave in its reach. We keep stepping on little shards of aluminum the big doggy's left behind from its latest feasts.

I had a nightmare where I was back home. Seeing my childhood dog alive and well. I don't remember much of it, but it ended with the roof collapsing on me. I swear I spent hours under the rubble, unable to breathe, before I woke up to find the big doggy sound asleep with its full weight on my chest. I could have sworn I locked my door that night.

Our medical examiner is, to say the least, completely baffled. Everything he says comes out after a few minutes of stuttering and adjusting his glasses. The big doggy, apparently, is in excellent health despite having been frozen solid less than a week ago. The big doggy isn't host to disease, fleas, or doggy blood. It's blood isn't wolf, not coyote or fox or anything else that may pass for a big doggy. Our medical examiner tells us it's a demon, or at least that's his theory.  Nobody seems particularly bothered by this revelation. The big doggy demon just sits with that cute blank look on its face.

The big doggy demon hasn't hurt us, it's barely inconvenienced us. The thing just trots around the base tearing up its food and getting all the pets its little doggy demon belly can handle. It may not be much of a dog, but it's enough of one. I often think about finding it in the snow. It must've been alive, but was it awake? Through those unmoving eyes, could it see me? So long it must've spent in the snow, immobile, alone. Maybe I'm just making stuff up. Either way, I'm glad to have the big doggy demon with us. I bet it's glad to have us too.

[abdlsissyfur]

unsafe and insane

500 members options

Alley way toy (short story, dark sexual fantasy)

( Before you read, firstly, I'm a bisexual sub male, and this story will be written from the first person perspective of a male, and will feature sexual themes, a variety of kinks, of male/male interactions. Secondly, while I'd love to make this story a reality, this isn't an ad, it's a sexual fantasy. Third, and lastly, I'm fine with messages about this story, but please don't spam me for attention, I don't mind conversation but I get busy, I respond to people when I can, and sometimes it takes an hour or two.)

The walls practically thumped with the bear of the music. Before me the door, a blue steel door, with the word "EXIT" on it in big gray letters. I could honestly not give a fuck about the music. Some new age hip hop or something? I liked rock, metal, rap, I was a 90s child. The genre wasn't the problem, the only genre I didn't like was country, and even then I still listened to specific things like America "horse with no name" or Poor man's poison, or something. I just didn't care for new shit. I shoved the thought out of my mind, forcefully.

"Okay A- umm Amy!"

I said to myself, almost breaking a rule, I wasn't allowed to use my old name. In fact, like the other property around here I was dubbed nameless. We were only allowed to use girls names. Simple enough. There were a few others. Our "job" was simple, lure customers to the club. It wasn't a job, it was more a task, as we didn't get paid in a traditional manner. Some "gurls" walked out, and lead customers back by promise of a fun time, others promised a lap dance, and some got fucked in the bathroom. I however wasn't trusted to leave the club, and I was the low slut on the totem pole. So, instead, I was to be in the alley. I pushed the exit door open, and stepped outside. The alley way was fenced off, with barbwire at the top. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, well I could, I was actually very resourceful, but I didn't want to, regardless I wasn't allowed to leave. There was one lamp, pointed one direction in the middle of the alley, that barely lit anything, lighting only from the first 10 feet of the alley near to the side of the alley closest to the street. I walked from the lit side of the alley into the darkness.

I was wearing quite the get up, in fact, my outfit made me feel embarrassed, ashamed, it made me feel slutty, and sexy, I loved it. My stomach, and Lowe back were completely exposed, I was pretty skinny now a days, not starved, just on a strict diet. The top, my chest, was covered by a tube top, thin enough that if someone looked closely enough at the black material, they'd be able to make out the piercings on my nipples. My nipples felt perky, in the cold night air, it was could enough to see my breath. It was also cold enough that I felt shrinkage, the back band of my chastity cage felt more tight, while the head of my chastity cage felt a little loose. My small tip, felt numb. The shorts, my daisy dukes, were short enough, that you could clearly see my bulge in them, and the back part of them, a strand about half an inch thick, wouldn't have hid my buttplug if I bent over. They did nothing to ward against the cold. I also wore thigh high netting, matching netting gloves, which felt great. The only other thing I wore was a collar, literally, a dog collar, from Petco. Apparently mine was on clearance? It was a pink dog collar, with a pattern of dog bones on it, a little degrading, even had a dog tag on it, in the shape of a heart in a pink metal. No doubt, an oxidized titanium nitrate over aluminum, I was many things, including nerdy.

I checked my pockets, I had my cellphone, which very much worked and had cell service, in fact, given to me by my owner. Then I had a vape pen, which I absolutely hated, I liked cigars, cigarettes, but I wasn't allowed to have anything that'd leave a scent during operation hours. Lastly, I had a small pager. With a press of the red button, bouncers would be to my rescue. However, I could handle myself firstly, secondly I liked it rough. Satisfied that I had everything on my person, I leaned my back against the wall and waited.

The alley was dirty, and had a dumpster back there that had a bit of a smell. Part of why I chose the dark side of the alley was that it was the opposite side of the dumpster. The other reason, was an attempt at privacy. Plus I could only smell the city on this side of the alley. I was between two different brick buildings, and the other building was a "empty" building that housed us. It wasn't as big as the club, but we each had our bedrooms, and between the two floors of it, it housed 12 of us comfortably with our own rooms.

First person of the night, came out. All club customers were members, and had to get regular screenings, I also had to get regular screenings. I didn't have to worry about an STD. The rules were simple, I get fucked, I suck dick, they could cum in me, on me, piss in or on me, in me, write things on me with a marker, and I couldn't refuse. Not that I would. I was a rape toy, for members, male, female, whatever. They weren't allowed to beat or abuse me physically, however spanking my ass, groping, pinching, nibbling, bite marks, hickies, were very much allowed.

My cock twitched in its cage eagerly, and I felt arousal and anxiety wash over me. I spoke, calling out to the male.

"Hey sweety, I'm Cindy, and I like cock~"

I cat called, it was bad, it was corny, but they loved it. Which was good, because I was bad at flirting. I however wasn't bad at fucking. The man, looking to be an older, fatter white male, spoke.

"Yeah I bet you'd love my dick, you little fag, turn around and face the wall. "

I faced the wall, bending over, pressing my hands, chest, and face against said wall, an arch in my back. He couldn't wait, undoing his pants behind me, and then leaning himself over me, the warmth of his body against mine. He pulled my shorts down and panties away, revealing plugged ass. The slimy sensation of warm lube in my rear, mixed with the sensation of rubbing as he grabbed the plug. He ripped it out my ass like he was trying to start a lawn mower and I let out a loud gasp. Feeling a shooting sore pain, my left eye watering lightly. I felt an emptiness as I could feel my ring wink, my asshole flexing and twitching. The feeling of emptiness was immediately replaced by pleasure as he pushed his cock in, the tip spearing it's way up into my ass. There was no foreplay to it, it was just me getting used, he rammed all the way in as he gripped my hips. I grunted at the pressure as he gasped, my ass clenching eagerly on his cock. In, now he pulled back, and pushed in again, rapidly. He thrusted, into me, there a rhythm, fast, and steady, as he used me. I moaned, loudly, intentionally, I was a submissive little piece of fuck meat, and I wanted him to know it, I wanted him to feel like I was loving the ass raping, because I was, I enjoyed it. I didn't need to moab at all, I just did, I loved making doms feel like they were doing something to me, because they were, so while my moans were exaggerated, my pleasure wasn't.

He didn't last long at all, he stopped had groaned, pressing his member up me, as hard as he can, almost awkwardly pushing me into the wall, his cock tip twitch deep inside me and shot it's load. His member had been quiet large, and I loved it, but even if it hadn't been, I'd still have loved it. It was the fact I was being used, that I got off on. He drew a tally mark on my right ass cheek, and left, after fixing his pats.

I felt the humiliation hit me as my thoughts returned, the humiliation of being used, only increased my arousal. My poor dick, twitched in it's cage. I put the butt plug back up my ass and pulled my panties and shorts up. Thinking about my locked dick pressed up in its chastity. I was very horny. I had eight inches, which I was told was above average, but I didn't care about it. I had a few ex girlfriends who liked it, sure, however the thing I liked about my dick, was when it wasn't hard. When I was flaccid, I was actually small, very small. Small little balls, small little dick. Fully erect I was eight inches, but when I was flaccid like this, I was only a few centimeters, above average when erect, but below average when flaccid. Locked in chastity, it was a little clit. I repeated the phrase "little clit" in my mind several times, deriving arousal from it. I never stayed hard while getting fucked in my ass, but I enjoyed the chastity cage, as it drew attention to my member, and I love the humiliation, I craved it, being told it was tiny, a clitty, that I was less than a man, a micro dick, or a little baby dick. I shuttered in arousal at the thought. There'd be plenty of that this evening, hopefully.

I do have to wait much longer for the next person, a man, younger, black male, bike garb, black leather outfit. I could definitely dig it, when I was younger I wanted an outfit like that, like the terminator in t2, in an ironic way, one of my other outfits was black leather biker gear but it was more feminine and slutty. The man, had to be around his mid twenties. I was thirty, but I looked younger due to being feminized.

"Hey bitch, get down on your knees, and give me some love."

He got his pants undone and had his cock out when I dropped to my knees, on the dirty ally way ground. He pushed his dick and balls against my face, his limp member growing hard as I got a face full of his natural manly musk, his unshaven hairs, tickles my nostrils. I opened my mouth as he grabbed the back of my head. My mouth finding one of his balls, I sucked on it, moving my tongue around it, eagerly. I preferred when they shaved, because I didn't like swallowing hair, or getting on my tongue, however we don't always get what we want. Besides, hairy dick, was better than no dick. He stroked his member with one hand, while I played with his balls with my mouth. He pulled back, his twelve inch dick, now stiff. He slapped me in the face with it and spoke.

"Like that bitch?"

I replied.

"Yes sir."

He slapped me in the face with his dick, again, it was degrading, and I loved that too. He then tapped it against my cheek, despite my mouth being open. I tired opening wider, to see if maybe that'd get him to rape my little whore mouth. He smiled at that, but instead slapped me in the face with his member again. He then finally put his cock in my mouth, just the tip. He didn't move, the message was clear, I was supposed to do all the work, and I did. I started by licking and playing with the tip, eagerly, before moving down, using my spit to coat his dick as I bobbed up and down. Training and gotten rid of my gag reflex entirely. However I liked to intentionally choke on dick, do I did, forcing myself deeper, and clenching my throat, making myself choke and gag on his dick, I then pulled up, my drool coating his dick, and leaking around my lips, I was a cock hungry slut, and I enjoyed this as much as anal. He enjoyed it moaning, so I kept it up. My jaw was quickly getting sore, but I ignored my discomfort, deriving pleasure from being of use. For the better part of several minutes, this continued, until he stopped me, holding my hard down, I felt the familiar sensation, of a cock twitching in my throat, the warm sensation of him shooting semen down my throat, I swallow it, gulping it down, he the pulled out of my mouth, and I kept my mouth open, to show him I had swallowed it all.

"Keep your mouth open slut"

He said. His dick growing mostly flaccid. I knew what that meant. he aimed his member, with one hand, for my mouth, and let a hot stream of piss into my mouth he filled my mouth with piss, and I closed my mouth to swallow it, as I did, he aimed lower, pissing across my chest staining my clothes with the wretched sent of of usine, from someone who'd been drink alcohol. I shuttered and balked at the taste of piss in my throat, but leaned into the stream, as I opened my mouth, and closed my eyes, he had no problem, painting my face with it, and then he place this tip in my mouth, I closed my lips around it, and swallowed what he gave me, drinking mouthfuls of it. He finished, and pulled up his pants. Leaving me there. Despite being drenched in it, and the cold, I wasn't done, I wasn't allowed to be done.

I had all night to be used, and I could see more customers coming out to use me.

( There will be a part two, don't worry. I enjoy comments about it though. )

[brownhairedbookworm]

Fubuki's eyes peered from behind Monika's back as she followed her through the edge of the arcade. There was the unmistakable smell of pizza and sausage in the air. They made their way to a set of double doors on the end of the wall, aaaaand...

Yep, it was basically a 7/11. A very snazzily-decorated 7/11, with a front bar, a couple of post mix dispensers, and popcorn machine alongside the pizza warmers and hot dog warmers, but nothing more than that. Some square, aluminum bench tables sat in the right side, the kind that looked extremely difficult to fit a Fubuki in.

"Ooh, slushies~" Monika smiles. Time for one of those, as part of lunch! She hums softly and walks around to gather her various lunch components. Nachos, pizza (cheese), and a slushie~! Maybe not the healthiest, but it's an arcade.

[shinranweek]

Prompt: “I wish I could tell you that I love you.”

Rating: Gen

Word count: 752

Link: AO3

De lover oss gull og grønne skoger.

“They promised us green and golden forests.”

She sees him again but not at the reading, as not all of them come; there are kids that are too sick, too proud or too out of everything. The head nurse calls his name in surprise and when she turns, he’s already at the door.

I thought you weren’t coming to the reading, Conan-kun, the head nurse says.

The boy looks at neither of them but out of the window. I heard a scops-owl, he says.

They are left alone. The activity room is quiet now; under the summer sun the trees outside stretch their branches, the leaves yawn under breeze. She asks him if he’d like to have a book. He accepts it, turns it in his hands. She doesn’t hear the owl, but her classmates scuffling down the corridor, the therapy dog whimpering as someone hugs it and says goodbye.

They’re for children, he says.

She agrees. They are.

He frowns down at the pages. The kelp forests in Australia; the feathered dinosaur bones. Cosmic explosions that happen far, far away and long, long ago, they are already prolonged funerals when they’re known. The turning world.

You didn’t come to the reading.

The boy shrugs. It’s for children, too.

She looks at him and says nothing. He can’t be older than nine years old. In his striped hospital gown he looks small; his hair sticks out to every direction and she craves to bring a comb down the overgrown bangs, the untamed cowlick. His face is open without glasses.

I understand concepts impossible for eight-year-olds, he says abruptly before she raises her hand, the gaze on her as fixed as a harrier, she thinks. Or shark. Yet they think I’m impersonating my older brother because he died.

She blinks. Your brother?

The silence she swallows swells in her throat. The boy’s gaze shifts. A few blinks, he seems startled, taken back, even apologetically. That’s what they told me. I just thought I should be honest with you. 

She tries to smile.     

Here is it again, the boy says. 

A glimpse flickers up, then the tiniest frown slides off his face as he looks away, out the window again. Beyond the aluminum frames the woods slope up to a sky she could not see. 

The owl?

Japanese scops-owl.

I didn’t hear it. What does it sound like?

Like an untuned honk of a car, he says. This time she smiles, though he doesn’t. Exasperated, he grabs her wrists and yanks her toward the window; she leans to his pull. It’s true. Just listen!

She shut sher eyes and listens. She hears wind, faraway traffic and two squabbling bulbuls. Her classmates are gone; she has told them to leave her behind. The boy lets go of her. It stops, he says.

I have a friend who can hoot to owls, she finds herself saying. Behind her eyelids she pictures a yard she has never visited, a boy she should’ve never seen. He was in America before kindergarten. They have backyard owls.

She hears two hoots, low and lament, hollow as an ancient tree. Her heart pounds when she opens her eyes and sees the boy bringing his palms closed around his mouth. In summer sun pours between trees his eyes are cerulean, as the evening sky that would dome them hours later.

It’s easy, he grins.

It surely is, she thinks, but not everything else.

I’m sorry, all of a sudden he chuckles and shakes his head, brows unfurling on his young face. I’m being rude again. I didn’t catch your name.

Ran, she says.

Ran, he repeats. He stares at her, thoughtful, lips slightly apart. The tip of his tongue touches the roof of his mouth as he reportions the name in his mind. Ran.

Yes, she confirms quietly. She searches his face and hopes to see a sign but there’s nothing; his face falls blank. Ask a question, she thinks. Ask anything. Ask my family name, where I live, where I go to school. He must’ve seen the logo of Teitan on her uniform but he makes no deduction. He asks nothing.

I have to go, instead he says. Slowly, he tucks the book under his arm and climbs up from the bench. Ran watches as he leaves, does not say goodbye, does not ask if she’ll come see him again. At last she bends and cries into her palms. Then, she hears the owl.

[deada55]

His Life Will Find A Purpose (When the River Meets the Sea) - Chapter 6

crossposting: ao3

work summary: A nine-year old in Tomahawk, WI gets glaucoma surgery over Christmas break.

chapter summary: Pickles and the family spend a day Christmas shopping in a nearby town.

tws: m-slur, violence towards children

Outside a shopping center in Merrill, Pickles sat on a bench facing out towards a T-shaped intersection with one of the biggest, closest, lowest-hanging stoplights Pickles had ever seen. The doors of the little mall were slightly misaligned with where the main street opened up to an entire row of local shops and abandoned storefronts. All around, if it wasn’t frozen, it was wet. Snow trickled down in a soft powder while the salt on the sidewalks made chalky waterlines on everyone’s shoes. Pickles kept his scarf shrugged up over his mouth so his nose wouldn’t be so cold.

He took off his mittens and thumbed over the edges of Luke Skywalker’s plastic clothes in his pocket. He’d started keeping him in his right pocket as the surgery date got closer and closer… It felt like he had someone by his side, like an imaginary friend but less babyish, since he never tried to talk to any of his action figures. Hopefully, even if Santa fell through, he could expect more of them from his aunts and uncles. They bought the same sets sometimes, and if his mom didn’t notice, he got to keep both, gift receipts conveniently destroyed in the bathroom sink. Then, he’d have a backup. An empty pocket didn’t feel quite right anymore, and it’d stopped mattering “who” he brought with him, as long as he had someone.

Maybe a puppy wasn’t a bad wish after all. Someone to walk when he wanted a reason to leave for a couple hours, someone to play with when Seth didn’t want to… boys got dogs all the time, with great success, according to Old Yeller, Where The Red Fern Grows, and Rascal. Shit, how long had Lassie been around? It was like asking for a toy car! Everyone does it!

With his luck, if he did get a dog, it’d like Seth better. But as long as he could pet it, he’d be content. He scrunched his neck into his scarf when the wind changed direction and focused his eyes on the curb. Some romantic image of a wet cardboard box started to swirl around in his mind, wet on the bottom, sinking from the dampness, still but full of whimpering brown bodies with white spots and soft fur and that mushroomy-smelling puppy breath. 

Pickles watched the pavement so he wouldn’t get caught staring, and the nondescript black shoes his father wore looked like everyone else’s.

“Pickles, c’mon.” He looked up through a blowing flurry at his father who was sweating something foul through the neckline of his shirt. “Can’t recognize your dad? Let’s go.” 

He followed his father as he wove around the empty sidewalk until they reached a bar, where his steps were suddenly straight and stable as he climbed the step. It was busy for eleven o’ clock in the morning: a couple guys were playing backgammon in the corner in the only blue vinyl wing-back seats that weren’t showing their golden foam-stuffed cracks to the world. The painted aluminum condom machine against the wall really brought out the gingham tabletops through a thigh grey haze of cigarette smoke. A televised football game played throughout the bar with all the pep of a dirge.

“‘S warm in here,” he muttered, as he tugged on the shoulders of Pickles’ coat. Pickles had to help him with it, but he got it hung up on the coat rack on his own. He dug his naked hands into his empty pants pockets as Calvert led him over to the sticky, honey-colored bar top. He wasn’t cold, no, but he didn’t want to watch as his father half-missed his mouth when he drank. Quietly, Pickles nursed a Coke, which should have felt like a higher honor than it did. Seth usually got the coke, and Seth was the one who played downstairs in the living room after dinner.

A game was playing on the television, but Pickles couldn’t make sense of anything. The commentary sounded like it was in whatever language the people in National Geographic spoke… Portuguese or something. With a ballpoint pen and a napkin, he burnt time trying to draw the smallest checkerboard he could. After filling up two quadrants of the napkin, he tuned back in to the conversation in the bar.

“Hey, is that someone’s kid?”

A couple more people had trickled in while Pickles wasn’t looking, and his father whipped his head around with a smile as big and dramatic as a clown’s, but twice as repulsive. “No, sir! He’s a midget!” He barked out his laughter loud enough to pause the backgammon game, but the new guys retreated to a table and ordered a round of beer, dismissing Calvert. Pickles ducked his head so hopefully no one would see him blush, so he didn’t see his father give them the finger, or the way his eyes had gone all funny.

“Aw, look atcha,” of course his father noticed. “The only reason they see you is ‘cause your hair’s so… so…” He pressed his curled fingers to his lips, speaking through them without relaxing his face. “Distinct. Yeah. You look… extinguished.” Finally, he burped into his hand and Pickles stopped worrying if his father was going to be sick.

The game went into overtime, and one more napkin was completely filled, but it still ended up a draw. The bar started to fill as the early afternoon became a little more like a late afternoon, and the winter sun started to sink. The clock on the wall had stopped, but the bartender turned on the 6:00 news. 

“Dad, should we go find mom?”

“You think we should?”

Calvert looked at Pickles with raised eyebrows and a flattened mouth, but with a sigh through his nose, he dismounted the bar stool. “I guess so. Let’s go to the car.” The bartender coughed to get him to remember the tab, giving Pickles the perfect chance to throw his coat on before he could forget. He checked that he still had his inhaler and Luke Skywalker before they left, then again on on the step of the bar, and once more when they’d crossed the street… His father was walking a little straighter, but holding the contents of his pockets kept him from worrying.

He followed his Dad back towards the shopping center and it’s parking lot, but the longer they trailed around, dodging cars backing out, the weirder it got to see nothing at all that looked like their family car. Then again, all the cars looked the same, and they all blended into the paint of the shops and the… the treeline? Was it a building or the edge of a forest haunting the darkness below the sky?

“Pickles, do you see the damn car?”

“No, dad.”

“Shit, I guess you can’t. Well, me neither!” He whooped and caught Pickles by the shoulder, pulling him close to his side and giving him a hard squeeze. “Don’t worry. Your mama’s got the keys.” 

He brought Pickles under one of the lamps lighting the parking lot and waited fifteen minutes or so until their salt-stained Town & Country pulled up, shining like the back of a spoon covered in slushy, sooty ice. 

When Mom got mad, she got quiet, but when she was really mad, Seth wouldn’t move an inch. He was paralyzed in the backseat, training his eyes towards his shoes.

“Get in the damn car.” She cawed through a cracked passenger-side window.

While Dad shambled into the front seat, she raced out, slamming her seat belt buckle in the door. Before Pickles could touch the handle, she grabbed him by the elbow, dragged him around to the back of a car, and leaned him against the trunk. A fluffy fog streamed out of the exhaust pipe and blew back on both of their faces. 

His mom was taller than him, but she was taller than most everybody else's moms too, and she was bent practically at the waist to get to his eye level. Her hands gripped both of his biceps until it ached through his coat and his sweater.

"Listen to me. You have no idea how much trouble you're in. Do you think it's funny to walk off when I trusted you to stay put?"

"But Dad came-"

Her nostrils flared. "Don't you start. You shut your mouth and l-"

"Mom," Before he could stop himself, he tried again to tell her what happened.

"Stop! Stop talking!" She screeched over him, glasses reflecting into his face, until his lips clung to his teeth.

"Oh, don't you start. Don't you cry, Pickles, or I'll give you something to cry about when you get home. Do you know I spent all day buying you and Sethy your Christmas presents?" She cut her eyes over to the right as a car rolled past them, then resumed with a slower, more deliberate tone of voice.

"I spent all day buying your gifts and now all I want to do is throw them away. You’ve been like this all day long. You didn't want to wake up and come with us as a family,"

"Mom-"

"Pickles!" Her right hand snapped across his cheek. "Listen!"

Every crack in her Mary Kay makeup laid on top of a layer of frustration and disgust harder than stone.

There wasn't another mother waiting in the wings to save him, so he studied the mica glint of her blush in another car’s headlights.

"See-" she snarled, "See, what the problem is with you is that you're entitled. You don't know what work goes into all this shit and you don't care, either. You find what's wrong with it and nothing makes you happy, nothin’ ! You made me think I'm a bad mom— I told you where to be and you left, and here I am looking stupid trying to find you and your father. Shame on you!"

Molly stood up, shuffling her aching feet. "Wait until we get home. You're not done, mister. Get in the car, and I don't want to hear a sound from you."

As they joined the highway, the sun set and snow started to fly over the windshield. Like warp speed... but even warp speed didn't settle the awful feeling that he could've dropped dead without anyone batting an eyelash.

"Did all the shopping go well, hon?"

"Calvert, don't start with me."

"What, it didn't?"

Pickles watched Seth lean against the car door and pretend to be asleep.

  When they got home, he'd put on his stiff upper lip and his brave face only for his mother to tell him to put his coat and shoes away. No more shouting, no belts, no sitting on his hands... nothing. Dinner was "quick stew"— a concoction of barbecue sauce, ground beef, cut up hot dogs, and canned beans— eaten in silence by everyone but Seth, who ate a cheese sandwich (he was picky.) The evening snaked on like normal save for the exhaustion on his mother's face and the way his father fell asleep in his chair at 7:30, snoring and sucking back his tongue.

At eight, Pickles went upstairs to shower and put himself to bed. Part of Christmas was the promise of new pajamas, sorely needed now that his were all but unraveling. A part of the ringed collar had come undone, leaving a footlong trail of thread stuck to his chest or his shoulder, and the whole neckline periodically flipped up wrong against his skin at night, making him wake up scratching.

Last Christmas, the first night he put his pajamas on, the whole family sat around to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on TV. The magical part wasn't how Seth minded his own business or how Dad looked so satisfied as he sat in his chair sipping cognac, but the gentle weight of her arm resting on him as he laid over her knees.

The movie ceased to matter: he was hypnotized by the pillowy pink velour of her housecoat under his cheek and the way her hand stroking his back made his fingers too heavy to lift. Armed with new socks and new underwear, the whole world was reduced to the living room, lit only by the television set. As hard as he fought, he fell asleep amid the lusciousness, and in the delicate first hour of rest he heard the end of Rudolph and the start of Miracle on 34th Street ... The next morning ( the next morning! ) he woke up in bed, still tucked all the way in and more refreshed than he could remember being in all his life.

A year later, his pajamas had worn out some of their magic, but where Seth's had ridden up to his mid-calves, his had only ridden up an inch or two.

He went to take his medicine, but his inhaler was still in his coat downstairs. Quietly, he slipped through the dark house to get it, but like a moth to a flame, he cautiously walked into the beam of light coming from his parents' bedroom. On the way, he passed his snoring father... Inside, his mother was sat up on the corner of her bed with her Bible.

"Mom?"

She tilted her glasses down to see him better in the shadows and sucked her teeth.

"Come in."

He slowly walked in and stood in front of her, his toes curling in the unfamiliar shag carpet. The glisten of her night cream under her eyes and her lack of rouge distracted him... She looked more familiar, albeit less beautiful, this way. Her short, fine hair rested against her scalp, silky-soft and barely short enough to be called a bob. Without being teased, it looked like the hair of a little girl or a cosmopolitan model.

"So do you need something from me?"

His mouth ran ahead of him— thank goodness it knew what to say. "I'm sorry, Mom. I left the bench when-"

"Pickles," she held her hand up and snapped her bible shut. "You didn't do what I asked you to do. That's what you did. I'm not going to fight about it with you. That's what happened, and that’s why I was upset."

Glancing at the lace hem of her nightgown, he gave himself a moment to think, but came up with an empty head except for,

"I'm sorry."

She sighed and laid her bible to the left. "It's alright. Did you come downstairs to say goodnight?" He wasn't small enough for her to grab up, even though she was still taller than him sitting down. Without a directive, her hands sat in her lap.

"I had to get my inhaler from my coat."

"Oh." She knitted her fingers back together while Pickles started to look around the pink room. He couldn't really remember what all was in there. Whenever he infiltrated during the day, the room was dark, and he hadn't tried coming into her room at night since... at least since the spring, when he woke up in a puddle of his own vomit and faced a huffy, impatient mother on top of getting sick again, and again, and again.

She cleared her throat. “I know you’ve been asking your father to help you with your eye drops. Since he’s asleep,” The half-truth spilled out of her so easily, but she couldn’t call him a collapsed drunkard in front of his kid. Pickles should know: if he had any sense at all, like Seth, he’d have figured it out by now. 

“Do you want me to help you with your medicine tonight?”

“No, I can do it.” He could try. He’d tried a couple nights since he’d gotten it, and he could deliver it after a thirty minute struggle and all the concentration he could muster. Her shoulders dropped with disappointment.

"Well..." Molly rested her hand back onto her bible and started to turn away until she looked back and saw Pickles coming at her with his arms outstretched.

"Come here," she grunted, pulling him forward until he sat beside her on the bed. From the side, she wrapped her right arm around him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Her fingers crept up to the nape of his neck, feeling out how long his hair had grown since she'd had it trimmed.

"Goodnight, Pickles."

"Love you, Mom." He ducked and hugged her around the torso, leaving her patting his upper arm and rubbing his back with a flat palm. It felt like reciting a script: her breath on the top of his head was only a writer’s note.

She said "Love you," right back like a line from a script, and her breath on the top of his head was only a writer’s note. Molly pressed her lips briefly where his softspot used to be and let him slip away.

[customplatestudio]

[the-firebird69]

I buy Deloreans! Sell me yours!

This car can be very very hot with a couple of minor adjustments the wheel well in the back would go out further the rear window has to leave it has to be true mid engine now it's a rear engine the front has to come down a little and basically that's the whole car the same shape the panels would be very square like you see and I might have the guns run up since they already have it split and actually cast the whole bottom and not make the door and wall so thick and there's no need to it'll be extremely strong out of metal it would be capable of going about 250K in the atmosphere. And we'd like to get going on it there's no real way to kick it off the Delorean is the Delorean you can make a kit car out of the metal meld by people will mess it up and he says that's the whole point you make the kit pretty good and the templates pretty good so it looks pretty cool but they wanna have the real thing but this would be somewhat of a real mega car so we have to think about it it's kind of a revival but you'd be putting the the body together on an existing chassis dog it's a dog car those Chevy Camaros and the Ford Mustangs are dogs and so slow and that's the size and you put this on there slight modifications that look like the shape of an old Ferrari a little bit but people know it's a delorean we're gonna keep the color. And metal can look like that but really have to paint it and we're painted a few coats it'll be shiny. People wanted and they wanted pretty good and they want stainless but it's hard to stamp you have to hot stamp it. It takes more time and it's costly. But the idea is great to start off with a kit and use aluminum and for the Delorean and the slightly new design the first one was DMC 12 and you can call this one DMC14 yeah you can't use 13. And it would look like they had a couple prototypes and they're releasing this one this car will be so cool it's not even funny with a new stamping it would be famous and it would be hugely popular you can't start that way but we could get this going with a kid and the back end would look really radical. We can show you what that would look like.

Kit car Goup Olympus