#flat rate car service

[phoenixyfriend]

I feel like a good shorthand for a lot of economics arguments is "if you want people to work minimum wage jobs in your city, you need to allow minimum wage apartments for them to live in."

"These jobs are just for teenagers on the weekends." Okay, so you'll use minimum wage services only on the weekends and after school. No McDonald's or Starbucks on your lunch break.

"They can get a roommate." For a one bedroom? A roommate for a one bedroom? Or a studio? Do you have a roommate to get a middle-wage apartment for your middle-wage job? No? Why should they?

"They can live farther from city center and just commute." Are there ways for them to commute that don't equate to that rent? Living in an outer borough might work in NYC, where public transport is a flat rate, but a city in Texas requires a car. Does the money saved in rent equal the money spent on the car loan, the insurance, the gas? Remember, if you want people to take the bus or a bike, the bus needs to be reliable and the bike lanes survivable.

If you want minimum wage workers to be around for you to rely on, then those minimum wage workers need a place to stay.

You either raise the minimum wage, or you drop the rent. There's only so long you can keep rents high and wages low before your workforce leaves for cheaper pastures.

"Nobody wants to work anymore" doesn't hold water if the reason nobody applies is because the commute is impossible at the wage you provide.

[laurfilijames]

Flat To Filled

Pairing: Jax Teller x female reader

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Tig being a bit of a perv. Oral sex (M receiving). Unprotected intercourse. Sex in exchange for a service.

Summary: Your flat tire turns out to be a very happy nuisance, and a scene right out of a porno.

A/N: I got a flat tire a couple of months ago and came up with this idea while waiting for it to be repaired, though sadly not by Jax Teller.

---

"You've got to be fucking kidding," you mumbled under your breath, seeing the low tire pressure light illuminate on your dash.

It didn't seem like that long ago you had finished paying off the loan used to purchase the new set of tires, and as you put your car in park and climbed out of the driver's seat, you prayed it just needed some air and wasn't completely flat.

"Fuck."

The tire was smooshed right against the hot asphalt, and crouching down to run your hand along the circumference of the wheel, your fingers caught on a screw buried into the rubber.

At least you weren't rushing anywhere in particular, you thought, having only been on your way to grab yourself a coffee from the cafe in downtown Charming, laughing in realizing the irony in the situation that you were meant to be saving money anyway. The silver lining was that your flat just so happened to take place about two minutes down the road from Teller-Morrow Automotive Repair, and with the sun shining and feeling pleasantly warm on your skin, you didn't necessarily mind going for a walk.

The gates of the entrance were open as you approached, the yard full of Harley's and various members of the nefarious motorcycle club along with some vehicles actually being repaired by mechanics, your presence quickly being noticed by everyone in the vicinity.

"And how can I help you, sweetheart?" a man with black, curly hair and soul-piercing blue eyes drawled, his pervy tone making you grin and tilt your head in amusement as he stood straight from leaning over his bike and puffed his chest out, his hands securing themselves on his belt to help draw your attention to his crotch.

"I have a flat," you began to explain, hooking your thumb over your shoulder in the direction of where your car sat abandoned on the road. "I was hoping someone could take a look and hopefully patch it."

"Yeah, probably, but there's something else I can definitely help you with."

"Jesus Christ, Tig," another man's voice sounded from inside the garage. "Stop preying on innocent people."

The sight of the man defending you made your heart leap into your throat, and suddenly the mid-afternoon sun wasn't the cause of the sheen of sweat growing on your skin.

Messy, blond hair that rested at his shoulders surrounded his gorgeous face like a halo, and if the blue eyes on the first man were anything to admire, his were like looking into an abyss that would swallow you whole.

He didn't shy away from looking you over up and down, a crooked smile dressing his lips that were surrounded by scruffy, bleached stubble, his smile only spreading more to create lines around his mouth when his friend walked past him and slapped his shoulder.

"See, told ya."

He strutted into the garage while still looking back at you obviously, nearly tripping over his own feet, leaving you and the living incarnation of Helios standing somewhat awkwardly.

He nodded his head behind you, "So, what's wrong?"

"Just a flat. There's a screw in it. I was hoping someone would have time to patch it for me."

"Yeah, let me take a look," he grinned again, squinting slightly from the bright sunlight as he wiped his oily hands on a rag he held.

You took note of his slender fingers and how rough and worked yet soft the skin on his hands looked, curious as to what else they were capable of, and how the way the large rings that adorned them enhanced the appeal to feel them on your body even more.

"Is it just down the road?" he asked, beginning to walk over to the wall where a bunch of keys were hung on hooks.

"Yeah, about two minutes," you confirmed, remaining in place.

He held a set of keys up and tossed them up in the air before catching them, "I'll go give it a lift, then. You can wait here if you want. Despite your first impressions they're all pretty harmless."

His smile had you nearly bursting into flames, and holding out your own keys for him to take, your fingers brushed each other, igniting even more heat within your body.

He winked at you as he walked confidently over to the tow truck parked on the far side of the row of bikes, allowing you the opportunity to eye-fuck him just as he had you minutes ago.

Even with how baggy his jeans sat on his lower half, you could tell he had a perfectly plump ass that would no doubt power some hammering thrusts, and his back and arms were shaped nicely by strong muscles that showed through his t-shirt and mechanic's shirt that had the sleeves torn off, making you bite your lip as you thought how this unfortunate event was proving to be anything but.

It didn't take long for him to return with your car being pulled behind the tow truck, flashing you another smile as he hung his left arm out the window, a cigarette hanging from his inviting lips.

You watched the production as a few other mechanics went over and began helping him, the assistance he received allowing opportunities for glances your way, his silent flirting making you flush and shift on your feet.

Within minutes the tire was off and being carried into the bay of the garage, and as he got closer to you, you were able to see the name embroidered in black thread on the right side of his chest.

Jax.

You mouthed it, the whisper of those three letters feeling like silk on your tongue, and you wondered how saying it out loud and on repeat in the throes of pleasure would make him react; all smiles and that boyish confidence shining brightly as he basked in your praise, or a brutal and claiming side coming to reveal itself after being encouraged by your mantra.

He slammed your tire down on the workbench closest to the door and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and grime across it, and gave you a smile and a nod as he parted those luscious lips and started talking.

"So, you from around here?"

"Yup," you confirmed, placing your hands in the back pockets of your shorts to force your chest out a little further.

He hummed as he started to work, "I would've remembered a pretty face like yours."

"Do you say that to all the girls you help?"

Jax shook his head, his eyebrows rising on his forehead to crease it. "Nope."

He looked completely innocent despite it being a blatant lie that he could barely get away with, and you knew that was exactly how a man like him was likely to get everything he wanted.

"Well, I really appreciate you dropping whatever else you were in the middle of to sort me out," you thanked. "Jax…" you added, his name sounding sinful from how lusty your voice suddenly became.

He tucked his bottom lip in his teeth, smiling big even with the restriction, his eyes dancing and alight with mischief as his hands paused what he was doing.

"My pleasure."

His words were spoken with such conviction, as well as what you hoped was a promise or at least a hint at a request, and for whatever reason, the more you were in his presence and talking to him, the more daring and confident you felt yourself becoming.

"Is it?" you asked, watching as he leaned against the workbench, his forearms flexing and showing off the tattoo decorating his right one, his glare serious and almost threatening while his lips continued to feign innocence.

"I think it's going to be."

Time passed too quickly for your liking, your very effortless and charged conversations with Jax tempting you into driving the pocket knife that you kept tucked away in your purse into one of your other tires just so you could spend more time with him; his efficient handy-work resulting in your tire being back on your car and good as new in the fastest forty-two minutes of your life.

“You're all set there, darlin’,” he drawled, squinting at you in the beaming sun with a crooked grin as he wiped his hands on the rag he pulled back out of his jeans.

“Looks like it. Thank you.”

“You have somewhere you need to be?” he asked, leaning against your car comfortably.

“Not necessarily,” you answered, part of you praying he would extend an invitation to something that involved you staying longer and having those lips that were still curled into a smile pressed against yours. They were perfectly shaped and full and impossible to stop admiring, and the fantasy of learning how good they would feel refused to quit playing in your mind, deeming him a talented kisser without even knowing.

"How much do I owe you?" you asked, the assumption that this repair would cost the equivalent of at least twenty of those speciality coffees you were on your way to getting making a pit settle in your stomach.

His bottom lip tucked between his teeth and he chewed on it while still managing to grin mischievously, the brightness of it reaching his eyes.

"I think we can work something out."

You swore you had to be dreaming, finding yourself being led through Samcro's clubhouse and down a hallway where you were continuously stopped to be pressed against the wall and kissed until you were breathless, the sound of your bodies slamming against the wood panels and your shared laughs drowning out the loud music coming from the common area.

It always felt good to be right, you thought, your speculations that Jax knew how to kiss exceptionally well turning out to be more than correct, the way his tongue claimed your mouth and his lips sealed against yours making you quickly abandon all morals and sense of reality.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he walked backwards with you into a room, the scent of stale smoke mixed with a bit of weed overpowering the hint of cologne that lingered, and once inside, Jax pushed the door shut and shoved you up against it.

He slowly peeled his face away from yours, taking a deep, steadying breath, his eyes trailing from your chest up to your lust-drunk eyes while his arms braced on either side of you to cage you between him and the door.

"We do accept cash, too," he smirked, his smile growing when you laughed and shook your head.

"I'm afraid I don't have any on me…"

"See that's too bad," he said, his tone falsely serious. "Non-paying customers tend to get fucked in a situation like this…"

The emphasis and double-meaning he put on that one sinful word made you ache and visibly squirm, and you did your best to keep your hands to yourself while you waited for him to move first, only to fail miserably.

You gripped at the edges of his gray mechanics shirt at the same time your mouth crashed against his, peeling it off his arms with his help as you walked forward, forcing him backward into the middle of the room where he ran into a chair, causing both of you to laugh between kisses.

Next came his somehow still freshly white t-shirt, the pure glee that overcame you when you whisked it over his head and laid eyes on his smooth skin and impressively ripped torso making you feel dizzy, and trying to get to the rest of him as quickly as you could, you hurried to unbuckle his belt and send his jeans that were already half-way down his ass to the floor.

You glared at him hungrily as you reached out for his hard cock that strained against his loose boxers that managed to be an even brighter white than his shirt, and stroked it through the cotton appreciatively, watching his head tip slightly back and his eyes close as he succumbed to your touch.

"Fuck," he chuckled, his abs contracting as he did, hooking his thumbs in the waist of his trunks to get rid of them.

"May I?" you asked, the innocence in your request contrasting heavily to how impurely you were looking at him.

"Since you asked nicely," he drawled, holding his hands up away from his body to allow you to do whatever you wanted.

With an excited and satisfied grin, you tugged on his shorts, your mouth instantly watering as his cock sprung free from them and bounced wildly before you, his size and girth and perfectly veiny shaft confirming that the man standing proudly naked before you was utterly perfect.

"Like what you see, darlin'?"

Rather than answering, you wrapped one hand behind his neck and pulled him into you, kissing him madly and desperately while your other hand took hold of his silky flesh and pumped him slowly from tip to base, feeling him flex in your palm.

You basked in this for a couple of minutes until Jax regained control and guided you somewhat forcefully over to lean against the edge of the desk that sat against the wall, his thigh wedging between yours as he gathered your wrists in his one hand and held them up over your head, his other one left to trail up your side, pulling your shirt up along with it.

His mouth attacked your neck while he teased you, the sensation making you roll your hips on his thigh to get some friction on your needy pussy, and when he growled as he got to your breasts that you hadn't bothered to restrict in a bra today, you nearly came undone.

"Fuck, you're hot," he muttered, roughly tearing up your shirt to remove it from you, and he took a moment to appreciate the sight in front of him before diving to your mouth again, his hand squeezing at the fullness of your chest and pinching your nipple between his fingers.

You whined into his mouth and arched your back in order to get closer to his touch, your body begging to be used by him in any way possible, this self-made porno you were suddenly living out making you hornier than you've ever been before.

"Are you gonna fuck me, or what?" you asked, his keen attention making you feel bold and powerful.

He chuckled and shook his head, his blond locks moving with the action.

"Patience, darlin'. You need to remember who's paying who here."

You nodded and smirked, pushing off the edge of the desk to take hold of his cock again while you slowly sank to your knees, looking up at him through your lashes to see a very satisfied and eager look on his face.

Pressing your lips against his smooth tip, you spread the precum that leaked from it across them and stuck your tongue out, that first delectably salty taste of him making you swallow thickly as your mouth watered, your thirst for him skyrocketing. You gripped the base of his shaft as you eased him inside your mouth, taking him slowly inch by inch until you reached your hand and your nose was tickled by his flaxen hairs.

Bobbing on and off of his length and swirling your tongue around his head each time you passed it, you worked him steadily with your hand, the sound of his appreciative curses and groans making you squirm and shift on your knees and moan as well, taking him deep into your throat so he could feel the vibrations on your windpipe.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he hissed. "That's it, baby."

His praise sent a shiver down your spine, making your nipples harden even more in addition to you gagging on him each time he pounded the back of your throat, the way he bucked his hips and lightly held your head in place encouraging you to want to be wrecked by him in whatever way he saw fit.

He laughed in disbelief as he gently held your chin and told you to stop, mad at himself for doing it, but not ready to end this with you yet.

"Fuck, you're good. That pretty little mouth of yours sure has some talent," he purred, using his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth.

"Then you should've let me finish…"

Jax chuckled again as he helped you up off the floor, a sound that made you melt each time, his eyes shining with a playfulness that matched his cheeky smile.

"Oh, no," he said, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. "Your debt isn't going to be repaid that easily."

Your breathing became shallow as the way he looked at you turned from kind and light-hearted to intense and almost dark, and he grabbed your face and kissed you roughly, stealing your breath from you as he leaned into you in an overpowering way, his cock poking you and reminding you of its impressive size that you were about to have to try to handle.

He snuck a hand between your heaving bodies, cupping between your legs where an intense heat radiated, and began to rub your pussy through your shorts with a taunting pressure.

"This pussy's gonna feel good, isn't it?" he asked, dragging his hand harder over the material that kept you from him, the whole act and his question driving you mad. "I bet it's nice and tight…"

"Fuck, yes…" you whined, grinding against his hand even more, your head tipping to the side in an offering for him to kiss your neck.

He did, granting you one of your many wishes, sucking and nipping at the tender skin where your pulse hammered frantically.

After another minute or two of torture, you raked your nails up along his back, feeling desperate for him to give you what you so badly needed.

"Please, Jax," you begged. "I'm so wet."

He pulled away from your neck, kissing your swollen lips sloppily as he removed his hand from between your legs.

"Yeah? Lemme see, sweetheart…"

With deft fingers he ripped open the button on your shorts and tugged them down your thighs aggressively, his pupils blown wide when he noticed how your slick had darkened your panties and soaked them through completely, the corner of his lips curling upward menacingly.

He leaned in and kissed you again, a little sweeter this time, a display of his appreciation for how ready you were for him and how much he was enjoying this game with you.

That only lasted for so long though, the more he danced his tongue with yours the more he felt completely out of control, the need to drive his cock into you coming to the forefront of his mind once again just as it had since the minute he met you.

He released your cheeks from his gentle hold and used both of them to grab onto the side of your thong, tearing them off of you barbarically, the sound of ripping cotton making both of you more feral than before.

You sat up on the desk, holding his head to keep him kissing you as he settled between your legs, his cock nudging your inner thigh dangerously close to your center. It was all heavy, panting breaths and the sound of teeth clashing together as you went at each other furiously, your fingers making a tangled mess out of those gorgeous blond tresses, your nails no doubt leaving red scratches all over his pale skin.

With a sharp inhale to catch his breath, Jax broke the messy seal of your lips enough to look down at you naked and spread beneath him, slipping his fingers slowly through your wet folds to gather your slick on his fingertips, admiring you before slamming them inside you deep enough that his rings prevented him from going any further, pumping in and out before hooking them to massage your g-spot.

Your cries filled the room, the build-up to this making everything feel more intense than you could bear, your hips moving to meet the tempo of his hand enthusiastically and instinctively.

"You want that dick?" Jax asked breathlessly, his cock throbbing and ready to explode if he held off any longer, the sensation of your pussy clenching his fingers and coating them with your juices making it worse.

He was always diligent about wrapping up when it came to sleeping with new chicks, but something about you made him want to bury his bare cock deep inside you and drive into you again and again, the thought of seeing your cunt leaking with his load sending him into a fury.

"Yes…fuckkkk!" you screamed, your consent barely past your lips as he pushed into you, stretching you out over his thick girth.

A shuddered breath escaped your lips as you sought to adjust to his size, Jax giving you no mercy as he immediately started hammering into you with ruthless force.

By the time he had rammed himself into the deepest part of you, you were both so close to falling apart, not taking long to get each other right back to the edge where you had been left hanging, the rhythm chosen by him and matched by you one that was sure to put this desk through the wall in no time.

It shook precariously beneath you, and it seemed the threat of breaking the damn thing only spurred Jax on more, his brutal thrusts increasing as he worked even harder to ruin you.

His skin became slippery as he began to work up a sweat, your hands gliding over his shoulders and up the column of his neck as you tried to hold on to him as best you could.

His praise at how good you felt was broken up by a variety of curses, the way he sounded as he got so lost in you making the pressure in your core erupt rapidly, and you strangled his cock through your release, soaking him enough for you to hear the lewd squelching through your mind-numbing euphoria.

"Fuck!" he roared, his last thrusts slowing in pace as you coaxed out his end, his cock pulsing inside your choking walls and filling you up with his hot cum in vicious spurts.

His sweaty hair was stuck to his forehead as he leaned it against yours, chuckling while he fought to catch his breath.

"That was…"

"Yeah…" you panted, hardly able to believe just how incredible it was, your whole body tingling and alive with pleasure.

He smiled against your lips before kissing you sweetly, humming into your mouth while he remained inside you, wanting to relish in the after effects for as long as he could.

You made out until he eventually slipped from you, the loss making you whine and you both to slowly cease your kisses.

“I've never done anything like this before,” you admitted, feeling totally liberated in your behaviour as you watched his sweaty, naked, and absolutely perfect form step away from you, his smile beaming at you once again.

He winked at you, “Me neither," and ran a hand through his hair to try to fix the mess you had made of it.

“For some reason I don't believe that," you chided, tilting your head as you remained in your spot, his cum starting to drip out of you.

“You shouldn't," he purred, strutting back over to you, his eyes fixed between your legs where you could tell by his expression that he enjoyed what he saw.

He held your waist, his head tipping to the side as he looked down at you, his voice low and lusty when he spoke.

"Still have nowhere to be?"

---

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @theesirenteller

I went ahead and tagged everyone I have written down for my Charlie/Will Miller taglist so my apologies if you're not interested in being tagged in Jax fics and I will happily add or remove anyone as they wish!

[thegreenleavesofspring]

Last Rest

For @inklings-challenge 2024

She leaned on her steering wheel and looked up at the sign. It bathed the parking lot in bloody red and deep orange, the neon Vacancy beneath flickering uninspiringly in and out. This was the last hotel before the desert, and it had less than two stars in rating. The reviews had been an interesting blend of people disappointed that it had not lived up to its haunted reputation, and people disappointed in the poor service and strange happenings that had occurred during their stay. But no one had complained of bugs, so she would give it a shot. There would be - or had been already - a Disturbance out in the desert, and it was her job to manage it.

She cut her engine and stepped out the car. The door fell shut with a thump that seemed both louder and more muffled than usual. She glanced back at it and entered the lobby.

It was warmly lit in sickly yellow, and sparsely populated. A sullen Native teenager scrolled on her phone behind the reception desk, lounging in a desk chair that had seen better days, and a man in impressively meticulous reenactment garb circa the 1850s sat in a squashed hotel lobby armchair with a newspaper, his hat on the low table beside him. He looked up with beetling brows as the woman came in, but made no move to stand or greet her. She nodded to him politely, noting as she did so that the words and dates on his newspaper swam before her eyes.

She moved up to the desk, waiting patiently for the girl behind it to acknowledge her. It took a few seconds for flat dark eyes to meet hers; the teenager deliberately chewed her gum twice more and blew a bubble until it popped and demanded impatiently, "What do you want?"

"Do you have a vacancy?" the woman asked politely.

"Sign says so, doesn't it?" the receptionist answered scornfully.

"I wasn't sure," the woman explained, "since you seen to be having a bit of trouble with it."

The girl muttered and smacked at her computer, as though that would fix the glitchy sign out beside the road. The neon reflection on the granite-patterned laminate desktop stopped flickering and held steady, glowing orange and pink across the red-toned counter. The girl swiveled back to face the front of the desk. "Yeah, we got a vacancy, if you want it."

"I do," the woman said firmly. The girl sneered as if this was the wrong answer to a test, and swung away again to pull out from beneath the desktop a plyboard drawer with the stick-on finish peeling away. Trays of metal doorkeys sat inside, and the girl grabbed one and glided back over to drop it ringing on the laminate. "Room 113."

The woman picked up the key without a flicker of expression and paid in cash and turned to go back out the glass doors. The man in the chair was still watching; staring, even, and he still did not acknowledge her as she passed with another nod.

The desert night air was cool and tasted of lightning, the sky above velvety and unrelieved black. Anemic lights placed at intervals along the outside walkway helped after-sunset guests guess at which door was theirs. It took the woman only a few tries to get the key into the lock, but once it was, it turned smoothly and the door opened to admit her into a room that had the familiar smell and softly humming temperature control unit of a thousand other mid-grade hotels.

The woman flicked on the lights, which glowed to reassuring life, and moved at once to draw the heavy light-blocking curtains over the window. Whatever was out there that night, she did not need to see it, nor it her.

~•~•~•~

The Last Rest breakfast room reeked of grease, which was slightly odd, as eggs and bacon alike were both dry as the dust beyond the windows. The smell lingered in memory of meals past, perhaps.

The woman did not take long to break her fast. She filled her water bottles from the tap in the dining room and slid into her car, pulling away from the hotel and into the desert, her car moving along the road like some black beetle creeping across an unwound ribbon of cracked asphalt. Mirages shimmered skyward off of blacktop and sand alike, fading elusively away as she approached.

She stopped at last, on a stretch of road indistinguishable from the rest of the road around it, and got out. The Disturbance tugged at her, and she followed that pull, deeper into the desert, until the ribbon of road with its thermal illusions vanished behind her. Her car turned into a toy, and then a dark speck, and then dwindled into insignificant invisibility. She kept trudging on, the sand shifting treacherously beneath her soles, the sun an oppressive unrelenting weight on her head and shoulders.

She stopped at the rim of a valley. The vegetation here was sparse; a snake hissed away into the sand. Skeletal remains jutted skyward, bleached bone white by the sun. The wood of the wagons, exposed to the elements once more by wind-whipped shifting sands, lay broken and scattered; the metal frames for canvas covers that were long rotted away stood tall and stooped like broken monuments to sorrow. The skull of an ox grinned up at her.

She slid carefully sideways down into the valley. One of many, but this one was Disturbed. She walked fearlessly among the wagons, the ancient vehicles tilted forlornly to their sides, or decayed until only the tongues were left, bones scattered among them, chips of pottery and clay, a single glimmering fragment of glass. There was no sign of what had caused the Disturbance, and she stood in the very middle of the ring, hands on her hips as she looked around. A hawk screamed somewhere high overhead.

She had Observed. Solemnly she turned to scramble back up the hill, glancing back into the valley only briefly as she attained the top. Not a breath of air, no small animal, nothing stirred below, the scene caught frozen in an endless moment of time. She turned away and started back towards the far distant road.

The steering wheel burned her hands. She sat with the air condition running, sipping water, until it cooled down enough to touch. She drove back up the road, heat shimmering deceptively on its surface, the sun pooling her car's shadow on the grimy sand beside the pavement. Before her, stars shimmered to life in velvet blackness, and the neon lights of Last Rest rose out of the desert, orange and crimson and green.

The smell of dinner clung to the dining room, meat and vegetables and savory sauces. She sat taking small forkfuls of flavorless mashed potatoes and some sort of dry, chewy, unidentifiable meat. Her back was in the corner, a heavily tinted window to one side, her other open to the dining room and the lobby beyond. Her dinner was neither appetizing nor interesting, and so she was rather glad of the distraction when the front door opened to admit a group of people.

Men, women, and children, all of them tired and dusty and wearing reenactment clothes with the same level of detail as the lobby-man when she had checked in. Men doffed their hats and looked around wearily; women adjusted their grip on the hands of children and swaddled babies in their arms. One gentleman squared his shoulders and stepped forward, apparently the spokesman of the group. He went up to the Native girl behind the desk, who looked up with a shattering lack of interest, and clutched his hat and cleared his throat and said, "We are seeking rest. Can you give us rest? A place to rest?"

"I can offer you rooms for the night, if you can pay for them," the girl said, still supremely disinterested. Outside, the Vacancy sign flickered, washing the faces of those before and behind the desk an eerie red.

"We can pay for them," the man said in relief, and reached into a ragged pocket to pull out handfuls of bills. The woman, watching as she slowly chewed, could not quite see the denominations on the bills, and it gave her a headache to try. Behind the spokesman, a baby started crying. Somewhere out in the desert night, a dog howled, long and mournful.

The woman went to bed.

~•~•~•~

The group was at breakfast, too. There was a baby crying again, but by and large they seemed to be enjoying the rather tasteless food rather more than the woman was. She did not look too closely at their plates, and lingered over her coffee, muddy and bitter as it was, while they departed. Only one man remained, in the corner farthest from hers, his hat on the table in front of him. She recognized him from her first night at the hotel, and he watched her when she stood to leave but did not move himself.

The dust of the parking lot was crossed and recrossed with footprints. She did not look at them too carefully, but slid into her car and drove into the desert.

Gone were the wrecked ruins of wagons, weathered by nearly two centuries of sun and scouring wind. Gone were skulls bleached white. Canvas flapped tattered and forlorn on metal wagon arches. Horses whickered and oxen lowed, heads drooping, and the people from the hotel milled about aimlessly. A large black dog lay panting in the shade of one of the wagons, ears pricked alertly as it watched the slow-moving river of activity around it.

The woman slithered down the side of the sandhill into the gathering. None of the people seemed surprised to see her or alarmed by her advent, and she walked freely among them, helping to hitch horses to wagon tongues and dig wheels out of the shifting sands, ignoring the feeling of grass brushing against her legs. A child scrambled up into the back of one wagon.

It took all day to get the little band ready to move. They took little initiative of their own but moved gladly to follow her directions. The dog lunged to its feet and, panting, rounded the wagon out of sight. The sun reached its zenith and started down again. The woman drank from her water bottles; the wagon people drank from buckets and dippers that did not drip. The horizon turned orange and scarlet, the land a dark slash beneath the massive setting sun. Shadows wavered thin across the ground.

The spokesman approached the woman, hat in his hands. "What do we do now?"

She looked out across the desert, still and shimmering with heat. A path of deep amber stretched out from the setting western sun, and she pointed to it. "Follow the light to your destination."

The man turned to look. His eyes did not reflect the sun, though it fell full on his face. But he nodded in comprehension, and turned to smile at the woman, looking her full in the eyes for the first time. A shiver whispered down her spine, but she ignored it, smiling back. "Thank you," the man said. "We will."

The woman stood watching as the wagon train rolled out, her hand over her eyes as she squinted into the sun. The party was heading due west, dark silhouettes against the sinking sun that shrank to tiny dark dots far too rapidly and quickly vanished. The eastern night reached out cold fingers to brush the back of her neck and she shivered, turning away from the dying light towards the darkness.

Her car was a black blob on the road. The dim glow of the interior lights when she opened the door seemed incongruously bright, and she closed the door hastily on whatever might lurk in the desert beyond and turned on the ignition. The road rolled out before her, an endless line of asphalt, and time slipped away beneath the rubber of her tires as she drove.

The red and orange lights of the Last Rest sign rose up before her, the sullen actinic white of the building lights casting small pools of illumination that did nothing beyond their dull boundaries. The Vacancy sign had gone dark, invisible in the desert night.

The woman passed by the hotel, glancing through the plate glass windows of the lobby as she did so. A man sat in a lobby armchair, a brown hat on the table beside him. A girl's dark head was bent over her phone behind the desk. Neither glanced around at the passing car.

The woman drove on, the hotel shrinking in her mirrors, the lights of civilization a distant white glow ahead.

[blurredcolour]

You Oughta Know

Summary: Your blossoming relationship with Bradley Bradshaw had been utterly unexpected and as your feelings for him deepen, you feel an increasing pressure to share something that might change his mind about a future with you.

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Reader with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS)

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Discussion of Endocrine Disorders and Possible Infertility, Discussion of Medical Procedures, Reader Likes Trader Joe's White Queso Dip - Rating T.

Author’s Note: I’ve lived with PCOS the majority of my life. I recognize that it is significantly understudied as it does not affect men directly and that the experience of this disorder is very different for every individual. Therefore, I’ve based this off my experiences specifically.

Word Count: 1807

Bradley Bradshaw had not been what you were looking for. You had, in fact, been looking for a jar of white queso. Had made a special trip to Trader Joe’s to get the only kind that would have satisfied your craving, only to watch the last jar disappear into the basket of a broad-shouldered, six-foot tall brunette male in a green flight suit. You had made an involuntary noise of dismay and drawn the attention of his caramel-coloured eyes, finding it suddenly very difficult to fully inflate your lungs.

A comedy of manners had ensued, each of you insisting the other take the jar, until you stated that he simply had to have it as he had gotten there first before hitting him with a ‘thank you for your service’ and fleeing the aisle. He had been unspeakably handsome and overwhelming. You had been quite pleased with your continued ability to form coherent sentences throughout the encounter. Rewarding yourself with a box of frozen treats, you had unwrapped one to eat on the way back to your car.

The universe had rewarded you with a flat tire. Being the independent woman that you are, you had been in the process of trying to loosen the first lug nut, with both a tire iron and some very colourful language, when a familiar figure had appeared at the back of your vehicle. It had been both annoying and arousing how easily he removed your flat before securing the spare, all the while asking just the right questions to get to know you without coming off as alarming. You had ended up sharing the jar of queso and a bag of taco chips in the backseat of his bronco – winding up with the dip and the guy.

Three actual dates in and it was going shockingly well. Spectacularly, even, if the lingering goodnight kiss pressed against your front door at the end of your last date was any indication. The more time you spent with him, the more you found you had in common with one another. It only made you want to know him better. Not to mention his very presence left you somewhat breathless.

So, as you walked hand-in-hand along the Broken Hill Trail in Torrey Pines State Natural Reserve just outside San Diego after work one Friday, you could not help but notice the way his eyes would follow little family groups that crossed your path. The way his lips would twitch into a smile at a particularly cute baby or precocious child insisting on taking the rough hewn stairs on their own. His smile was always infectious, usually planting an echoing expression on your face, but this evening was different.

While you in no way had been deceitful, the sour twist in the pit of your stomach felt exactly as though you had been lying to him in some way. You had known since the age of thirteen, when the specialist had diagnosed you with polycystic ovarian syndrome, that children would maybe not be in the cards for you. At that age it had felt like a free pass. You were put on birth control to ensure regular menstruation, and basically told that unintended pregnancy would not be an issue for you.

As you had made your way through your twenties, however, your perspective had changed. Watching the lengths that some women with your endocrine disorder went through to conceive, you felt a responsibility to share the reality of your reproductive situation with partners you felt serious about. And yes, it was probably too early, but there was something about Bradley that set a fire beneath your sternum, one that you could not ignore. You felt as though you owed it to him, especially with the portions of his story that he had shared with you so far.

“Do you want kids, Bradley?” You blurted out, nearly missing a step as his head whipped around to face you, his aviator sunglasses barely clinging to his face through the force of his motion.

Somehow he had found time after work to change into a pair of jeans that hung on his body just right and a Hawaiian shirt that would have looked ridiculous on someone else but somehow suited him just right, with a white tank top underneath. While the hike you two had chosen was by no means arduous, the heat of the day was lingering as the sun sank lower in the sky, covering his tan skin in an attractive sheen of sweat. You chose not to dwell on what you probably looked like right now.

“I…I mean yeah I guess…” he huffed out a nervous laugh, and you sank your teeth into your lower lip, feeling somewhat guilty at your ambush as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously with his free hand. “Yes.” He tacked on with more confidence, squeezing your interlaced fingers.

“Mmm.” You hummed thoughtfully in reply as it felt as though your heart dropped through the ground beneath your feet, losing your nerve as he confirmed your suspicions.

The pair of you reached the top of the incline you had been ascending, stepping out onto one of the scenic outlooks along the hiking route. Bradley allowed you to silently lead him to the fence at the edge of the cliff, leaving footprints in the sand that collected atop the rock. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your head, the intensity of it growing the longer you remained silent.

“Just mmm?” He prodded quietly, interrupting the sound of the waves lapping at the beach below and your internal musings about possibly throwing yourself off the cliff to avoid this altogether.

“I…I just…” You tried, but the words were clinging stubbornly to your tongue. “…shit…” You hissed at yourself under your breath before pressing your lips together in a thin line. It had never been this difficult before.

You felt his hands grip the front of your hips before, in a blur of movement, he lifted and turned your body to perch you on the top fence rail. Facing him now, you were nearly at his eye level and had nowhere to hide.

“What’s going on?” He asked gently, his hold on you simultaneously supporting you and caging you in.

The contrast between his gentle tone and the strength of his body was thrilling. Was one of many reasons why your heart was now rabbiting in your throat.

“It might be really hard for me to have kids…” You blurted out, watching his reaction with bated breath. As the icy grip of fear seized you, you realized now why it had been so hard to say. You had never cared about someone’s reaction quite so much.

“Gonna be fun trying, though.” He flashed a devastating, lopsided grin before slotting his mouth against yours.

His plush, warm lips easily coaxed yours open to allow his tongue to lick into your mouth. You quickly reached out to grasp his biceps, fingers curling into the colourful fabric of his shirt as his slick, wet muscle slid along yours, almost erasing every coherent thought inside your head.

“No, it won’t…” You sighed sadly against his lips as he eventually pulled back, fighting through the dizzying aftereffects of his kiss to explain as he clearly did not understand the extent of it. “I can’t even bleed without medical intervention, Bradley…copious amounts of sex aren’t going to cut it.” You pulled back to look at him properly. “Endless appointments. Injections. A never-ending cycle of hope and disappointment. IVF. Massive amounts of money. Years, maybe. Might not even be possible…It’s just. It’s something you oughta know. You’re a busy man with an important career. When there are women out there who get pregnant with twins just from looking at them, don’t want you to waste your time.”

As you spoke, you could feel his grip on your hips tightening, see the muscles in his jaw and neck tensing, but those damned sunglasses hid his eyes from view. Swallowing nervously, you turned your head to the side, focusing on the long light of sunset playing on the waves below. Bradley’s face suddenly flooded your field of vision as he leaned in to catch your eyes with his, his aviators now hanging from the collar of his white undershirt. You hadn’t even noticed his one hand leave your hip. You blinked rapidly, trying to pull your eyes into focus on the much-closer target.

“Did you just call yourself a waste of time?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow before pecking your lips. “Because that’s wholly untrue…” He planted another kiss, the coarse hair of his moustache tickling your upper lip, drawing an involuntary giggle from you and sigh of relief from him. He straightened and gently lifted the sunglasses from your nose with his free hand, settling them atop your head while still holding you steady on the fence with the other. “Do you want children?” He asked with a tilt of his head, eyes never leaving yours.

You took a deep breath, considering your answer, before exhaling slowly.

“Honestly, I’ve…never really allowed myself to really think about it? It feels about as easy as going to the moon so…”

“JFK said we should go to the moon because it was difficult, and we made it.” He reassured you gently, brushing the backs of his fingers down your cheek.

You opened your mouth to reply. Perhaps to correct the quote as ‘not because it was easy but because it was hard,’ or perhaps to remind him that it took four percent of the federal budget to achieve, but the words had congealed into a lump in your throat that you couldn’t dislodge, no matter how hard you swallowed. You slid your arms around his neck and arched up, pulling his lips back onto yours, replying with a deep kiss instead; your tongue seeking his as your fingers twined into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“’Sides…” He rasped when you eventually allowed him a chance to breathe, thumb swiping at a tear that had stolen down your cheek unbeknownst to you. “Never met anyone who likes white queso as much as me…Who else am I gonna eat it with?” He teased and nipped your lower lip.

A breath shuddered past your lips as your heart swelled in your chest, suddenly feeling too full for the confines of your ribcage.

“Rooster?” You licked your lips, delighting in his sharp intake of breath at your first use of his call sign. “You want come over for a drink?” You gnawed on your lower lip again, this time in eager anticipation.

The man had never moved so fast, rumbling a hasty ‘yes’ before helping you down from the fence rail and eagerly leading you back toward the parking lot.

[anamelessfool]

Illustration by Edward Gorey for a John Bellairs story (my favorite childhood author and greatest creative influence)

A Naming (Part 5 of 5)

Rated Teen, Papa Emeritus II’s Son and Family

Tags: Halloween Hijinks, Eldest kid anxiety, Suburban Dad Secondo, Disabled Secondo, Post-retirement life, Magic Rituals, Dark Family Secrets, My AU with Secondo Being Papa from 2001-2008, Note: I have my own timeline of canon events

CW: Underage Drinking, Strong Language

It’s done! Thank you @kissingghouls for the idea. I was thiiiiiis close to naming their cat Mormor in your honor but I’m going to leave the Greatest Ghost OC up to you. I’m on AO3 the samee name with all my other fics but this site gets mad at me when I post links. Check out #anamelessfool Halloween tag for prev chapters. Comments on this post include links to prev chapters. #anamelessfool Halloween start is the beginning of this fic.

We ending on an ominous note because that’s my brand!

November 1 (Saturday)

There were two sounds that woke Paul a little too early for his liking. First, the distinctive urgent ring of the On-Call phone. Then, the roar of the old minivan in the front driveway positioned just outside his window. It was an ugly brown color and had recently hit enough miles to make it halfway to the moon. In its past life it drove kids and tubs of orange slices to soccer practice, but now it was retrofitted with latches to secure a gurney.

“Two hours left to my shift, and I get a hospital pickup call, isn't that the way,” Sandra fussed in the hallway at her husband while she hastily put on her pickup-appropriate clothing and paced. She rapped on Paul’s door. Paul groaned to the wall.

“Get up, be glad I'm not making you come with me,” his mother chided through the door. It wouldn't be the first time. It wasn't the body that disturbed him, it was more the prospect of staring at a brick wall while parked in the service lot for an hour while Sandra did paperwork. The bright side of one of those punishment drives would be no nagging from his mother on the way back; no drama while a guest was in the van, Sandra’s rules.

Paul finally dragged himself up from his bed and met his mother’s frown of disappointment in the hallway. “Honestly Paul, I gotta watch you all the time?” She was adjusting her sensible flats and brushing lint from her practical dress. “I'll be back in a couple hours— dammit will you get that phone, Sike?!”

The house phone in the kitchen rang mid-sentence, injecting the scene with an unpleasant urgency. The car warming up in the driveway, the fact she couldn't find her scarf, and the mopey look from her guilty son added to her irritation. “Just you wait, Mister Leider,” Sandra said stiffly but didn't forget to plant a quick peck on the top of his head before leaving him alone.

Paul heard the gentle murmur of Secondo answering the phone. “Yes. Yes hello. Hm. Interesting.”

He didn't want to move, preferring to stand in the hallway while sleep tugged at him. If he moved he'd catch his father’s eye and whatever interrogation would begin. House arrest, starting now.

Secondo continued. “Yes. I see. Well. Hm.”

If not for a sugar-crash stupor from all the candy his younger siblings would probably be running around the living room right now. It was just him, alone, trying to remind himself that he actually conjured some sort of ghost last night. He wouldn't know exactly until he approached his father. Until he actually faced his crimes.

“I hope we speak again in different circumstances, Marian,” Secondo stated into the phone. “You as well. Goodbye.”

The phone clicked into its cradle and Paul heard the hiss of the glass patio doors slide open as Secondo shifted to the outdoors. Day fifty thousand or whatever of his father’s weather journaling. It would be a good time to finally speak with him. He’d be in a more pensive mood.

Paul bided his time in the kitchen, wringing his hands and composing his apology in his head, his eyes drifting towards the magnets and photos on the fridge, fixating on one in particular. It was the only photo of his uncle that Paul knew about— Terzo, sitting on their couch holding his infant nephew Sam. The man had a haughty expression, his human eye as steely and daring as his Infernal one. Dark black veins radiated from the cursed eye, tracing his neck and slipping under his open shirt collar. The Eye, the same one that his own father had. Secondo’s awful black marks crazed up his spine and down his leg, hidden most of the time. His father's go-to answer for his ailments was a stroke. But Paul knew better.

His family had a dark past, a cursed past. And Paul knew at some point he'd hear the whole truth. But first…

Paul stepped onto the patio. Secondo was standing there staring at the sky as usual but instead of pen in his hand a cigarette dangled from his lips.

Secondo regarded his son with slightly raised eyebrows, a close enough expression to surprise that Paul was going to get. “I'm only having one. Promise.”

“Mom wouldn't like that.”

A small smile changed the shadows across Secondo’s face. “Hm. Now we're both in trouble.”

Paul gave a weak grin back, then began the pain of his apology. “About yesterday—“

“Simple apportation incident,” explained Secondo. “An entity moving items from one place to another.”

“And I…I made that happen…”

“Whatever ritual you were up to failed. But you called it out. Made it see you.” Secondo transferred his cigarette to the other corner of his mouth, blowing a puff into the sky. “They're interested in…large groups of teenagers. All the hormones.”

Paul felt hot behind the ears. “Oh.”

“You were more at risk attracting them being in a playground compared to a cemetery,” Secondo said. “Whatever you did got its attention. And your fear empowered it.”

“I really was afraid,” Paul admitted. “But you helped me. With all that…naming stuff.”

“Simplest magickal exercise. But powerful. There’s a lot of power in a name. The one you have, the ones you bestow on yourself and others.” Secondo paused, taking his time to consider his next words. He gave a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “I was haunted by entities several times throughout my life. When I turned eighteen. Once I became Papa Elect. When your grandmother died. They were entities that wouldn't let go. That fed on me.”

“Why did they want you?”

“Rage. Confusion. Guilt.” Secondo turned slightly from his smoking to regard his son. “I opened the door to the unknown without an understanding of who I really was. Unknown dipping into the unknown. And the things haunting the shadows fed on that.”

“I'm…sorry. For stealing your things.”

“Be more sorry for letting the weak part of you win,” Secondo replied. He stamped out his cigarette and automatically reached for another, halting for a moment. “I’ll consider ‘Terrorized By A Paranormal Entity’ proper punishment if you only tell your mother about only one of these cigarettes.”

“Uh, sure,” said Paul. His father was subtly nervous last night, but now doubly so. Nervous enough to break his eighteen-month clean streak. Paul felt the hair begin to rise on the back of his neck. “Who was that on the phone?” This strange moment of vulnerability from his father made Paul table his own fears about his stunts last night. And he was even more surprised by how frank Secondo was in his reply.

“Terzo is out. Your grandfather Nihil is Papa now.”

Terzo, leering from the photograph. Paul didn't know much about his uncle but his smug smile in the photo said it all. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. At a performance. He was removed from the stage.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It's not my place anymore to know.” Smoke curled from his mouth and nose in an imperceptible sigh. “I expect that now you realize why I didn't want that life for you.”

“I'm sorry,” Paul collapsed into his official apology. “I'm sorry I tried to do magic.”

“Magic? Magic isn't the thing to worry about in that place.”

There was shouting from the kitchen. The door slid open once more and their grey cat leapt out, the two younger children running after him. “Jimmy! Jimotheeee!” Yelled Sam. He was barefoot in the grass and jumped over a soccer ball in the yard. The cat darted under the fence. He’d cruise around today and return in the evening.

Eden eyed her father up and down, scowling. “You’re not supposed to do that anymore,” she chided.

“I know,” admitted Secondo. He gestured with his head out towards the yard. “Go kick the ball around with Sam, I’ll make you all breakfast soon.”

Eden threw him a smug smile and leapt onto the lawn. She kicked the ball once, yelled about her foot hurting, then her pain was all but forgotten when Sam expertly stole the ball from her. Back and forth the little ones ran, Paul wishing for a moment he could join them, carefree. But there was too much brewing in his mind. Last night with his friends— were they even friends anymore when Monday came around? And now with the cryptic words of his father.

Secondo reached out his arm, gesturing for Paul to come close. Paul sank into Secondo’s side, his head on his shoulder. Secondo rested his large hand on his son’s head, and the weight of that gesture coupled with the oddly comforting scent of the burning smoke soothed Paul, at least for now. “You do so much for me, son.” Paul felt the words deep in his father’s chest. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s nothing,” said Paul, but Secondo’s words were everything.

“Paul, promise me you’ll look after your siblings,” said Secondo. “Help them. Even when you’re not sure how.”

“Are you going to help uncle Terzo?”

“I don’t know,” replied his father. “But no matter what I swear all of you will be safe. It’s what I’ve done for a decade. And it’s what I’ll keep doing.”

Eden and Sam collapsed onto the grass, laughing, then jumped up to scream about their pajamas getting damp with dew. Their voices were muffled in Paul’s ears as he thought of his father’s words. In his solid arms he felt safe and his father was an honest man for better or worse. Yes, he’d protect them. Even if he didn’t know how. But somehow he sensed he did.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Paul asked, his voice a near whisper.

“Who knows,” said Secondo. He stubbed out his final cigarette and stared at the sky. “But I sense dark clouds rolling in.”

Thank you! Like? Reblog! Check out my AO3 for more!

Happy Halloweekend!

[uzunparti]

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[pinkhoneydrop]

Its A Game

Pt. 1

[ A/N ] - I've been working on this for a little while now and i think it's ready to be shared :) this is unedited I'll be looking for beta readers once i get more into a flow with writing here and I'll have a master list up soon as well!! ps. please request a fic i love new ideas and i don't bite!

[ Pairing ] - Harry Styles x Reader!

[ Genre ] - Smut, Fluff and future angst

[ word count ] - 1.8k

[ All Parts ]

[ Masterlist ]

///

Fucking perfect. That’s what he thought about you every time he saw you. The most perfect person in his grasp as he pushed you up against the door and his finger tried to find the knob. His nose nudging against your neck as his lips found themselves kissing past your jaw. You always smelled like coconut. And if he focused really hard, he thought you almost tasted like it too. Your lips fell on the skin above his eyebrow as he hastily opened the door. Smudges of gloss left behind on his skin and he would get a tingling sensation when he would attempt to clean it off later. Your hands were so gentle on either side of his face as he paused to look at you. The two of you were leaning against the counter of the bathroom. In the mirror he could see his own reflection. Lip gloss sweat and lust tarnished his appearance. You whimpered at the feeling of his hips pressing against your own and his eyes flickered back to you.

“Shh, quiet down darling. Don’t want them to hear us.” And as those words left his mouth Harry took your face in his hand. Rings cold on your skin and nail polish contrasted against its color. He placed a soft kiss to your bottom lip, and you let out the most sinful sound Harry thinks he’s ever heard. He hoped to God someone would walk in and spoil is secret.

Did you think the same about him?

New York City in September. You weren’t from here. You flew out in his request a few days ago and we’re leaving back home tomorrow. And in 48 hours there would be pictures of the two of you leaving a party together. Matching blown out black irises and pink faces. It didn’t matter to him if the media didn’t think you matched up to any of his other exes. Or if they thought you were better. The media didn’t even know who you were. And he like it that way. Even if he hesitated to admit he was sprung for you and wanted more. Not that you made it easy though. It might have been better you were so young birthday just passed 6 years between the two of you and you were as beautiful as the bouquet of flowers you left for him after his last show. Ready to bloom in due time. He wanted to be with you every second. You just seemed to consume his thoughts. The songs he wrote about other girls all became about you. Every fan whose gaze lingered on him a little too long made him wish they were you.

Harry had 6 minutes till he had to start the show tonight and his pointer and middle fingers were knuckle deep inside of you. His lips pressed against your neck and his other had on your thigh. Warm skin against warm skin. Heart rates rising and heat collecting in the squared off room. Your phones forgotten on the sofa in the dressing room along with your belongings. Your naivety was draped across the floor along with your shyness and the coat you were wearing earlier. 6 minutes turned into 5 then 3 then a knock was heard on the other side of the door. Reluctantly the two of you parted ways. Labored breathing and frantic hands passed in between the bodies of you both. You were ushered to your section, and he was escorted to his starting point under the stage. It would be another 4 hours 37 minutes till you would see him again in his local apartment. A humble jet justifiably luxurious flat Sequestered away off some random street far away from Manhattan.

4 hours turned into 5 minutes as your car service pulled around and let you out in front of his building. Looking up to the sky you could just make out the balcony that was his from the front of the building. Pulling your jacket closer to shielded you from the cool air you walked into the lobby. The smell of leather and cleaning products were drastically different from the usual smooth scent the area had. Your heals clicked on the polished stone tile leading into the elevator.

Shiny metal doors closed softly, and you pressed the button with a 14 on it. You sighed and looked to your left to adjust yourself in the glass mirror lined wall of the elevator. Reapplying lip-gloss and being sure your lashes looked okay. A small smack of your lips and you decided you looked cute enough. As the elevator approached the last few floors you could faintly hear music playing from the speakers. The doors opened again to his pent house on the 14th floor. It was quiet for the most part and you shrugged off your coat setting it on the table placed near the elevator.  You pulled down your skirt as you walked further into the apartment searching for Harry. Your purse brushed against your leg as you peered around corners and called out for him.

“Harry?”

“I’m out here Darling I have a surprise for you.” Harry yelled back from the patio of his flat and you followed the sound of his voice as excitement filled your belly. You smiled hard as you rounded the corner seeing candles leading to the patio where Harry was sitting waiting for you at the table. It was gorgeous nothing was out of place, and you felt like you could have cried when Harry lifted a slice of cake with a lit candle in it. His voice rang out softly as he began singing to you.

“Happy Birthday to you…” it was so sweet of him to do this for you and you nearly melted.

“You had a show tonight…how did you do all this?” you fought back tears trying not to seem to taken aback by the gesture.

“I missed you birthday so I figured we could celebrate it together just us while you’re here.” Harry was deeply upset he missed your birthday. As someone who missed you when you were in a different room it was hard being in a different state or country as you. He watched as your eyes softened at the decorations and he just wanted to sweep you up and hid you from the world. You were so perfect. The candle light bouncing off your skin and hair. The smile on your face. You looked so delicate. Just so perfect and all for him. You let you a soft laugh and grabbed his face in both hands and placed a wet kiss to his lips.

“You going to make a wish?” Harry whispered into your ear as you pulled away. His eyes caught your right before you nodded and closed them to make your wish. The wind began to pick up, and Harry placed the cake slice back on the table. As soon as his hands were free, he pulled you into him fore heads touching and neither of you said a word. Your lips fell open, just barely touching his, but not kissing. You took one glance at Harry’s eyes, and you knew your wish was going to come true. Fuck it, you thought and pulled at the collar of his top to kiss him.

“Sorry. You’re probably so tired.” You started to ground yourself and remember where you were and what happened that day. Harry didn’t want you to pull away and his lips chased after yours. His hand slipped to your back and fell on the top of your ass.

Pulling you in closer he kissed the side of your ear before speaking. The heat from the kiss made you think back to earlier in the bathroom. How much you needed him then and how much you still want him now. The feeling was mutual it seemed. Harry snuck a hand between your thighs as you leaned into him further. The tip of his finger pushing past the hem of the skirt you had on and your eyes darkened as they ventured further. Harry took his other hand and gripped your face. The fat of your cheeks dimpling around his fingers as he moved you closer, if that was even possible. The top of your outfit doing nothing to prevent him from feeling how aroused you were at his actions.

Your hands were draped across his neck and you moved one arm so your other hand could wander. Through his hair, around his neck. Down the front of his shirt and to the front of his pants. He was dressed so nicely for this little celebration, but you wanted so badly to fast forward time to see him in all his glory. Then gain you would mis doing this. Your fingers slipped past his pants and Harry pulled away from the kiss.

“Darling not out here.”

“But Harry…I need you.”

“Okay.” In a rush harry propped himself up against the table and once again pulled you into him. He took hi hands and ran them up your thighs and under your skirt. The skin burned as you watched him. Waiting for him to hurry up. The need for him spreading to the very pit of your tummy and even lower as her hooked his fingers around the underwear you had on and slipped them down your legs. And patted one of his own after you stepped out of them.

“Go on. ride my thigh.”

You like to think you’re a person who follows directions well. You lifted one leg up and harry hiked it the rest of the way up to his hip and held on to you with the other hand as well. Your skirt was bunching up around your ass and your waist the more you moved back and forth on his leg. With one hand harry put some pressure on your hips and tensed the muscles in his thigh. Normally you would never be so hasty as to make mess of his pants but it looked like the two of you were racing to see who could do it first.

“I bet you want to cum darling, don't you? Beg for it.” Harry watched as you began to fall apart on top of him.

“Please, I need it so bad.” Your voice was strained. Trying to be quiet and fight back the moans the friction was causing. Harry ate every word up and maybe it was cruel of him but he wanted more. He always wanted more of you.

“Be a good girl for me and we'll see what kind of reward I have in store for your present.” Harry knew what he was doing when he said those words to you. You were hanging on every word and both of you were getting off on it.

[scotianostra]

On December 14th 1896 the first carriage of the new Glasgow District Subway, as it was originally named, departed Govan Cross at 5am.

The first cars were cable-hauled and would remain so until electrification was introduced in 1935.

The brainchild of civil engineer Alexander Simpson, it had been built to serve a rapidly-expanding industrial city with a population fast approaching 1 million people.

As dawn broke it seemed the whole city was out in force and directors and officials were soon congratulating themselves on the success of their new system. However, any fist-pumping or back-slapping was to prove premature.

At around 3pm a complete breakdown occurred on the outer circle, causing momentary chaos. Stranded passengers were forced to walk along the lines back to the nearest station.

A few hours later, as normal service resumed, one man suffered a horrific foot injury as the huge swell of people forced him between the carriage and. As if that wasn’t bad enough for day one, worse followed at just before 11pm when a stationary carriage awaiting the signal to approach St Enoch Station from Bridge Street was hit by another car running at near full speed. The two carriages were carrying roughly 50 passengers each at the time of the collision and 18 were reported as seriously injured. platform.

One 14-year-old boy was rendered unconscious and taken to the Royal Infirmary, having suffered a severe cut to his left temple.

The accident made headlines up and down the UK, forcing the closure of the Subway until January the following year.

An enquiry into the collision concluded that defective electrical connections between the signals had been the cause, although private trials in the weeks leading up to the opening had failed to flag up any major issues.

The driver of the approaching car claimed that he had spotted the stationary carriage but had been unable to stop in time to prevent the collision.

Despite the accident, the vibe was mostly positive - one of the main complaints being that the number of cars available on day one had been “hopelessly inadequate”. Subway directors countered this by stating that the extreme “rush of traffic” had exceeded all expectations.

They weren’t wrong - over 9 million passengers travelled on the Glasgow Subway in its first full year of operation.

When the Subway opened, a fixed fare price of one penny allowed passengers to travel around the six and a half mile long subway as many times as they wished. Many passengers had taken full advantage of this on the inaugural day - including the 14-year-old boy who suffered the severe head injury at 11pm, who, it’s said, had been travelling round and round the system for 8 or 9 hours prior to the collision. The fixed rate was soon abolished in favour of a fare stage system to avoid future congestion.

The railway ran with little further change until 1977 when the new operators, Greater Glasgow Passenger Transport Executive, closed it for major modernisation investment. The railway in its present form reopened for operation on 16 April 1980.

The Glasgow Subway system is the only metro system never to have been expanded from its original route in 125 years, although a report published in 2018 summarised various extension plans from 1937 onwards.

Strathclyde Partnership for Transport (SPT) unveiled a £200M contract with Stadler and Ansaldo STS in 2016 for modernisation of the Subway, including new driverless rolling stock. These trains were expected to enter service after the modernisation completed in 2020; however the trains entered passenger service in December 2023. The trains were built by Stadler Rail at their factory in Altenrhein in eastern Switzerland.

The Glasgow Subway still uses a flat-fare structure rather than a distance-based fare structure. A ticket allows passengers to stay on the Subway for as long as they like.

The Subway runs from 06:30 to 23:40 Monday to Saturday and 10:00 to 18:12 on Sunday. Trains run every 6–8 minutes during off-peak periods on both Inner (Anti-Clockwise) and Outer (Clockwise) services.

The celebrated Glaswegian writer and broadcaster Cliff Hanley composed a satirical song about the pre-modernisation era Subway entitled "The Underground Song". It was popular as a stage piece performed by the comedians Rikki Fulton and Jack Milroy in their Francie and Josie act. Hanley is more famous for another song, Scotland the Brave.

The chorus of the song is:

There's Partick Cross and Cessnock, Hillhead and Merkland Street, St George's Cross and Govan Cross where all the people meet; West Street, Shields Road – The train goes round and round; You've never lived unless you've been on the Glasgow Underground

The Glasgow Subway and its adjacent public houses are the focal point of a pub crawl known as the Subcrawl. Participants buy an all day ticket, disembark at each of the 15 stations and have a drink in the nearest bar

[gemmahale]

WIP Wednesday (10/23/2024)

Fandom: Call of Duty - Modern Warfare (Reboot)

Working Title: Bury the Lede

Pairing: John Price x OFC Reporter x [Redacted] x [Redacted]

Rating: Explicit (Kidnapping, DubCon sexual encounters, more tags added as I get there) Snippet Rating: Mature (language)

Synopsis: An investigative journalist followed the paths of multiple women that have gone missing in a desert town. Now she's stranded with her car fucked. The kind Samaritan that took her to his friend's mechanic shop might know more than he lets on.

AKA: Gemma's first foray into horror? Horror-lite? Idk, this concept got away from me and we ended up in a weird timeline in the Southwestern US.

Divider by @/thecutestgrotto

You spend a minute scowling at the engine and the moving parts, bemoaning the fact that you chose journalism as your elective rather than shop class in high school. You know enough to know how to swap out a flat tire, check your oil, top off the windshield wiper fluid, replace your wipers and do basic maintenance. But anything beyond that? That was reserved for mechanics.

You check your phone, frowning as you realize you’re in that no-man’s land of no service - not even roaming. <No Service> stares at you from the top of your phone, solidifying yourself into trouble.

“Fuck!” Your shout dies out with no noticeable echo, leaving you as desolate and lost as before.

The sun beats down and the heat radiating from the engine only continues to exacerbate the desolation your experience. The horizon shimmers in the distance, a mirage of salvation dancing in the heat. What a sight you must make to the jackalopes and tumbleweeds.

[sixhours]

Alma

Rated: PG Length: ~4k

Notes: Post-episode for Milagro; the aftermath. Milagro remains one of my favorite episodes; this is my interpretation of what happened after. Huge thanks to @perplexistan for the beta, the glowing feedback, and for wrangling my dialogue's syntax. :)

Originally posted on AO3 10/1/2014

~*~

The first thing he sees is the blood.

He doesn’t remember the sound of his own footfall, doesn’t remember kneeling or reaching out, all he can think is that he’s lost her. The thought is cruel and terrible; you lose a bet, you lose your car keys. You don’t misplace your best friend’s life between the cushions, you don’t lose a person.

And yet, she is lost.

Her eyes are closed, her chest is still, her shirt is the color of dirty rubies. The smell in his overheated apartment is heavy with her last breath.

Scully.

His heart is racing in his chest, but hers has gone missing.

Oh, Scully.

He reaches to check for a pulse, and suddenly he’s staring into eyes of blue crystal, shocked and surprised as his own. She shudders against him, the roar of her breath an echo of reassurance. Her arms are a welcome vise grip, pulling up, clawing at his back, and he holds on for dear life.

That was too close.

When he finally speaks, her sobs have dulled to hiccups, but her fingers are tight through the fabric of his shirt. “Are you bleeding?”

She shakes her head, and he eases back, gently disentangling them. “Did he…”

“Hurts,” she mumbles.

He pulls back. “Just gonna look, ‘k?”

She nods her consent, closes her eyes. His fingers fumble at the buttons at her stomach, swallowing thickly at how soaked her blouse is. His hands are stained by the time they work the last button free.

Shit, it’s deep…

He moves tenderly along the underside of her sternum, surprised to find only bruises, the outlines of someone else’s fingers where they bored under her ribs. She winces when he grazes the skin.

“It’s a contusion,” she whispers, auburn lashes to ivory cheeks, like wildflowers pressed between dusty tomes.

He shakes his head. “Uh uh. Be right back.”

The 9-1-1 operator recognizes his name and address before he can give him the badge number.

He returns with a glass of water to find her struggling to her feet.

“Jesus, Scully, you shouldn’t—“

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just sore.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, hard. “Then let me help.”

He’s careful to avoid her left side, where the bruising is worst. She is warm and solid against him, but he can feel the tremors like tiny earthquakes along his side.

“What happened?” he asks, helping her ease down to the worn leather cushions.

“He came at me after you left,” she says, flat and dry, as if talking about the weather. “I fired...I fired twice? Three times?”

“It was four,” Mulder says, handing her the water. “Checked your clip.”

Her words ring hollow in the glass as she sips. “I must’ve missed.”

“You know you didn’t,” he whispers, leaning over her to grab the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over her shoulders to quell the trembling. “Called for backup. Paramedics are on their way.”

“I don’t need—“

“Don’t say it,” he threatens gently. She scowls but sinks back and closes her eyes.

The response team is quick this time. The lead EMT, his name tag reads Bernard, makes a feeble joke about putting in a station next door, a private service for the guy whose bad luck always follows him home. Mulder doesn’t laugh.

He leaves her side only to show the investigative unit to the basement. The cops kneel over Padgett’s body, exclaiming and making wisecracks about love stories gone awry, so cavalier it makes Mulder’s stomach turn. Not that he has any sympathy for the dead writer, but he can’t stop imagining Scully with her heart in her hands.

They’re examining her injuries in the living room when he returns, so he takes the phone to the bedroom. Skinner is characteristically gruff, but he softens when Mulder explains.

“You think Padgett’s responsible?”

“Yeah, but he won’t be penning his memoirs anytime soon. They found him in the basement. It’s just like the other victims.”

“Of course,” Skinner sighs. “Alright. I want you in my office first thing tomorrow. And Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

The other man lowers his voice, a gesture of mutual understanding. “Don’t let Agent Scully out of your sight. If this guy comes back—“

He won’t, Mulder thinks, but he’s distracted. Her voice carries through the plaster; she’s giving the EMTs hell.

She’s going to be fine, sir. She’s feeling well enough to fight.

“Agent Mulder,” Skinner barks into his ear. “Did you hear me?”

He clears his throat, looks over his shoulder, drawn to her rising tones. “Got it, sir. I gotta go.” The phone clicks off before Skinner can lay into him. He’ll get his ass handed to him tomorrow, but tonight he has more important things to worry about.

She has her hands on her hips, facing off with the senior paramedic, who looks like he got more than he bargained for.

“I’m a medical doctor, I know the symptoms, and I don’t have them. You said it yourself, my vitals are fine, there’s no swelling.”

“Ma’am, you know very well that a hemorrhage might not present until—”

“It’s Doctor,” she says icily. “And if I have symptoms, I’ll go to the hospital. Until then, I’m refusing medical treatment beyond a cursory physical exam.”

The other guy looks pointedly at the blood smears on the carpet, then toward Mulder, as if to ask for help.

But Scully is looking at him, too, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Daring him. He opens his mouth to take the dare, to tell her to go to the damned hospital because she would demand the same of him, but something in her eyes holds him back. Her posture is strong, but there’s a subtle tremble in her chin that gives it away.

He, too, softens in the face of her fire.

“It’s uhh, it’s OK guys,” he mutters. “We’ll take it from here.”

Bernard blinks. “Agent Mulder, with all due respect—“

“She said she’s fine,” he says, his tone sharp, though his eyes don’t leave his partner.

The other man presses his lips in a line and begins re-packing his bag, muttering something about the loonies at Hegal Place. Mulder sees the paramedics out, letting the door slam just a little too hard, all the while thinking he is a lunatic for letting them go.

He comes back to find her buttoning up her shirt, reaching for her jacket.

“Do you want to get cleaned up—“

“Home,” she says, frowning at the floor. “I want to go home.”

There’s a pause. She won’t look at him, won’t meet his eye.

“Right,” he swallows, “I, uh…I’ll drive.”

He steals glances at the passenger seat as he maneuvers the car through darkening streets. Scully rolls her head on her neck and stares out the window, diminished in her silence. She’s distant, set apart; something vital inside her has torn but doesn’t bleed. Padgett’s psychic surgeon failed to seize her heart, but he’s taken something else in its stead.

When he reaches over to take her hand, she doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him, but the bones of her fingers hold fast to his, reflexive in their icy grip.

Her apartment is cool and smells like her; vanilla and cinnamon, familiar and exotic. Her voice is drawn and husky when she speaks.

“I’m going to shower. Help yourself.”

He does. He makes tea because he knows where she keeps it—third cupboard from the left, middle shelf, next to the honey. He finds the kettle, puts the water on to boil, and tries not to think about the blood (her blood) congealing on the floor of his apartment.

He finds a lemon in the back of the fridge, the contents of which are similar to his own—heavy on the condiments, a lone half-gallon of milk, carrots in the crisper whose stalks have wilted to gray-green dust.

When was the last time one of us ate a meal that didn’t come wrapped in foil?

There’s the creak of the floorboards as she moves about on the other side of the kitchen wall, the groan of the building’s pipes as the shower comes on; the bedroom door is ajar, and soon steam wafts from within, fragrant and humid.

They’ve spent the last six years living side by side in adjoined motel rooms, but she never leaves the door open.

He takes a seat on the couch to wait, tipping his head back into the cushions. His mind goes back to Padgett, the last of his fatal novel’s pages curling in the ashes…

…the things he wrote about her.

He rubs at his eyes, exhales sharply.

She’s a grown woman. You’re not her keeper.

Keeper.

The couch is soft, the running water is white noise, and sleep teases the edge of his consciousness.

Keeper. Keep her.

There’s a scream, a forlorn wail that wakes him with a start; he’s on his feet before his eyes can adjust to the darkened room, stumbling blindly toward the source.

“Scully? Scully!”

The forgotten kettle pops and hisses on the stove; he rushes over to shut off the burner. He’s dimly aware the scream came from the kettle, not his partner, but his pulse doesn’t believe it. They live in a world where the sick imaginings of a lonely man can come to life and kill you, after all.

Was she lonely, too?

He leans back against the counter, blinking, trying to ignore the feeling of dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. Something feels off. The refrigerator hums and chuckles at his side, there’s the tick of a clock from across the room, but otherwise, the apartment is quiet…

The shower isn’t running.

His hand goes to his holster on instinct as he makes his way to the bedroom. There’s no sign of her, save for her ruined shirt, a spilled pool of sullied cotton on the floor.

“Scully?” his voice comes out as a whisper. He feels like a trespasser.

The bathroom door is also open, bleeding light onto the plush carpet. He creeps to the threshold, listening for movement. She should be toweling off, maybe brushing her hair, applying one of those god-awful green mask things to her face—anything but heavy silence.

Seconds tick by in an agonizing crawl, but there is only the sound of his breathing. He feels himself raise the gun before he realizes he’s going to do it, and swings his body into the doorway, tasting tin and salt on the back of his tongue.

Oh. Oh…

She’s sitting in the shower stall with her back to the door, so still.

Her hair is a dark brown stain down her back, her skin a shimmering pearl silhouette. He can see the upper half of her tattoo at the base of her spine, a haze of reds and blues through the mottled glass.

So very, very still.

Oh God, not again…

He’ll find her blood on the floor, her still-beating heart in her hand…

Her shoulders shudder and tense, her head tips forward, and he is baptized in relief.

“Scully,” he breathes, lowering the gun.

A thready gasp as her head snaps around, and he glimpses the slope of her nose, the pink in her cheek, the subtle furrow in her brow, delicate as a watercolor portrait. The sight takes his breath.

“Mulder?”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean…I thought you were…that he—” he says, tripping over his words as he tries to gather his wits.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she sighs, her voice as bruised as her ribs. A million sarcastic responses perch on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them like medicine. She doesn’t stand, doesn’t make an attempt to cover herself.

“I’m fine, I’ll be out in a minute,” she repeats when he doesn’t leave. He’s fixed in place, irrationally terrified she’ll fade away if he can’t see her.

Don’t let her out of your sight.

He recalls the way her fingers wouldn’t let go until they’d parked at the curb, the confusion and fear in her eyes when he’d disentangled them.

Not fine. Not this time.

He turns in a half-circle and lowers himself to the floor with a grunt, his back pressed to the shower. “No can do,” he says. “I’m under strict orders from the boss to keep an eye on you tonight.”

“Oh? I don’t think this is what Skinner had in mind,” she mutters, but she doesn’t ask him to leave.

“You know me, Scully. I follow orders.”

She snorts. He imagines he can feel her shivering through the glass. The tile floor is hard and cold, the warmth from the steam has dissipated, but their silence is comfortable. He thinks of the tea water cooling on the stove, the lemon shrinking in its paper skin, her heart thudding against her ribs like a prisoner seeking escape—

“Do you fear death, Mulder?”

Only when you don’t answer your phone.

He swallows, stalling. “Have we had this conversation?” 

“I asked if you’d ever thought about dying, not if you feared it—there’s a difference.”

“If we’re going to argue semantics, you should put some clothes on,” he quips. “We’ll be here all night.”

He hears her shift behind him, imagines he can feel the plane of her back pressed against his own, the steady beat of her heart like a bird fluttering against his right shoulder. She’ll wait; she’s strong enough to wait forever, if that’s what it takes. He sighs in surrender.

“I fear dying without knowing the truth...without closure,” he admits, dancing lightly around the whole of it; that she is as much a part of his unfinished business as any conspiracy. What lies between them is a spirit he can only glimpse in his peripheral vision; when he confronts it head on, it disappears.

He’s come too close to meeting her ghost tonight.

There’s a smile in her voice. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You got me. I’m predictable,” he says, casting a glance behind him. He can see the milk-white skin of her back, a dark curl of auburn hair kissing the slope of her neck. He turns away and coughs, unsettled at the intimacy. “Do you? Fear death, I mean.”

“Spiritually, no,” she says softly, “but on an instinctual level, I do. I think what I fear more is the threat, and how the constant threat changes us, more than the act of dying itself.”

He frowns, chews at his lip. “I don’t follow…”

Another pause, longer this time. He bites at the edge of his cuticle until it’s raw.

“I love this job,” she whispers. “We’ve given so much to this…this work, and I accepted the risks. But sometimes…” she pauses, there’s a soft click in her throat when she swallows. The quiet draws itself around them, and he grows still as stone, as if any movement might frighten her back to the hollow place she found in the car. When she finally speaks, her words are curiously detached and small, like a child’s.

“Sometimes I don’t like what it’s made me.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, closing his eyes, unsure if he’s ready to hear it. The irony isn’t lost on him, that for all his seeking, some truths are better left unfound.

“You learn to assume the worst of people. And when you don’t, when you’re foolish enough to let your guard down…” she trails off again with a shaky breath. “…Well. Here I am.”

“You had no way of knowing Padgett was going to end it like this.”

“Didn’t I?” she says, and the bitterness in the question makes him wince. “As investigators, we’re trained to rely on our instincts, yet I ignored everything mine were telling me—everything you were telling me—against good reason.”

“You didn’t know—“

“I did. And why? To become the object of a sad man’s perverted fantasy? As if I were as lonely as he wrote me,” she scoffs, and he hears her nails kiss the shower floor.

He tips his head back, feels the plates of his skull meet the cool glass wall, heavy with the weight of her unrest. In a moment of striking clarity, he understands that this isn’t the first time she’s sat like this, walled in glass and berating herself for some self-perceived failure, but it’s the first time she’s let him bear witness.

He doesn’t know whether to feel touched or guilty, but the guilt is an old friend, so he lets it in. Part of him wants to leave, grab his jacket off the back of the couch and run. Every time she gives a piece of herself, it makes it that much harder to look at her as a friend, and not something more.

But it’s too late; she’s talking, her words gaining momentum. An object in motion stays in motion, and he isn’t strong enough to stop her.

“Do you know what they say about ‘Mrs. Spooky’ when they think I’m not listening? That I bring it on myself,” she says, a grating whisper. “That I must be a masochist to stay, to do what we do…or…” she trails off.

Or you wouldn’t come back to me, he thinks, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I do the job because being an Agent is part of who I am. But it’s also the reason I can’t remember what it’s like to be…to be just…Dana.”

He swallows dust, numbly nods an assent she can’t see, and listens. He remembers as a boy, the pain of a blister under his thumbnail, how his father showed him to use a screw to make a hole and let out the blood. She’s doing it now, her words as honed and meticulous as a drill bit against supple flesh.

“These men, these creatures...they never really die. They follow me home every night, and I can only thank God that I’m strong enough to withstand living with them. I wish I could say the same for their victims.

“But I’ll never have that…that simple, unwavering faith, that at the end of the day, the world is a better place for what we do,” she whispers, her voice low and thready and ready to break. “I just know I have to do it. There’s no other choice.”

He closes his eyes and wonders when she became as brittle as him; if the change happened slowly, over the course of weeks and months, measured over miles and cases, or if this is the definitive moment, and she’ll emerge from her glass chrysalis a new creature, a changed thing.

Six years have graced him with a multitude of useless facts about his partner. He knows how she takes her coffee, her favorite shade of lipstick, and that she eats the yogurt with the pollen so she can justify the extra doughnut he’ll buy at lunch.

He knows that when they’re on a case and she can’t sleep, she’ll visit his motel room to share leftover pizza and watch noir films, and she cries at the sad parts when she thinks he’s not looking.

He knows she colors her hair, because her natural strawberry blonde waves are beautiful, and beauty doesn’t intimidate the good ol’ boys at the Bureau the way a glossy burnt auburn can.

But he’ll never know the person she was before she met him, before their truths became irrevocably entangled. Their physical losses were great, but the scars they can’t see are the ones that linger, and she is marked by him—partners until the very end.

He wants to know when she realized she couldn’t turn back.

As the silence draws itself around them, he knows there is nothing he can offer. She’s drawn her line in the sand and crossed it every time. All he can do is wait for her on the other side.

She has faith and science; he has her.

“Scully?” he says softly, when enough time has passed, when his legs are pins and needles, and the thought of her naked on the cold tile is hurting his sense of New-England-bred chivalry.

“Yeah?”

“My ass hurts.”

She barks a laugh into the narrow stall, but it works. He hears her movement, the door sliding open behind him with a metallic groan. He gets up, careful to keep his back to the shower, even though they’re past any pretense of modesty.

He coughs, rubbing at his thighs to wake them from their prickly sleep. “I made some tea, we could order pizza and watch one of those romantic comedy things you—“

The sob is barely there. He turns without thinking, searching her face, glancing over her nakedness to see through it. She’s standing on the bathmat, eyes downcast, water and salt mixing on the linoleum. The bruise along her side blossoms under her ribs like a black peony.

He reaches for a towel and wraps it around her shoulders, interrupting their careful, sympathetic orbits in an embrace. Her skin is ice, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Another sob, but this one catches in the fabric of his shirt as he pulls her close. Soon his nose damp with the scent of her shampoo.

“You have every right to be angry, Scully,” he soothes at her temple, with a protective ferocity that surprises them both. “But only with them. Not yourself. Never yourself.”

Her breath is sharp, shuddering, and he wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. He doesn’t know if “them” refers to the suits at the Bureau or their indomitable superiors or the citizens of Reticula or God himself. He breathes against her, tightens his grip, decides, fuck ‘em all.

She sniffs, and he can feel the heat of her pressed to him, bare, little more than a damp t-shirt between them. It takes all his effort to let go when she pulls away, and he averts his eyes as she wraps herself in the towel.

She tucks a lock of red-burned hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “I’m sorry, I, um—”

“If I were a lesser man, Scully,” he whispers drily, and her sudden laughter is bubbling and warm, a salve to their shared wounds.

She tips her face to his, one eyebrow in a slender arc, her eyes damp and wry. “A lesser man, Mulder? What are you implying?”

Her closeness, coupled with the subtle innuendo, catches him off guard. He’s suddenly terrified she might kiss him, more terrified because he would let it happen, a wonderful and dangerous thought.

Something ethereal whispers at the edge of his mind’s eye, and he resists the urge to check the back of her neck for bees.

Instead, he takes a step backwards, toward the door. “I’ll, uh, wait outside. Pizza?”

“No peppers this time,” she agrees, turning away, showing him the line of her back, her shoulders squared. He watches a drop of water roll down the gentle arch of her spine, absorbed by the edge of the towel. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He makes it to the threshold, but can’t resist; has her pull always been this strong? He turns, watches her reflection, a ghost coming to life in the mirror.

“Hey, Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

For coming back. For staying.

He opens his mouth to say it, but in the end, what he wants to say and what he’ll allow himself to say are two different things.

He shrugs. “For…leaving the door open, I guess.”

Her smile is faint, but genuine; enough for now.

The spirit catches his eye and fades away.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Everything More Than Anything pt. 3

Sydney Adamu x Carmy Berzatto - R rated 🔥 (not this chapter - boooo!)

Full Masterlist

Sydcarmy Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Who wants to spend 7 hours at the hospital?!

(I just said to myself that if I post this chapter then I really, really need to get my ass moving on Chapter 4... and then proceeded to post this so I'm going to get on with 4 now, promise!)

~~~~~

Chapter 3

They drove in silence towards the hospital, Syd’s head immediately beginning to refill with restaurant stuff and now also Carmy stuff. She could feel his eyes on her as he kept looking over to her. His phone buzzed in the center console, 

"Would you mind checking that?" He asked. She picked it up, 

"Looks like it's from Pete?"

"Passcode is 1234."

"Wow, you're crying out to get mugged, dude."

"I have no money and nothing to hide, so," he shrugged with a wry smile as she unlocked his phone. 

"Pete said 'nothing happening just yet but Nat needs Mountain Dew and Reeses.' Girl, I hear you."

"There's a 24 hour place near the hospital." The car lurched to the left, "the fuck?" Carmy pulled over and jumped out. Syd heard a dull thud on the roof as Carmy’s hand whacked the metal. She nudged the window down, 

"You good?"

"We got a flat. I need to call trip A." She stepped out of the car, 

"Do you have a spare?"

"Not a fucking clue, Richie's probably sold it." She opened the trunk, cleared away some of the crap inside and lifted the carpet panel. She held her breath and could feel Carmy doing the same next to her. Tucked into the recess, she was relieved to see the spare tire, a jack and a wrench.

"Thank fuck he didn't." She sighed. He pulled the tire out and they got to work replacing the flat. 

"You know how to do this?" He asked, impressed. 

"OK, so quick story time, my mom and dad went on a date once - like they hadn't been dating for long, and he got a flat. He had no clue what he was doing so he made out like it was something serious," He jacked the car up while she loosened the bolts, "she got out the car, changed the flat in, like, seconds and then got back in as if nothin' had happened. My dad was totally stunned," he pulled the flat off and she replaced it with the spare, "her dad was a mechanic and he had no idea. So once he'd learned how to do it himself, dad made sure I knew how to do it as well." Carmy tightened the bolts.

"Sounds like she made a big impression on him."

"She did. There's never been anyone else for him, even after all this time." They jumped back into the car and Carmy eased back onto the road. 

"No one from his dance classes?"

"Dance classes, quiz team, poker nights, work, family friends… you name it. He refuses to be set up with anyone. He says I'm like her."

"Determined?"

"Good at changing a flat." She joked. Within minutes, he'd pulled up at the 24 hour store. Syd piled handfuls of candy and sodas into his arms as he followed her around the store, noting that she'd picked up both of their favorites as well as Nat's. "Right, let's go wait for your niece or nephew to be fashionably late?"

~~~~~

Fashionably late was an understatement. Syd was certain that she'd sat in the cold, uncomfortable plastic chairs for so long that she'd imagined everything that had happened in the office. It was all some sleep deprived fever dream her mind had conjured up to taunt her with. Fueled by sour gummy sweets, she'd arranged for Tina and Connor to run prep that morning. If the baby hadn't arrived before lunch service, she'd planned to take Carmy's car to the restaurant and work alongside Richie. The evening would have to wait until later to figure out. While she tried to decide if the images in her mind from earlier were a dream or a memory, she felt him stir next to her in the seat. His head had fallen into the curve of her neck while he'd slept. She felt the brush of his nose behind her ear, followed by a kiss. 

"D'ya sleep?"

"No. I sorted out tomorrow. Today. Whatever, it's covered til this evening at least and I'll burn that bridge when I get to it." He slumped in the chair and checked messages from Richie asking for an update. 

"Richie?"

"I spoke to him while you were asleep, he knows what's happening. Can I ask you something?" He turned to face her, a small nod urging her to continue. "Were you really coming to see me that night?" A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

"Yeah. I uh, I'd been thinking since the walk-in about How good we were. How good you were. Or are now, I guess. I was gonna go all in on," he gestured between them, "all of this - the restaurant, the stars. I needed you to know that you have my full focus."

"At 3am?"

"It was important to me that you knew."

"Looks like we were on the same page." 

"As usual. You should sleep. I'll see if Pete wants to switch." He yawned. 

"I'm OK. You wanna go change, take a shower?"

"With you?" He asked, hopefully. 

"Alone. For now. If Pete needs a break too, someone needs to be here for Nat." She smiled shyly. "But, y’know, good to know that earlier wasn't some weird fucking delirious dream."

"I'm gonna need to hear more about these dreams -" 

"Hey guys, Nat's asked me to take a break. I’m stressing her out." Pete came out with a tired smile before Carmy could say anymore. 

"You need to eat something, and you need to sleep for a couple hours." Syd told him

"Ahh I don't want to leave her for too long." 

"You don't have to," Carmy assured him. "I'll get you back here in an hour if you wanna skip the sleep part?" He looked torn.

"Dude, you can't look after Nat if you're starving and exhausted." Syd warned him. 

"You're right. And you'll stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere." She promised. 

"I'll go tell her." He said gratefully. When they'd been left alone again, Carmy turned to Syd.

"Sure you're good to stay? Thought you hated hospitals?"

"Well turns out the Berzatto's are very persuasive."

"We can be."

"And Nat has called me a genius before so I feel like she already likes me more than you." 

“That’s guaranteed. You don’t piss her off half as much as I do.” He checked over her shoulder for Pete’s reappearance before kissing her softly. “You need anything?” As if on command, her stomach rumbled loudly. 

“Food, please.” She sniggered, hiding her face in his collar. “What time is it? What meal is it?” She checked her phone to see 4am glaring at her.

“I’ll find you something, I’ll be back with breakfast.” He gave her some space as Pete returned with his coat, barely noticing their proximity.

“OK, let’s make this quick.” He sighed, “thanks Sydney.”

“No problem, Pete. I’ll see you guys later.” She went straight in to Nat, not wanting to leave her on her own purely so she could watch Carmy leave.

~~~~~

The tired blond smiled as she entered, but the toll of the evening was written all over her face. “Oh, Nat.” Syd sighed. “How you holding up?”

“Thank god you’re here. Pete’s great but I need to vent and he’s just being too nice. I feel like I can’t even yell at him, it’s like kicking a puppy.”

“I’m all yours, have at it.”

“I fucking hurt all over and I’m so fucking tired and I swear to god if someone doesn’t pull this baby from my fucking body right now then it can just fucking stay there and I’ll go back to work and it just stays there forever.” She growled as another contraction gripped her.

“Wow. OK, if that’s what you wanna do then I’ll bust you outta here right now. We’ll get back to work, help Tina with prep and get you serving tables by lunchtime?” Nat glared at her. “Can you even get up? Will they let you?”

“I’m not really clear on what I can do, no one is telling me anything except ‘be patient, baby will get here when they’re ready’. Be patient? Be fucking patient?”

“Are you hooked up to any machines or anything?” Syd looked around the bed but couldn’t see anything. “Doesn’t look like it. Wanna go for a walk?” Nat looked up suddenly,

“Really? Pete didn’t think it was a good idea.” She frowned.

“Your body, your rules. What’s it telling you?” 

“To stretch my legs.”

“So let's do it.” Syd held out her hands and Nat turned on the bed so that her feet hung over the side. She wiggled further forward on the bed, hanging onto Syd’s hands until her wooly socked feet hit the ground. She beamed at Syd, instantly looking more relaxed. “There’s the Nat I know. Come on, we’ll just have a little walk around this little area.” Syd propped open the door with a chair and held out her arm for Nat to take her elbow. They walked slowly through the deserted corridors to the elevators, past the nurses station, to the vending machines and back again doing a little loop. They paused occasionally for Nat’s contractions, but she didn’t want to stop. 

“Thought you were gonna get bed sores from sittin’ down all day!” A nurse called out as she passed them on their third loop. 

“I ditched the overprotective husband for an hour.” Nat smiled.

“Told you a walk would feel good. I was about to come and get you up anyway. Mind if I have a feel?” She gestured to Nat’s bump, Nat shrugged in agreement as the nurse placed her firm hands on Nat’s stomach. “Feels good, I think baby will be a little more energized after a walk.” She confirmed. “Head back if you feel unwell, I’m not birthing this baby in a corridor though, yeah?” Nat agreed and they carried on walking.

“How’s it feel?” Syd asked.

“Y’know Christmas?” Nat grimaced as they paused again, 

“Uhh yeah?”

“When you have to move fucking everything in your house to make room for a gigantic fucking tree that just sits there for weeks and then you have to get rid of it and put all the furniture back to where it was before?”

“Yeah?”

“Like that.”

“That’s fucked, Nat.” Syd laughed. Her loud laugh in the quiet corridor made Nat laugh until she was doubled over and clinging to Syd. 

“Oww! Fuck, OK no more laughing.”

“Yep, no more. Wanna head back to bed?”

“Yeah, time to take this fucking Christmas tree down.” They giggled as Syd guided Nat back past the elevators and to her room. Back in the room, Nat spotted a yoga ball that had been shoved in a corner, “lemme at that thing.” Syd placed it behind Nat and held it in place with her feet, using her hands to guide Nat to sit on the ball. She bounced gently on the spot,

“Yeah?” “Yeah, feels good.”

“Good. Let’s hope that was a good enough eviction notice.” They talked quietly while Nat bounced on the birthing ball, with Syd explaining the plans for the fall menu and the expected visit from Luca. 

“He’s cute, if I remember correctly?” Nat asked, distracting herself from the pain of another contraction.

“I’ve seen him once on a video call with Marcus, but he’s not bad I guess? Those are getting much closer together by the way.”

“Yeah they are. Is he single?” 

“How the hell should I know, Nat?” Syd laughed, checking the time on her phone against Nat’s contractions.

“I’m just pointing out that you don’t need to live like a nun! It’s still months before we’ll hear anything about the Michelin guide or James Beard. Months is plenty long enough for you to relax a little.”

“Every two minutes. I’m not gonna take my eye off the ball. Not a chance. He’s here for a week, I don’t have the energy to be not-dating someone who lives in Denmark.” 

“It’d be a shame to let that kinda cute pass you by?” Nat giggled, pausing halfway through for a contraction.

“Who’s cute?” Pete asked, coming through the open door, “nice ball.”

“You are, honey. Thanks, Syd found it for me. We’ve been gently encouraging this baby towards the exit and I think -” she held up her hand,

“Deep breath, Nat. It’s gonna pass, just hold on a couple more seconds.” Syd held Nat’s other hand as Pete hovered nervously and Carmy watched from the doorway.

“It’s working.” Nat finished her previous sentence. “It’s close, there’s hardly a break now.”

“I know, very close. I’m gonna call for the nurse, Pete, you wanna help Nat get wherever she’s comfortable?”

“On the ball. Staying here, don’t make me move, Syd?”

“You don’t need to move babe, it’s ok. Pete’s got you now, OK? I’m gonna get your nurse and we’ll see you really soon.” She kissed Nat’s cheek as she got up from the floor and patted Pete’s arm reassuringly. “She wants to move around.” She muttered to Pete in warning before pulling Carmy away from the door and closing it behind them.

“New career?”

“Fuck off,” she laughed, “I need to find a nurse.” She looked both ways down the corridor and headed to the nurses station where she caught the nurse who’d seen them earlier, “It’s go time. Contractions are about a minute and a half apart, she’s on the birthing ball and she wants to stay there.” Syd explained.

“That sounds perfect, I’m on my way. Nice work!” The nurse beamed at her. She and Carmy made their way back to the hard plastic seats and he handed her a breakfast sandwich.

“Oh my god, this looks insane.” Her eyes lit up as she unwrapped the wax paper. “Did you eat?” She asked through her first mouthful. He nodded,

“Showered, changed, let Pete sleep for maybe 30 minutes and then grabbed food on the way back.” 

“Perfect timing, that baby is, like, literally about to arrive.” “You both seemed pretty calm about it?”

“Just trying to keep her busy, talking about other stuff. I’m not saving you any of this, by the way.” She held up her sandwich.

“Heard, Chef. Talking about Luca?”

“She thinks I should ask him out or something.”

“Or something? What’dyou think about that?” He asked curiously. She finished her sandwich and sat back in the seat.

“I think I’m way too busy.” She shrugged. “I’m shadowing this amazing chef, working all the hours I can, I don’t have any spare time at all.” He smiled bashfully and bumped her with his shoulder.

“Good.”

“Good.” She leaned into him and he scrolled through his phone, showing her the pictures he’d taken of the place he’d brought her breakfast from, the messages he and Richie had exchanged about Nat being in the hospital and the Bear group chat which had a bunch of good luck messages for Natalie and Pete. It wasn’t long before Pete emerged, a blissful smile on his face.

“Well?” Carmy asked, sitting bolt upright.

“It’s a girl,” he grinned, his eyes filling with tears, “a little girl! She’s so tiny, she’s 7lbs exactly, she has so much dark blond hair! And blue eyes,” Syd felt her heart fill with love at just hearing about the baby in the next room. “She arrived about an hour ago. Guys, I’m so in love. She’s just being measured and dressed while Nat takes a shower, give it a few minutes and you can come in.” Pete held out his hand to shake but Carmy, tears making their way down his cheeks, pulled the taller man into a hug. 

"That's amazing, dude. Amazing." He dragged a hand down his face. 

"How's Nat?" Syd asked, 

"She's OK. Exhausted, took a lot longer than we thought. I mean, I called you guys at, like, midnight? You've been here for about 7 hours, I'm so sorry." Pete looked torn between guilt and relief.

"Don't be, we wouldn't have missed it." She reassured him, Carmy nodded in agreement. 

"We'll get some sleep before service, Tina's got prep covered."

"Well, we'll be here most of the day I think. I know Nat wants to go home today though."

"Let us know when you're home and we'll come over with some food." Carmy suggested, Syd couldn't help her tired mind lingering on the consistent use of us and we throughout the exchange. 24 hours without sleep - the majority of it spent on her feet and working - she could feel tiredness creeping into her bones. 

"Yeah, that's great. I'd better get back in there, I'll give you a shout when we're ready for you?" He made his way back to Nat and the baby. Syd dug around in her pocket for change for the coffee machine until a five dollar bill was waved in her eye line. 

"Aha, thanks Carm." She fumbled with the machine to get a drink for each of them and then slumped back in her seat. "What's the plan?"

"Back to mine, if you want? Sleep, and then get to the restaurant just before service. Work through, then ditch the farmer's market and sleep instead tomorrow?"

"Promise?"

"Might need to wake up eventually to make something for Nat and Pete, but otherwise, fuck yes."

"I'm just gonna call my dad. Let him know." She pulled out her phone and hurriedly gave him the basics before he left for work. She was just ending the call as Pete came back for them. She pushed Carmy ahead of her with her hand in the small of his back, sensing his apprehension. She could feel him relax against her once he saw Nat smiling at him through tears, 

"Come meet baby bear," she urged them both as they crept into the room. "This is Mila. Mila, this is Uncle Carmy and Auntie Syd." Syd held her breath as she peered over Carmy's shoulder to see the baby, hand still firmly on his back. "Wanna hold her?"

"You first," Carmy suggested, sidestepping to let her in. 

"No fucking way dude, she's your niece."

"What if I do it wrong?" He hissed. Nat was already holding Mila out to him, prompting him to raise his elbow like this and put his other hand like that. She settled the baby into his arms, "Hi sweet girl," he whispered finally, staring at her with matching stormy blue eyes and dark blond curls. 

"The Berzatto genes are strong, sorry Pete!" Syd smiled, 

"No complaints here, she looks like her mama." 

"She's gorgeous," Syd brushed her index finger against Mila's tiny hand and the baby opened her fist to grip the finger. "Same blue eyes as you," she said to Carmy. After a few minutes, he handed the baby to her and she took in the mess of curls and sleepy eyes, "so do all Berzatto's look the same when they're born?" Nat smiled softly, 

"From what I remember of our three baby pictures, yeah."

"Well if it helps, you all grow up pretty cute too. How're you feeling?" 

"Tired, I swear when we called Carmen she was about to arrive. Then everything just stopped for so long, thank you for waiting."

"Of course. Hopefully they'll let you go home later."

"God I hope so, I'd rather do this from my own fucking bed." Nat sighed. Mila grew restless in Syd's arms so she passed her back to Nat. "She'll need feeding again I think."

"We'll leave you guys to it, let you get some rest." Carmy kissed Nat's cheek. "I'll call you later."

~~~~~

[locksmithinkatytx-blog]

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[kira-ani-mcgrath]

Your commission advice is all very practical and helpful, but how can I avoid saying "contact for pricing" when my offerings and the potential requests are so diverse? I understand that pricing schemes can be rather formulaic for character portraits, but I don't want to limit myself.

Note for others: This is referencing my "Commission Tips" post, specifically this part:

Public Pricing I've signed my name to more vehicles than I care to count over the years, which means I've done quite a bit of car shopping. I am a researcher, and I've had times where I have many browser tabs open, pouring over the various listings and comparing all kinds of factors - such as mileage, gas mileage, safety rating, features, and, of course, price - in an effort to narrow down my choices and arrive at the best deal possible. Sometimes in these searches, vehicle listings will say "contact dealer for pricing" for various reasons. That instantly knocks the vehicle down a slot in my rating system. I have enough anxiety dealing with certain things even when I have all the facts and know exactly what I want. It's even worse when I have to cold-call for a very important piece of information and risk getting roped into a conversation I don't want to have. Yes, I have a point to this anecdote. I have many times compared commission shopping to car buying, even joking that I put more research into my commission purchases than I have into our last few vehicle purchases. "DM/email me for prices" is an artist's equivalent of "contact dealer for pricing," and thus is an instant back-button for me at this point. It's just not worth the hassle when there are so many other options out there that give me all the information I need front-and-center.

Admittedly, this point is probably the least universally-applicable, given that there are buyers who have no issue with these sorts of inquiries. However, I'd presume I'm not the only one who avoids this, especially online. So, if you'd like to catch the consideration of a customer such as myself, there's a few options:

1) Include examples with approximate prices in your commission information. These examples can be personal works or past commissions you've done (and the example price doesn't need to be what you actually charged for that particular commission, but what you would charge if asked to repeat it - useful if you raise your rates or if the cost of materials increases). You can also stress that the priced pieces are examples and final pricing is determined by the exact specifications the potential buyer sends in for consideration.

2) Utilize base + add-on pricing. With this pricing method, you have a minimum price for a basic service, then additional charges for increased levels of work. This method is similar to the flat pricing you typically see for artwork commissions, but it gives a little more flexibility in accounting for the differing detail levels of requests while still giving people the ability to calculate an accurate price for themselves. Example 1: base of grayscale half-body = $10, add full-body +$5, add color +$10, add complex details +$10, add basic background +$10, add complex background +$20 or more depending on details Example 2: base of 24-in scarf 1 color of basic yarn = $10, every additional color +$5 ea, upgrade to premium yarn +$10 per color, add an extra inch +$2 ea

3) Utilize ranged pricing. With this pricing method, you advertise a minimum charge for a basic commission but also state that the price increases with complexity and the actual price will depend on the specifics of the commission. You don't specify all the minutia of what increases the cost. While this is less information upfront for the buyer, it's still some information while allowing for more nuanced pricing control by the artist. You can also have different levels of ranges. A top-end price cap isn't necessary, but I have seen it used in tiered ranged pricing or if the artist just wants a cap for their own sake. Example 1: grayscale portrait $50-$150, color portrait $100-$200, color illustration $300+ Example 2: acrylic scarf $15+, wool scarf $50+

On the back-end of things, I would recommend having some type of cost breakdown of what goes into your craft(s). Overall, have a general idea of how long it takes you to create pieces at different levels of quality/detail/size/etc. If the commission is a physical item, the costs of materials and tool wear-and-tear should also be factored into the final price. If you have at least a mental guideline for that sort of thing, it will be easier to price your examples and any incoming inquiries.

I understand the appeal of just saying "contact for pricing" is the artist being able to tailor a quote to the exact specifications of a request, but I think this method is inefficient. There's unnecessary extra steps that can be eliminated with the artist giving potential customers a minimum baseline expectation front-and-center through one of the above methods.

Thanks for the compliment and the question! I enjoyed being able to expand on that point, and I hope it's useful. :)

[edupunkn00b]

Decoherence, Ch. 2: Oath and Office

Creative Commons 1.0 Public Domain

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"Secrets did not stay secrets for long." - Oath of Office by Tom Clancey

WC: 2461 - Rated: T - CW: swearing, suggestive -

2035, March 13, The White House, Washington D.C. US

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

Lo’s voice was low and gravely and delicious. Remus pulled the covers down just enough to see the room was still mostly dark, the clouds outside just getting that Bespin-purpley pink at the bottom. “It is a good morning.” He yawned and stretched, and the crackle pop in his back and his neck drew an increasingly incredulous look from Lo.

“Someone skipped their yoga last night,” he chuckled, letting out a little yelp when Remus rolled them both over and pulled him into a kiss.

“Yes. It was both of us,” Remus reminded him when he broke away, still laughing quietly. “And I’m confident you will more than make up for it with our morning run,” He pretended to grumble, pulling him up and out of bed. “Then I will make up for that with our shower.”

“Astutely negotiated, President Sanders,” Lo laughed again and helped him pull the covers back up and over the bed. It was a Tuesday and Sarah would be by while they were gone to change out all of the bedding, but Lo refused to leave their bed a mess for her. He stretched to arrange the pillows and Remus snuck up and hugged him from behind.

“Why, thank you, Dr. Sanders,” he murmured close to his ear and played at the hem of his sleep shirt. “I’ve learned from the best. Now, let’s get this off of you so we can start the day right.”

A knock at the door interrupted his reply and Remus bit back a laugh at Lo’s fake scowl. “We’ll be out in five,” he called. “See?” he whispered, tugging him toward the closet. “Now we really have to hurry you out of your clothes…”

Forty eight minutes later, they were both dressed in sun shirts and shorts and finishing their final loop around the Ellipse, surrounded by a cadre of similarly dressed Secret Service agents.

“Race you,” Lo panted, his cute little sport glasses strapped to his head. “Unless you’re afraid… you can’t keep up?” He winked and god, if he didn’t make even competitive look sexy.

“Oh, you’re on, Pocket Protector!” Remus’ calves had been burning since their first lap, but he pushed just a little harder, the flash of surprise in Lo’s eyes more than worth the stitch in his side.

Lo got serious then, his old track and field form kicking in and he shot ahead, outpacing even the lead Secret Service agent. For a moment, at least. The end of the loop was up ahead, the old lamp post nearly within each of their grasp. Remus  stretched out his arms just as he leapt forward and their fingers grazed the already sun-heated metal at nearly the same moment.

Sunlight glared from the windshield of a passing car and a memory bloomed.

Streetlights flash past, a burnt orange sky like in the West during the wildfire seasons competing with the glare of LED traffic signals, all reflecting off the shiny chrome handlebars of our dented little motorbike. Old, but new, with a heads-up display and a meter showing how many more kilometers we have left before we need to charge it.

The motorbike drives smoothly over twisting cobblestone streets and past shops marked by flat screen displays set into vintage window frames. Most are closed, but a few advertise tea and various pastries in a smattering blend of French, German and bits of English. I spot one as we pass that will be good to visit for afternoon tea, as long as we can pull each other away from the day’s work. 

With a quiet whine, the motorbike slows to a stop outside the CERN control center. From the outside it looks like any other ancient office park built back in the 1990s. Over a century’s worth of paint jobs covers the stucco front. The doors and windows were retrofitted twice, first for energy efficiency and later to install the carbon capture systems that recharge the air filters.

I bet a dentist’s office or maybe even a small clinic would look right at home in these office parks. Instead, we work in the building that houses the most advanced particle accelerators in the world. 

Lo looks over his shoulder and closes his hand over mine. He snaps up the iridescent visor into a slot in his helmet and smiles, eyes like the noonday sky in old movies. “Ready, Meus?”

“Ready, Meus?” Lo asked, gripping Remus’ shoulder, his hand cool and soothing against skin overheated by their jog. Only late March and it was already getting close to when most people shifted outdoor exercise to the cooler evenings, but they were both too stubborn to surrender the sunrise over the Capitol Building to the early summer heat so soon.

He blinked and the park surrounding them snapped back into focus. Remus grinned. “Ready.”

He looked out to the cherry trees where Lo gestured. Gladys approached with towels and water. And a small tablet. “Thank you,” he nodded and passed Lo his water and took a sip of his own. “Let’s walk and talk, Gladys.”

~

“There is no way in hell I’m going to authorize a drone attack on Bursa!” Remus smacked the aerial photos spread out on the desk between him and Secretary of Defense Wyrre. The Secretary’s jaw tightened and her lips thinned into a tight line but she didn’t interrupt. “There’s nothing here that proves they’ve violated the peace accords and we damn well aren’t going to declare a fourth world war!”

“Mr. President,” she began, picking up one of the photos. “The evidence is… ambiguous—”

“Ambiguous!?” Remus stabbed at the largest of the red circles in the photo. “That is unambiguously an old seismic oil survey. And those cylinders—” He traced the line of large white containers stacked along the southern edge of the image. “That’s for water storage. They’ve repurposed the old tech to search for water! And those marks all along the southern border…” He took the photo and held it up, pointing to over a dozen rectangular shapes in the sand. “Those are the same as these, right?”

She nodded, eyes narrowed.

Remus picked up another photo taken six hours later. “They moved! They’re fucking solar panels! Turkey is a member of the 2130 Climate Accords and you want us to bomb them to hell and back because they’re doing what they pledged to do?”

“Well, Mr. President, we have no way to know—”

“Maybe you don’t!” Remus snapped back. “Maybe you should put a few hydrologists on the task of interpreting your photos. No,” he shook his head. “Absolutely not! I will not authorize a strike. In fact—” He scooped up the photos and shoved them back into the redwell folder Secretary Wyrre had so proudly spread out, her trigger finger itching to make some headlines. Or, more than likely, help some fucking executive at Exxon make his bonus for the first time in a decade.

“We are going to tour their energy facility and see what assistance we can lend,” Remus wrapped up the redwell and dropped it on the floor next to his chair. Mine now. He pressed a button on his antique-looking desk phone. “Gladys? Please find a time this month for a trip to Turkey. Call Ambassador Nadeen and get their input, too.”

“Already on it, Mr. President,” chirped Gladys. “Your voice carries, sir.”

His assistant’s just-this-side of snarky response doused the flames coursing through his veins and he smiled. “Thank you, Gladys.” He looked up at Secretary Wyrre. “What else do you have for me?”

~

Remus didn’t look up at the quiet but insistent knock at the door. Whoever it was had to have been authorized, unless they’d somehow managed to defeat a dozen of the sharpest agents in the Secret Service. “Come in,” he said and struck out a line in what had to be the eighth draft of next week’s speech, adding a revised version in the margin. Someone padded quietly over the plush blue carpet and Remus knew exactly how many steps there were between the door and his desk.

Particularly the steps of one special person.

“I’m nearly done, Lo Lo,” he murmured, still not looking up.

Lo moved around to the other side of the desk and leaned against the spot Remus kept clear for that reason. Now close enough to reach his shoulders, Lo worked the muscles on one side, strong, lithe fingers kneading away knotted muscles and twisted tendons. Remus’ eyes slipped closed for a moment and he sighed from deep in his chest, low and nearly a quiet groan. “Better?” Lo asked.

“Better,” he hummed. Remus left his eyes closed for one more long moment. The burning behind his lids had left them feeling like sandpaper. 

He ignored it and soaked in the other sensations, the scent of ethyl alcohol and a clean room bunny suit, the warmth from Lo’s palm seeping through his shirt. Fuck, he’d alway sworn he’d never do the whole ‘look how hard I work in rolled up shirtsleeves’ bullshit he’d seen from the last ass who’d sat in this office. But here he was, crisp white shirt rumpled, tie loose and sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos only a few close staff knew about.

“Thank you,” he turned his head and brushed a little kiss against Lo’s thumb. “Vengeance is mine tonight,” he winked and returned to the speech in front of him.

Turning to read with him, Lo nodded. “You are nearly done.”

Remus waggled his eyebrows, then swore and marked out another line. “Fuck that noise, there’s no such thing as carbon neutral carbon,” he muttered, writing so hard in the margin it left an indentation on the last page. “Everytime I cut this line, Pete just sneaks it back in there.“

“Time for another talk?” Lo’s brow furrowed as he read. “It’s not all bad, you know.”

Heaving out a long sigh, he nodded. “I know. It’s the only reason he’s still around.” He turned the page and scowled, crossing out another line completely. “He’s been talking to Secretary Wyrre. They’re intent on starting a fucking proxy war with China over the last of the reserves they discovered out in the Southern Ocean.”

Lo was quiet, but moved behind him to rub both shoulders, listening.

“They’re just itching for a battle, itching for something to shift the country’s focus. But fuck, Lo…” He turned the last page, crossed out the entire last paragraph before letting his head fall back against Lo's belly. “I’m an engineer, not a… a… General.”

“Okay, Bones,” Lo murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his forehead. Remus huffed out a little laugh. His hands fell to his lap and Lo swiveled his chair until it faced the big window. 

Remus stared outside at the renovated great lawn. Two years after plowing in the old water-hungry grass and replacing it with milkweed and thistle, impossibly, the butterflies and the honey bees had returned. It was real, tangible progress. It made him hopeful.

Lo knew him too well.

He sobered, watching a school bus swallow up the last of a field trip to the White House. Lo brushed back a bit of his hair from his face, then he slid onto his lap. Remus’ arms came up almost automatically to wrap around his waist and pull him closer.

Lo kissed his cheek then cradled his face between both hands until he’d captured his gaze. “You’re right. You’re no General. And that’s precisely why the people elected you. They had enough of the soldiers and the lawyers and the corporate tycoons and the… thirty year Senate veterans sitting in this office.” He smoothed down Remus’ tie but didn’t tighten it. “Our country, our entire world has big problems to solve. Who better than an engineer to lead us to the solutions?”

“Okay, Plato.”

Lo laughed. “Do you think the last two Presidents could’ve made a joke about Plato’s Republic?” He shuddered. “Let alone the one before them?”

Remus wasn’t convinced, but… he knew Lo was. And that was enough. “Thank you, Love,” he whispered. Head turned, Remus buried his face in Lo’s hair, hiding the desk, the flag, everything, until there was just him. Back pressed to his chest, Lo’s heartbeat against his, Remus’ pulse slowly eased to match his husband’s. He took another deep breath and nodded, rocking them back and forth to the new rhythm. “Your hair smells good…”

“My hair doesn’t smell like a clean room bonnet?”

“Well, yeah. It’s always kinda sexy when you’re all geared up to bully those qubits into doing your will” He laughed and snuck a little kiss against his neck. “That’s where we met.”

“We met at that climate rally.” Lo pulled back, fingers still locked at the nape of his neck like he didn’t want to let go. He tilted his head and blinked at him, eyes brighter than the sky outside. “You fixed my banner with safety pins from your jeans.”

“Oh… oh right. That was my dream where we were mad scientists together.”

“Mmm…” Lo stared back at him with that little crooked smile, nodding. “Mad scientists? Now you have to tell me more,” he murmured and reached over his shoulder and oh-so-subtly closed the cover on the speech Remus had been editing. “What were we studying?”

“Besides each other?” He laughed when Lo wiggled in his lap, the promise of another wild tale of an imagined life giving him a giddy, kid-at-Christmas energy. “Hmm—it’s fuzzy…”

“Like your scruff?” Lo grinned, scritching along the edge of his jaw. Remus played along and purred like a cat.

“Mm-hm… Something with… delta waves?” He sat up straighter, the image of a monitoring screen clear in his head. “Oh, pilot waves and quantum collapse!”

Lo’s fingers stilled along his jaw, then resumed. “That sounds fascinating…” He pulled back his chair and slid a stack of folders in the top drawer. “Did I at least have Gene Wilder’s hair cut from Young Frankenstein?”

“No such luck,” Remus reached up and drew a hand through Lo’s raven-black locks. Jokes about PPE gear and all, Lo’s hair was rarely out of place but always soft, always silky. “Your hair was lovely.”

“Hmmm…” He nodded and took his other hand, then gently pulled him to his feet. Remus blew out a slow breath and wrapped his arms around him. “It’s time for a break, isn’t it?”

One step at a time, Lo drew him away from his desk, away from his worries, away from that damned stack of memos and papers asking for fifteen contradictory policies. Lo smiled. “Your brother and his family will be here in a half an hour.”

“We can do lots in a half an hour….”

[caffeinated-chaos-bean]

Idk whether to laugh or cry lmao

Well guys --

I've been in town for 9hrs today. :'D

So my mom and I left the house around 10am so we could go pay the car insurance bill and such before my 1:30pm physical therapy appointment but apparently there is a curse going around because just like Shanna (and I now find out, Kaz as well today) WE GOT A FLAT FUCKING TIIIIIIRRRRREEEE. To make it even better, for whatever reason, both ATT and Verizon cell service was out completely and was even impacting people being able to call 911. Landlines in some places weren't even working. So we had to drive out car with its flat tire to the parking lot of my work and use their phone in order to call AAA to get a tow. Thankfully they found the spare tire we weren't sure we even had and put that on for us, so we got to immediately go and get the tire fixed. The culprit? A NAIL.

That got over at 12:45pm and then we went to the bank and pulled $100 so we could pay the car insurance (it was $83, the rest went to mom's ciggs). Then we forgot we needed gas and had to run and quicky get gas before running to the other end of town to make it to my physical therapy appointment. The appointment went well, aside from half the already scheduled future appointments WERE ON DAYS I WORK AND I CANT DO THEM. So only 2 of the 10+ days they pre-scheduled actually work (9/5 and 9/13) and the rest have to be re-worked. >n<

THEN we went to get groceries and coffee, hoping to relax for at least another hour back home before my 4pm appointment with my new primary care doctor. By the time we get halfway home? NOPE NO TIME TO RELAX FOR US. We barely had time to get what refrigerated groceries we had put away (dry goods left in the bags on the table) before we had to hop back in the car and make it to my primary care appointment on time. On the way there, mind you, we got tailgated halfway there and when my mom and I both flipped the dude off (and I even turned around in the passenger seat to glare at them) he decided to tailgate FURTHER and actually FOLLOW US the rest of the way there before turning off when he saw we were turning into the doctor's office. I'm not joking when I say that I had the spare car key clutched between my fingers in case I needed to stab someone in the neck in self defense. @n@

This appointment went well and lasted almost an hour and a half, and thankfully this new doctor seems to actually DISCUSS what my health currently looks like opposed to my old doctor??? This brings me to where I'm at in not knowing whether to laugh or cry because its just the icing on the top of the cake.

We went over my previous blood tests that I had done back in June. Aside from having read over those horrible results, the doctor said she could tell just from looking at the orange-ish tint of my nails that I was showing signs of being highly anemic. I also had my bloodwork explained to me for the first time in forever and it made sense and honestly doesn't sound good. Essentially, my red blood cells are too small and too tight to properly do their job and circulate oxygen in my body and carbon dioxide out of my body, and so alongside that, my platelets are working 10x as hard as they need to (ie. swelling) in order to cover for the red blood cells being so small and to ensure that if I ever needed a major surgery or got a major injury that I don't bleed out from it. Along with that, the triple-digit heart rate spikes I've been having?? Yeah not normal either.

What I'm looking at in the future from all of this??

I need to get an EKG and a 2-View Chest X-Ray. I got a Vitamin B12 injection today and will be getting one each month for the next 6 months. I also have to wait for a call from Hematology/Oncology because my red blood cells are so fucked up that I have to have a BLOOD INFUSION!!!

Below, this image perfectly describes my brain after all of this: