#bald sheriff real

[spinningbagel]

told my friend (@yourfavouritebarkeep yes. I will expose you :33) about the utter bullshit I've put TL (Timeloop) through while drawing him so uh yuh. Here's those drawings idk

(Also Hero is there)

(Also also: bald Sheriff)

[eveomo]

bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 1 (SFW, will probably be edited in the future)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ synopsis : after meeting a seemingly dangerous yet kind outlaw during a bounty, your world seems to get turned upside down after you can't seem to stop running into each other. could this be the beginning of something you've both been longing for?

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ warnings/tags : MINORS MAY INTERACT WITH SFW CHAPTERS (NSFW WILL BE TAGGED), depictions of violence, arguments, angst, eventual smut, unprotected piv sex, guns, gun violence, swearing, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, soft arthur, animal death, PTSD, mentions/depictions of abuse, attempted SA (very brief and for plot purposes only), NO PREGNANCY, NO BABIES, MC isnt a frail weak girl who constantly needs saving, often grammatically incorrect (probably)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ contains : arthur morgan x f!reader, no use of y/n, reader changes the plot for the better

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 1.9k

posted to AO3 here

It was a blazing summer day, sweat collecting along the brim of your hat as you rode your palomino arabian into Valentine, slowly making your way to the sheriff's office. As you approach the front of the decrepit building, you swing your foot over the saddle and dismount, grabbing the reins to hitch your horse. 

You pulled your bandana up a touch higher and pulled your hat down to cover your eyes before entering the building. Approaching the board, you scan for any bounties that would truly be worth your while. Then, your eyes caught a poster. 

$75 for some idiot that decided to shoot a rancher's son and a lawman for one cow? Easy money. Was it the biggest bounty you’d ever done? Absolutely not, but it offered more money than anything else pinned to the board. You tore it down and folded it before shoving it into your pocket and nodding at the guard seated at the front of the office. Turning on your heel, you exited the building and mounted your horse. 

          “You ready for some fun girl?” Patting her golden coat, you clicked your tongue and tapped your heels to get her moving. As you rode, you reached back to grab your canteen, guzzling down at least half of it with your horse huffing underneath you. 

          “It’s hot ain’t it, Lenora?” You soothed, petting her mane as you kicked your heels once again to get her into a gallop, welcoming the breeze on your face as you rode. Turning off the path, you began to wind and turn throughout the forest, seeking the abandoned cabin the man you were after was hiding in. Your heart skipped a beat as you spotted it in the distance, excited to have some income once again after having to run from the law after a bar fight gone wrong in another town. Having finally arrived at your destination just north of the Dakota River, you dismount and leave Lenora in the brush, sighing as you pull your bandana over your face and retrieve the lasso attached to your black leather saddle. 

Taking effortlessly light steps, you approach the back end of the cabin before hearing two other voices just west of your location. You crouch behind a broken down wagon sitting in the field surrounding the home as you take a deep breath and tune into the words drifting towards you through the wind. 

          “John, if you’re messin’ with me after last time I’ll give you a real reason to run from camp.” One gruff voice huffs out, while another insists that he saw something duck behind a wagon. Your eyes narrow and you peek your head around the wheel, deciding the coast was clear before darting out and crouching down below a window next to the back entrance. Confident that you were going to secure this bounty before unwanted competition appeared, you darted up to peek into the window, seeing your target shine his gun. Quietly, you edge the door open before taking light steps towards the balding man. With an incredible speed, you grab your revolver from your holster and knock the man unconscious with the grip. 

Letting out a pleased hum, you put your gun back in its holster and grab the lasso from your side and begin to secure him tightly. Before you can truly process the creaking of floorboards, you whip out your gun and turn around, pulling back the safety and pointing the barrel at the intruder's head. Unsurprisingly, the sight of a barrel pointing in between your eyes greeted you. 

         “‘Scuse me Miss, I don’t mean to be a bother but I think you’ve got some’n that belongs to me and my friend out there.” The man speaks first, a deep gruff voice with a clear southern drawl. You sized him up quickly, he was tall and broad, a blue button up with a brown leather jacket, a clearly very old hat concealing his head of hair, and a black bandana covering the rest of his face. Obviously another bounty hunter or an outlaw. 

Scoffing, you reply, “Clearly, Mister, this dope here is comin’ back with me. I knocked him out, I tied him up.” you emphasized, pointing behind you. Taking a step closer, you point the end of your gun closer to his head. “I’ve killed men much bigger than you for much less than this.” You watch his eyes narrow as he sizes you up, making you shudder. Admittedly, you were nervous. Somehow you had forgotten that there were others nearby, focusing on being quiet and quick rather than paying attention to your surroundings, and in front of you was a very large, clearly much stronger than you, man. 

          “Look, darlin’. You hand ‘em over, and the three of us can split it. Whatddya say?” One of his eyes squints while the other remains the same, revealing his hidden smirk. 

          “If you think you’re gonna intimidate me into splitting a $15 bounty, you’ve got me mistaken, sir.” Before he can think to answer, his friend calls out. 

         “Arthur! What’s taking so damn long in there? Thought’chu said it’d be empty!” As he looks to the side, you take his momentary distraction as an opportunity to pull a throwing knife from your thigh and dart around him, wrapping your arm around his throat and pulling him to the ground, disarming him and knocking his hat off in the process. He grunted with surprise as you pressed the blade to his jugular and leaned down to whisper in his ear. 

          “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Arthur. Unless you want to bleed out right here, yer gonna get up, walk out, and tell yer little friend that my friend over here-“ you nod your head to the direction of the still unconscious man laying tied up on the floor “-wasn’t here and y’all need to search for some other bounty. Whaddya say?” You drawl, mocking him for his earlier offer. He chuckles lightly before removing his instinctive grip from your arms and raising his in front of him in defeat. 

          “Alright, girl. You got me, okay? We’ll be outta yer hair now.” He grunts as you remove your vice grip from his throat and sheath your knife back into its strap, allowing him to stand. He picked his hat back up and placed it on his head, and then retrieved his revolver from across the room. As he did so, you heaved the large, unconscious man over your shoulder with a grunt and gestured for the outlaw to leave first. 

         “Damn girl, you are one strong lady.” Arthur comments with a laugh, shaking his head as he walks out with his hands up in an attempt to make you trust him. You roll your eyes and watch as he takes a step to leave before stopping. You raise a brow and sigh frustratedly. This wasn’t your first time fighting over a bounty, but the result of this particular conflict left your hands clean and your mind confused. 

          “What are ya doin? Git!” Your free hand falls down to your side, hovering over your gun holster, shooting a heated look in the outlaws direction. 

He scoffed before answering, “Would you relax? Was gonna ask if you was all alone out here.” 

You laughed and shook your head.

“Why on earth would I tell you that?” You’re not stupid, you know he could’ve killed you if he had wanted to, but he didn't. It’s not that you aren’t strong, in fact you were very strong,  but when you had him on the ground it wasn't hard to tell how abnormally strong he was. It would’ve taken nothing to pull your arm away and either stab or shoot you, but he didn’t. Why?

          “I dunno, maybe you’re lonely out here. You’re clearly strong,” he chuckles when he says this, gesturing to the man on the floor behind you, “but it ain’t very safe for a lady out in these parts.” He shrugged, seemingly trying to figure out why he even asked in the first place. He didn’t seem the type to care all that much about the going ons in other people’s lives, in fact he seemed like he would otherwise be guarded and closed off. 

        “I ain’t no lady, sir. I’ve done a lot of very bad things to a lot of people. Good and bad.” You shook your head, and continued. “It ain’t very safe for anyone out in these parts. Everyone robbin’, killin’, shootin’, I ain’t the only one that has to look out for myself.” With a sigh, you place your gun back in your holster. ‘Is this guy leaving soon or what?’ you think to yourself. He seems to think about what you’re saying for a minute, pulling down his bandana to scratch at his stubble. And oh, oh god. He’s hot. So hot you swear the colour drained from your face and immediately came back as a bright red. Your breath hitches in your throat and you clear your throat.

         “Well, I s’pose that’s true. Bye now, ma’am.” He speaks, snapping you out of your brief trance. You watch as he leaves, nodding at you as the door shuts behind him. You wait about 2 minutes to see if ‘Arthur’ and his friend ‘John’ would re-enter the small cabin, guns drawn. However, they didn’t, and so you secure the unconscious man onto the back of your Arabian, and leave.

𐂂

Truthfully, Arthur didn’t want to hurt a woman, whether she was pointing a gun at him or not. He could tell that she was bluffing the moment he unholstered his gun and pointed it right back at her, too clear that she wouldn’t have shot him unless he tried to hurt her. This worried him, why isn’t her first instinct to kill an intruder, especially a male intruder? Besides this, the gang could use someone who was strong, capable, and actually stealthy. You would be perfect for late-night stagecoach robberies, silently slinking into barns while someone else distracted the homeowner. Even if this was true, he knew Mrs. Grimshaw would be quick to make you clean laundry and chop vegetables. 

“Arthur! Are you even listening to me?” John speaks, interrupting his thoughts. 

“No.” Arthur replies cheekily, looking at John under the brim of his hat. He wasn’t listening, how could he? He had just missed an incredible opportunity to bring someone useful to the camp, and he didn’t. 

“I was asking what happened with that bounty, asshole.” John scoffed, riding alongside Arthur on their way back to camp, $50 sitting in each of their pockets from a couple street robberies. 

Arthur sighed before speaking, “There was a girl, she got to him first.”

“And you just left? Let her take him?” Astounded, John shakes his head and picks up his pace. “What is happenin’ to you, Arthur Morgan? Lettin’ some girl take our bounty?” 

“What’d you want me to do John, shoot ‘er? Dutch told us to keep a low profile, not to go around killin’ young girls for a $75 bounty.” He scoffed, hearing voices appear in the distance and the rather unappetizing scent of Pearson's stew. Whatever John said next, he didn’t hear.   Arthur hitched his horse and strode over to the collection box, giving $30 and keeping $20 before retreating to his tent and bedroll for the night. He kicked off his boots and sat down, retrieving his journal from his messenger bag to write about his day. He pondered what to write about, but he already knew. 

He wanted to write about you. 

PLEEEEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS!!! i really struggle w accurately writing characters to how they are !!! if anything is corny/needs changes LET ME KNOW!! ok love u all hope u enjoyed!! chapter 2 should hopefully be out by next week<3

(also pls like + reblog ok thanks BAIIIII)

[cozyfoxy]

The Brackenwood Murders Chapter 1

Summary: After nine murders of gay men in Brackenwood, detective Phil Lester is called in at last to help them catch the killer. Dan Howell is always eager to get a scoop for his blog, so he is often in Phil's way. What has the potential to be an easy enough case proves to be much more in depth than Phil expects, especially when feelings come into the equation.

Chapter Two

Read on AO3

“The small town of Brackenwood was shaken this Friday evening when four children stumbled upon a dead body near Juniper Park. The four children, between the ages of eight and eleven, were riding their bikes when one of them spotted what they thought to be a lost shoe sticking out from under the brush, near the walking trail. When the children went to investigate, they realized that there was someone wearing the shoe and ran to find their parents. The police were quickly notified and are currently investigating.

“The body was identified as that of local Jace Pickens, aged nineteen. Jace was born and raised in Brackenwood and was a very active member of our community. Between his studies to become a high school professor and his part-time job at his father’s hardware store (Picken’s Hardware), he also found the time to volunteer at the local Baptist church every Saturday and Sunday, working with children who needed a little extra love. At the bottom of this post, you will find a link to Jace’s obituary. There, you can donate to the Picken’s family, offer condolences, or send flowers.

This is the ninth murder of local gay men in the past six years. All murders have been nearly identical in date, method, and victim type, though the local sheriff continues to ignore the possibility of a serial killer. However, it has been confirmed that for the first time ever in Brackenwood history, an outside source has been brought in to help investigate the murder. A renowned detective who is most well known for solving the string of murderers in Crumbleford all on his own is coming to our small town in the next few days. It’s wonderful to see these murders finally being taken seriously."

Currently, the police are trying to pin the murder on Logan Schmidt, aged twenty, Jace Picken’s longtime partner. Schmidt has alibis, as he was three towns over at his college campus, but they still want to pin it on him. It seems as though the police of Brackenwood want to get rid of the case rather than actually solve it. After six years and nine murders, they’re clearly anxious to have someone to blame besides themselves. Perhaps now that they have an actual detective, they will get off of their lazy, homophobic asses and do something to protect the community here. Follow for real-time updates, and until then, please stay safe out there. It’s just barely October now, and the Brackenwood killer could strike again.”

Chief Brewer groaned loudly and slammed his fist against his desk, sending a few stray papers flying. This journalist, blogger, whatever anyone wanted to call him, always got under the man’s skin. Not only did the author of the post always know more about their investigations than he should, he also had a bad habit of bringing his own views into his posts. Whether Cheif Brewer liked it or not, the blog was quite popular in their town, and everything posted on it would spread like wildfire.

A soft cough from his open door grabbed his attention from his wallowing. He looked up to see a smart-looking man, dressed in a navy blue suit. The man wore glasses that perched carefully on the bridge of his nose and held a dark brown briefcase in his right hand and a slightly damp umbrella in his other hand. Ah, Phil Lester was here at last.

“Detective Lester! Please come in and shut the door behind you if you don’t mind.” Chief Brewer exclaimed, jumping up to shake the man’s hand.

Phil smiled in silent thanks and stepped in, shutting the door carefully before shaking the balding man’s hand. He quickly realized that Chief Brewer was overly tired; deep purple bags were prominent beneath his eyes and coffee in his breath. Phil released the older man’s hand and took a seat, eager to get started on his new case.

“Alright Chief, I’d like to ask you some questions before I start my investigation. Mostly about what you have already figured out, but also just about the town and its people. I grew up just a few towns over, but I haven’t been up this way in years.” Phil explained, crossing his long legs after making himself comfortable.

Brewer cleared his throat and nodded, taking a seat at his desk across from Phil. “Of course, detective Lester, ask anything you need. We want to get this all taken care of as soon as we possibly can.”

“Please call me Phil. Formalities aren’t really my thing. Yes, I’m sure you do, but we can’t rush too much. This is a complicated case, and it has been going on for years based on my own research and understanding. My first question is, of course, why you neglected to call an outside source in for so long.” Phil asked, resting his chin against his fist.

Brewer flinched back slightly at Phil’s nonchalant tone, the back of his neck burning. He didn’t like being scrutinized. “Yes, of course, Phil. Well, we didn’t see it as something that needed help from an outside source. Most years, it was one murder, and that one murder would be the only one in Brackenwood for that year. Not much happens here, you know?”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “So, though each murder happened around the same time every year, with the same victim profile and the same murder method, you didn’t think it was a problem that needed help? The bodies are always found around the same vecinity too, Brewer. The men were raped before they were killed, but it wasn’t a serious problem.”

"Listen, Phil, no disrespect, but this is a small town. We try not to scare our residents unless there’s good reason to. It wasn’t until Jace Pickens was killed and found by some of our children that I accepted that we needed help. We don’t have many leads; whoever this killer is knows how to avoid being found.” Brewer explained, anger tightening his voice.

Phil nodded and ran his fingers through his slightly damp hair. “Okay, so I need any leads that you already have. Including a list of people who you have ruled out. Are there any significances that you know of for the dates of the murders? Do you have a profile of your murderer?”

“We do have a profile, yes, but I will be the first to say that it’s not very well put together yet. We believe the murderer is a male in his late twenties or early thirties. He is a local; that much is clear. He would have to be to avoid us for so long. One thing that my team doesn’t agree with is that he’s got an accomplice. I don’t think he works alone.” Brewer explained, opening a worn-down-looking folder, overflowing with papers.

Phil hummed, leaning forward eagerly, “Why do you think he’s not working alone? And you never answered my question. Is there any significance with the dates?”

Brewer pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to Phil, “Because the murders are all almost identical. The keyword being almost. The murder weapon is almost always a blunt object; my team thinks it could be a metal bat. But three of the murders were just different enough. On these three bodies, there were larger bruises. Bruises that were consistent with someone being beaten by fists. I can’t say for sure that it was two people against one, but I do have a hunch that just won’t go away.”

Phil took the paper that was given to him, looking at it curiously before looking back at the older man in front of him and asking, "What’s this?”

“That’s a list of important dates in this town for the homosexual community, specifically in October. I can’t take credit for it, it was written up by a local journalist of sorts. We normally don’t take him too seriously, but at times his posts are helpful.” Brewer explained, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket.

Phil nodded and smiled calmly. “Have you considered him a suspect yet?”

Brewer paused before shaking his head, “No. We don’t even know who he is; he uses a fake name and has strong security measures in place. We’ve tried to get into his computer system, but it didn’t work.”

“Interesting. I will surely be looking into that. One last question for now, and then I’ll be on my way. While I solve the case, what safety measures do you plan on implementing?” Phil asked, focusing intensely on the man in front of him.

Brewer stuttered, “Well, we have talked about setting up a curfew. We’ve already advised any gay men to stay inside and avoid any of their... activities.”

Phil cleared his throat softly. “First things first, I’m appearing on the local news station tonight to explain what my presence means and what we are doing to protect not only the gay men of Brackenwood, but their families as well. You’ve been in this line of work much longer than myself, you should know that pressure can make a criminal act out. This murderer might be frightened by me and act out. Everyone could be in danger. We’ll set up a curfew; everyone must travel in groups, and we’ll have your deputies stationed around Juniper Park at all times. But that won’t be public information. That’s all I’ll need from you for now.”

“Yes, um, thank you, Phil. I just hope this will be over with sooner rather than later.” Brewer said, standing up and shaking Phil’s hand one more time before Phil left the room, writing a note messily in his notebook.

“Brewer doesn’t care about the men dying; he just cares about the image of his town.” ~ Dan was sitting in his desk chair, typing eagerly, when a soft knock on his bedroom door startled him. “Come in!” He called out, not pausing his typing.

PJ walked in, closing the door behind him. “The news is going to be interviewing detective Lester down at the park. Wanna go down and watch?”

"Yeah, mate, I wanted to go anyways. We can get food after.” Dan suggested, saving his document before closing his laptop.

PJ chuckled, “Sounds good. Our readers will be expecting an update soon, so we need all of the information that we can get. Have you gotten anything out of Levi?”

“Not really. He’s been a little distant lately. Chief Brewer has been putting a ton of pressure on everyone to solve the case. Nice to know he finally cares.” Dan chuckled, pulling on his favorite Halloween jumper, a cat with ‘Boo!’ written above it.

Dan’s best friend rolled his eyes. “We both know that he doesn’t care. If he did, then maybe Liam wouldn’t be dead.”

The brunette tensed and looked down at his feet at the mention of Liam’s name. Liam was the third victim of the Brackenwood killer. Liam was also Dan’s first and only boyfriend, the first guy that ever stole his heart. The only guy that ever made Dan drop his walls and fall without fear. Dan hadn’t felt love since the night that Liam’s cold body was found, his lover’s mouth still open in a silent scream. Dan couldn’t help but think that Liam was screaming for him, but he wasn’t around. He was out getting high, just like he had promised Liam he wasn’t going to do.

“Hey, hey Dan. I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have said that, I just... I fucking miss him too, mate. If Brewer wasn’t such a piece of shit, then he would’ve caught the killer after the first murder. Dan, I’m sorry. Hey, don’t do that; you’ll hurt yourself.” PJ rambled, quickly pinning Dan’s arms to his sides when Dan began to bite his pointer finger.

Dan took a deep breath and looked at PJ with an emotionless expression, “I’m not mad at you. Let’s just go; we can be the first journalists to post about Lester’s plan.”

PJ watched Dan carefully before releasing his grip on him, backing away. “Yeah, that sounds great. But tomorrow, we’re both taking it easy. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.” Dan mumbled, walking past his best friend with a huff.

PJ closed his eyes for a silent moment and sighed. This time of year was always hard on them both, but this year seemed to be even more so for Dan. PJ couldn’t wrap his head around it, but Dan was angerier, more distant, and crying more. PJ could hear him sobbing at night, but he didn’t dare bother him about it; Dan would just deny it anyway. He walked to Dan’s desk, feeling his heart swell in his chest at the old photo of the three of them laughing while carving pumpkins together.

“Are you coming, Peej? Or should I leave without you?” Dan called from downstairs; the sound of jingling keys and an opening door filled PJ’s ears.

PJ rolled his eyes. “Oi, calm your ass down! I’m coming!” He yelled before rushing down the stairs, “You have no fucking patience, Dan? What’s wrong?”

In front of him, Dan was shaking violently, much like the day that Liam’s body was found. PJ felt sick to his stomach. “Dan? Dan?! What’s wrong?” He asked again, running over to his friend. In Dan’s hand was an open envelope, thick from whatever was inside. On the outside, written so messily that it was almost illegible, was Dan’s name. PJ reached out, for Dan or for the envelope he didn’t know; he just wanted to help in any way that he could.

“What’s in it?” PJ asked so quietly that he barely heard himself. The room felt unusually cold, though their heat was on.

Dan swallowed thickly and thrust the envelope to PJ, inviting him to look for himself. PJ reached in wordlessly, pulling out a small stack of polaroids, immediately recognizing Liam in the first picture. The red-haired man was laying on a mattress, naked, tied up, and gagged with tears in his green eyes. In the second picture, Liam was sucking someone’s cock, wearing a blindfold. The last photo was the most intense, with Liam tied up by his wrists and his ankles, with a masked man fucking him from behind. Liam’s mouth was hanging open, and he stared directly at the camera in a way that made PJ want to vomit.

“What…?” PJ whispered anxiously.

Dan shook his head quickly, pacing the small space in front of the doorway. “Read the fucking note, Peej.”

PJ took a shaky breath and unfolded the note, written in the same sloppy handwriting as was on the envelope.

“Liam wasn’t the man you thought he was, Daniel. I don’t often feel remorse for what I do, but I see you at his grave sometimes, crying out for him like he can hear you. He wasn’t studying on Friday nights; he was getting fucked by every man that wanted him. He was never faithful. to you, not once. No man that I’ve killed was innocent. They all deserved what I did to them. So please stop trying over an unfaithful asshole; he’s not worth it.”

PJ looked up from the note, his fingers shaking against the paper. No, it had to be a lie. Liam loved Dan more than anything; Liam was PJ’s best friend since childhood. Liam wouldn’t do something like that, right?

Dan swayed from side to side, “PJ... I think I’m going to be sick.”

PJ dropped the paper and the pictures just in time to catch Dan when he fainted, gently setting him onto the floor and onto his side. He sighed and ran his finger’s through Dan’s hair gently in a way of comfort. As soon as Dan came to, they would need to go to the police. As shocking and as terrifying as the note and pictures were, they could be evidence.

[bitchfitch]

The town called Starfall looked exactly like every other Tago had passed through since escaping and that made his scales chafe. A sandy main road lined with businesses preying on the ranch hands of the surrounding lands. A sky that never held clouds. An energy of everyone distrusting the outsider amongst them even as they smiled and welcomed him to open his wallet in this boot shop or that inn.

It was to be his home for however long it took for him to be chased out again. Coco, his dear mare, deserved a stable to call her own after all she'd been through getting him here.

There'd been a stranger in town for a week now and no one thought to warn Whiskey about it. That had them getting short with every patron that they knew had met the new snake in their midst. Whiskey may not be elected like the mayor or sheriff, but there was no denying that Starfall was Their town. They were who it was named after, if anyone cares.

Sure, people didn't Usually need to tell them when a stranger was passing through, but the snake had hidden himself so fully it wasn't until their daddy sent him to drop off a cart of new stock that they even knew he existed.

He was tall. Whiskey didn't like that. What's a man need to be that tall for? Scaled with eyes like a cottonmouth, snake inside and out this one. And he wore a thick rag tied around the lower half of his face and another over the top of his head, his hat holding it in place and making it look like long hair from a distance. Whiskey didn't like that either. What's he hiding?

He's hiding a lot that is. Whiskey could tell you every little thought that happened in this town, but this snake? Not a single hint as to what was going on in that bald head. They could feel the outline of his mind like coils wrapped around a rat so they knew he Had one. They just didn't get to see it.

It didn't help one bit that the snake stared. The entire time Whiskey was counting over the stock of bottles and jars to make sure this "Tago" fellow didn't pocket anything he just stared at them. Kept his head down so his eyes were in the shade.

"Uh, my apologies. I was only told one of y'all's name..." he finally drawled out. He had a nice voice, Whiskey didn't like that.

"It's Whiskey, Whiskey Rivers," they responded using both of their mouths. He should know they were only one person even if they weren't connected. If he weren't guarded against them he wouldn't have even had to ask such an awkward question.

"Both of you- uh- I uh, I've never met twins with the same name," he scratched the back of his neck, "Tis nice name. I get why your folks would use it twice?"

""We" aren't twins. I'm Whiskey. That's me too," they pointed to themselves dismissively. "Whatcha take from this?"

"Nothing Ma'am- I mean Sir I mean-"

"Just Whiskey is fine."

"Nothing Whiskey. I'm real grateful to your father for giving me work, I'm not stealing anything from you all."

They eyed him up. They didn't like not being able to see in his head one bit.

"What's wrong with you?"

"What-"

"I asked, what's wrong with you? There's something going on no hiding it. I can tell you aren't right. Anyone else? I can see inside their head no problem, but You? It's like youve got nothing. I can't tell if you're lying or telling the truth."

Tago wilted the entire time they spoke. his polite and straight posture curling and getting tense as he finally looked away.

"Nothing I did. Promise. I don't know what would cause it. My adopted mother, she was a witch. Must've done something to me," he rambled. "I got to go, just let me unhitch Coco and I'll be out your hair."

"Mhh -hmm. Get," Whiskey kept an eye on him the entire time he got his horse free from their daddy's cart. He moved quick and it made his jacket ride up just enough to flash the handle of the shiny revolver he had tucked in his pants.

"What a man like you need a gun like that for?"

"Uh-" his hand went to pull his jacket back over it, "It was a gift. I'm a good shot. I promise I don't mean to start any trouble in your town."

"Let me guess. You don't mean to start nothing but trouble finds you anyway?"

"Yeah, something like that..."

The next time Whiskey saw that Tago fellow he was being true to his word, at least.

It wasn't that trouble had a tendency to find Tago, more so it was that trouble is hunting him down to collect on a bounty no amount of begging for his life could match.

Today trouble looked like two of the ranch owners spotting him while he was walking down to the Starfall Saloon to drop off a gift for Whiskey on behalf of their daddy.

The two men didn't make their approach subtle. Tago could have pulled Missy out of where he kept her holstered and ended the encounter before it began, but he was liking his life here too damn much. Maybe he was mishearing them. maybe he wasn't the snake faced motherfucker they were looking for. Maybe he could make it to the saloon before they worked up their courage.

He walked faster, kept his shoulders straight. The soft blue painted doors were in his sight. No fighting on the saloon, Whiskey may not like him, but they seemed the sort to not let their rules be crossed.

Rapid steps behind him and then a shock of pain through his jaw as he was tackled through the saloon doors. Tago managed to stop his fall, but the impact with the floor sent a knife of agony up his bad arm. He twisted in the grip around him. Instinct more than active thought driving him to snap at the face of his assailant. His fangs closed around nothing but his own face cover. The rancher having pulled back in time to avoid a lethal bite. Tago's head wrang as the brute knocked his head back against the wood boards with a mighty strike. His knuckles bruising the skin under Tago's scales.

"What do you lot think you're doing!?" Whiskey was there. Both of their halves grabbing the brave rancher by the back of his shirt and hauling him off Tago like he weighed nothing. "What's my one rule Steve? It's no fighting in my damn saloon."

They shoved him back, Tago couldn't pick his head up to watch. The room was spinning bad enough to make him feel like he was back in his home river getting whipped along by hidden currents.

"There's a bounty on that one worth a 100 head herd-"

"And do that mean you get to break my rule? No. Out! Stevenson you too, I want to see none of either of you until you learn your damn manners."

One half of them, the one Tago had mistaken for a man, comes to bend over him, their nighttime black eyes squinted as they tried to decide what to do with him while the lady half dealt with the ranchers.

Tago's head was too fuzzy to put two thoughts together, but he'd come here for a reason dammit. He reached into his jacket to pull the small, slightly crushed, parcel he'd been sent to deliver. Holding it up to them as his vision started to go grey.

"Y-your d-daddy sends h-his regards."

[adultswim2021]

The Venture Bros. #44: "Perchance to Dean" | November 2, 2009 - 12:00AM | S04E03

This episode sorta drove home how much better this season is. I went into this one thinking of it as a non-highlight; sort of a middling episode of the season. Jackson Publick, the writer of the episode, says of it: “I don’t think this is anybody’s favorite”. That’s an accurate statement, probably. Hell, by some token it’s inessential; I don’t think any of the other big lore-heavy episodes of the show reference this one in any significant way. But here’s the thing: this is still a very good episode that has GREAT moments. 

This one starts with a flashback, where Brock is new to the Venture compound, wearing a baja. He doesn’t speak, so Patrick Warburton doesn’t get a cool hundo for this one. The clone slugs are all babies at this point in the chronology, and Doc just spotted a deformed Dean. He flushes the dud, who, we soon find out, somehow survives and has become a full-grown young man in current-day time.

Dud Dean has been digging up dead Deans and making a nasty skin suit out of them, so he can become the real deal. This dude is all messed up. He also hallucinates a ghostly Doc Venture who tells him to be bad and murder the real Dean on account of him running out of shallow-grave Dean clones to harvest. 

Meanwhile, the rift between Dean and Hank is getting worse; Doc is trying jump-start Dean’s future of super science by introducing him to the ultimate super-science muse: progressive rock. Dean takes to it and feels inspired, and immediately sets to work on coming up with a cure to reverse baldness, as he seems to be destined to lose his hair like his father.

Hank, meanwhile, is grounded for defiantly sass-pissing on his father’s bathroom floor. He's being forced to do chores while he nurses his case of sour grapes. Dermott, his hoodlum friend (strongly implied to be Brock’s illegitimate son in season three), sneaks into the compound, calling their security a “joke”. It just so happens that Doc Venture and Sgt. Hatred have set to work on beefing up their security system by placing combustible replicas of Rusty everywhere. 

A little bit of sitcom-style mistaken identity with a Dean corpse (being dug up and stolen by the mutant Dean clone) leads Hank to believe that he killed his own brother while joyriding in his dad’s car. Dean thinks his science experiment somehow grew his mutant, who is now chasing him around the compound. Local police are descending on the compound after some complaints. Then, spoiler alert, mutant dean explodes while hallucinating a moment with one of the Rusty land-mines. It’s pretty wonderful and cinematic, and has a great abrupt ending. 

Reggie Watts is in this one as a package delivery driver for an unspecified driver. He does a great job, and I forgot that was him until I was reminded that it was in the commentary track for the episode. Hank racistly assumes he has the shining (like Scatman Crothers in Stanley Kubrick’s motion picture of Steven King’s The Shining), and in a pretty funny reversal we find out he actually might. He calls the local sheriff sensing that something bad is going to happen there.

It sounds like in the writing process that the two main goals of this episode was to make use of a huge cache of prog rock jokes Jackson and Doc had been riffing on. Even though it’s still a fairly significant part of the episode, it was still reduced more than they thought it would be. This was also based on the idea of how much it must suck to live near the Venture compound, and have neighbors/civilians get involved.

The deformed clone plot-line is probably not terribly popular with fans. It IS fairly hard to believe that a clone slug could, as a baby, survive in the walls or whatever into adulthood. If The Venture Bros. has anything close to having a "Principal and the Pauper" episode, it’s probably this; in that the events of it don’t really get referred to much, if at all. Deformed Dean's attic hideout does become Goth Dean's new bedroom in later seasons, but I'd say that's less about poetic rhyming and more like an Easter egg. I say this one's still better than a lot of season three episodes, and there’s a lot of fun to be had if you want it. Hey, guys? Who doesn’t like to have some fun? :) 

MAIL BAG:

Hey man, season 3 of Jellystone, a cartoon on Max with Hanna-Barbera characters, came out last week and ep 14 features Space Ghost voiced by George Lowe and Brak voiced by Andy Merrill. Zorak and Moltar are featured too, but new voices. It’s your duty to tell the world and thank you for your service!

You know something? These clips popped up on YouTube and--I guess you could pretentiously call this "the YouTube effect" if you want--I assumed that they were old and I just never saw them until now.

I liked the clips I saw just fine, and I respect and support the Jellystone show without ever actually on-purpose watching it. I guess I don't mind them recasting Zorak and Moltar in this context, but I'd be disappointed if they tried to revive Coast to Coast with the new actors. Space Ghost Coast to Coast should just stay dead, at least in an audio/visual form. That is my take and it is precious and a gift to the entire world.

[crazy56u]

Well, my stomach feels like crap, and a lot of things could be going better all over.

At least Ben gets to punch a Nazi this week.

Last time on Quantum Leap: Ian's shitty microchip is causing problems, Addison flushed her wedding ring, and Ben convinced a waitress to go into computer science.

And Ben gets to see that guy die again.

"GODDAMNIT LAWRENCE, 'PATHFINDER' ISN'T HELPFUL LAST WORDS!"

And Rock Paper Scissors time is interrupted by the computers breaking again.

"Do I have your attention?" If it turns out this is actually Janis hacking the Project again from Hawaii, and that's the real extent of the chip subplot...

"Look, Ian, I don't know why you're surprised that I'm the bad guy..."

Meanwhile, back in 1955, the cops are still not helpful.

"Hmmm... random guy finding a dying guy... ... ...you a Commie?"

"I'm gonna ask you to not leave town. Luckily, this episode is set entirely in this town."

Princeton 1955 is the most exciting place in the scientific community, right next to the place where the guy who discovered the BLJ in Mario 64 lives.

I honest to God hope they have Einstein cameo in this.

"Hey, we're three guys in suits and hats. Here's the waitress from the alien episode. And yes, that does mean a one-minute commercial break."

Hannah isn't a leaper, she just has an amazing skin care routine.

"Maybe the accelerator decided you needed a friend." Jenn, not for nothing, but that was unintentionally sad due to how you phrased that...

Oh shit, they invented the machine from Sliders.

Okay, so, knowing real world history, the Nazis are 100% gonna smash that thing.

"Look, I'm just a bald white guy talking to the guy from Quantum Leap, you don't need to be here, 1940s Waitress."

Oh, damnit, Einstein's already dead...

"You kept Einstein waiting, and he died. How does that make you feel, shithead?"

Hmmmmmm... I wonder if there is a connection between the evil spies circling the 1955 Project, and the subplot going on at the 2026 Project, that is a toughie...

Hannah just solved the formula for Red Bull.

MORAL OF THE STORY: The scientific community is misogynistic as fuck, even in the 1950s.

"Apparently, you're from New Mexico?" "Yeah, I had to move after this guy helped the sheriff bust a government coverup involving aliens and car crashes."

"Look, Hannah, I need you to stay in the episode, Einstein did secret science shit, I need your help."

"Have we met before, you remind me of Raymond Lee..."

The scientific method: Break into a dead guy's house.

"Magic picked a hell of a day to have a day off, it's almost like he's dealing with alcoholism or something..."

You went to Princeton in 2005, oh dear God, I am so sorry...

And we see that the guy Ben leapt into looks like a car salesman.

"Did you just refer to Einstein as 'Al'?" "Yeah, that means I'm cooler than you."

And Ben looks like he crapped himself.

"Okay, we're at the library that looks like Church."

"Look, Ben, if you decided to quit everytime Ziggy tells us there was a murder coverup in the original history, we wouldn't have a show."

I legitimately would not be surprised if it turns out people were lying and Hannah is actually a secret leaper.

"Is everything okay?" "Yep, totally fine, totally not gonna rip Ian's head off, what's a data breach?"

"Look, Ian, either you tell security what's going on, or I will be pissed."

At this point, just start throwing the books, maybe you'll get somewhere.

"Tell them to check the second floor. There, I did my job, I have a point in the show-" "Uh, I ain't going back into the Imaging Chamber, Ben fired me."

And Ben meets his replacement.

"Hi, Ben, I'm Tommy!" "(barely constrained look of resentment)"

"Look, I know Addison left you for me, but I went here in 2005, I know what I'm talking about."

"Wait, was it this wall, how do secret passages work again?" "Dude, what the fuck?!" "In my defense, I drank a lot!"

Oh, shit, I have that clock in my living room.

"Okay, if I were Albert Einstein... (fucks with the clock)"

And she has a Zippo, I'm starting to piece together how she died in that building fire...

Oh shit, a guy's doing jazz hands.

"Look, I don't care if you have a knife, you ain't getting in here!" "OH YEAH?! (shoves open door; causes a fire)"

[We are already lagging...]

[How many people are aware that M&Ms did a sequel to that ad a few years ago?]

Ben, you had a cane, why didn't you immediately clock him in the head?

"There, we got the journal, and we decided to not leave they guy behind to die in the fire for some reason, we are doing alright." "Ben, he killed Lawrence." "Okay, back into the fire he goes."

And there's the Nazis.

"Operation Paperclip": AKA, "The Governement wanted to make NASA, but didn't have enough scientists."

I don't know why, but the orange glow, plus the Kate conversation, makes Tommy look like he aged 30 years, I have to imagine that was deliberate.

"Oh, it's incredible, Einstein's journal fucking rules…"

So, what's the over/under on that journal getting burned?

"I studied Greek, it looks like Einstein was having a stroke…"

"If this works, it'll change the world." So, what's the over/under on that journal getting burned?

"Ben, that code will fucking break the world, it makes bombs." So, what's the over-

"Look, I don't care if you're Raymond Lee, but this is important science, I'm taking it with me-" "OKAY, FUCK IT, I'M BLOWING MY COVER, WE MET IN 1947!"

Okay, I meant that as a joke, I didn't expect Ben to actually do that, hot damn…

"Ben, stop breaking the rules!" "Fuck outta here, bitch boy!"

"I fucked up an Einstein quote, that's how you know I'm Raymond Lee!"

"Look, are you familiar with a guy named Samuel Beckett?"

"The most romantic bit of physics". Meanwhile, Addison flushed her ring.

"How long are you here for?" "My guess, I'm gone the second we burn that journal."

Uh oh, misogyny.

"Okay, I gotta dip, keep this." "Okay, cool. Zippo time!"

"Rachel, our secret shit fucked up the Project, I'm about to have a panic attack."

"What do you need?" "I need a data patch?" "That will cost me my job." "Again, panic attack-" "Ian, I was gonna say yes regardless."

"Hey, you wanna be a Nazi scientist? Let's take a trip to Glasgow! (slashes face)"

Oh, shit, the bald guy was the bad guy?!

"Ben, I need you to punch that bald guy, he's a Nazi."

"…um, I can't reproduce shit?" "… … …so, you know I'm a Nazi, eh?!"

[Annnd TEXT LIMIT!]

[annaphoenix1994]

Ch.33 - Friends Close, Enemies Closer

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

Kiera starts her search for the culprit of the cattle crime.

Bud paced along the field of deceased cattle, his lips pursed and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Kiera stood alongside him as Frankie and Lawson walked along the corpses of the livestock. "Sir," Lawson said, approaching him with a clasp of what looked like wheat grass. "Found your culprit."

Bud took the grass from Lawson's hand, bringing it up to his nose before slinging it to the ground. "Goddamn clover," He mumbled. "This is a fuckin' crime scene. Kiera, call your brother and get livestock agents out here."

She nodded, removing her phone from the pocket of her bibs. Dennis was considered the black sheep of the family, but he wasn't included nonetheless. He lived off of the ranch with a family of his own as well as ran his own real estate business.

"Cole, you're not a reserve agent anymore, you're on regular duty. You cover this area. I don't even want a fuckin' bird landing on it. Got me?"

"Yes, sir." Cole nodded.

"You, come with me." Bud pointed to his daughter, both Soap and Simon watching as they all shared a look of confusion. What the fuck is happening here?

"Looks like we have another fight on our hands, honey." Bud said lowly, adjusting his hat.

"Do you have any idea who would do this?"

"No," He shook his head. "That's why I need your help."

"I'll get right on it."

"Use my office in the lodge."

Once the sheriff arrived, tension seemed tense between Bud and sheriff Richards, the men glaring at each other as if they had a past conflict. "So, you think this was intentional?"

Bud nodded.

"I don't see any tire tracks. The fence is way over there, so nobody threw it over and it didn't fall out of the fucking sky--"

"That's exactly what it did."

Richards scoffed, "So you think someone flew a plane over here and dropped clover on your cattle in the middle of the night?"

"That's the only thing I can think of," Kiera added, the tension between the three rising, Simon's fingers flexing against the reins in his hands as he stayed on his horse as well as the rest of the team. "Could've been a King Air, which is designed for skydiving and has a side door large enough and could hold the weight."

"Why would anyone do that? Who would do that?" Richards questioned.

"That's what we need to find out."

"Bud, I have no jurisdiction. Cattle is Chris's department. What can I do for you?" He sighed, referring to Chris Farley - the Livestock Commissioner of Wyoming.

"Well, Chris has six four full-time agents and two reserves. He doesn't have the manpower for this investigation. I need your deputies."

"No, I can't spare any deputies," Richards shook his head. "There's more county police guarding the jail than who I have out on patrol."

"You wanna help so bad, then give me deputies or deputize my men, and not in eight weeks - right now, right now in this field."

"Which ones?"

Bud turned and looked at his daughter, "Her, for starters."

Richards scoffed, Simon seeing the borderline disgust Richards had once he laid eyes on her. And he didn't like it. "Isn't she still on duty with her federation?"

"On leave." Kiera corrected.

Richards paused, looking down to the ground at his feet, ignoring the searing pain of his fingers freezing from the harsh wind.

"In case you haven't noticed, there's a war going to start in this valley," Bud said to Richards, patting the sheriff's shoulder. "Today is the day you choose sides."

He sighed, removing his hat and the wind nipping at his semi-bald head, "I'll issue the permit, but she has got to understand that a gun isn't the first thing she reaches for. I know how she is--"

"She's trained to use it."

"Well, now you train her not to use it," Richards scoffed, watching Bud walk to his daughter. "If it comes out of your holster, you better have a sure-as-shit reason to use it, got it?"

"Loud and clear." She sighed, looking over at Simon, embarrassed that the "Christmas Break" had to come to an end. You're about to see why we're all so crazy, babe...

"If she calls dispatch for support, I expect you to give it to her," Bud shouted, his hands on his hips as he watched Richards walk away towards his car. "Did you hear me?" He repeated.

"I heard you, Bud! The whole goddamn valley heard you!"

Bud shook his head, scoffing as he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lighting it before looking to Kiera, "I know you can find out who did this. Find the evidence. When you do, you drag him by the hair back to me."

"You got it, daddy," Kiera nodded, sighing as she returned to her horse, the split rein clasped between Simon's fingers as he kept her horse still for her. "Guess I'm back to work." She frowned.

"Don't worry. We'll find out who did this, love." He encouraged her.

"I need to make a call."

He furrowed his brows at her, asking who.

*

Simon sat in the guesthouse with the rest of the men, shaking his leg impatiently with both worry and anxiousness as he hadn't seen Kiera since discovering the deceased cattle in the field. A beer bottle clasped between his fingers, leaving all but two sips as it had been hours since he had seen her. What is going to happen? Is someone starting a war with her family? I need to do something.

"What's eating at you, Simon?" Price asked, taking note of Simon's worry by his furrowed brows and sad eyes.

"Never seen nothing like it."

"Nor have I," Price sighed. "She has it under control. You should know that by now."

"It's not her I worry about - I worry about who this person is that intentionally did this."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what's going to be worse: when her father gets a hold of him or when she gets a hold of him."

Price breathed a chuckle, lighting a cigar and offering one to Simon, "She's a walking fit of rage, but I don't think I've ever seen her as angry as I did today."

"I don't know about that, she was spitting fire that night I found her in the prison break," Alejandro added. "I feel sorry for whoever decided to start a war with her."

"It had to have been someone who knew of this place. Aren't cattle worth thousands?"

"Yeah, per head," Simon added with his extended knowledge of raising cattle by overhearing conversations between Kiera and her father. "At least fourteen hundred per cow."

"Fuck," Soap sighed, sipping from his bottle of beer. "Wonder how many there were?"

Simon shrugged, "Frankie and Lawson are counting them." He recalled, remembering how they stayed behind to get an exact number of fallen livestock before herding the bloating heifer they had saved to the barn for recovery.

"Is-Is there anything we should do?"

"I don't know. As much as we shouldn't expect to, have your guns ready just in case."

The desire to go to the lodge and check on her was unraveling within every minute, noting that dusk was approaching. Removing his gifted phone from his pocket, the corner of his mouth curled as he looked at the wallpaper he had figured out how to set - his favorite photo of her he had kept in his uniform breast pocket, glad he was able to set it to where he can look at it every time he looked at his phone.

Finding the 'messages' app, he searched her name, relieved that she had programmed it already for him by putting in her contact information as well as the rest of his team's, knowing he was always eager to keep in contact with his friends--

Family.

Today, 4:18 PM

Simon: Are u in the lodge

The text was simple, yet held so much worry behind his screen as he waited for her to read it, wondering if it would even notify him that she had. He set the phone aside, ensuring the ringer was on before trying to peer his focus on the television that both Price and Gaz had their attention to.

You two are seriously obsessed with that show, he scoffed to himself, forcing him to watch as he knew better than to ask Price to change the channel.

It was "Lizard Lick Towing."

Soap joined in on the watch party, chuckling at Ronnie on the screen. "I like his haircut." He commented, referring to Ronnie's mohawk.

"Of course you do." Simon scoffed, rolling his eyes before they darted to his phone, seeing Kiera had finally replied to him.

Today, 4:47 PM

Kiera: No. On my way back from Cody. Should be home in an hour.

Simon: ok. be careful

Kiera: I'll think about it.

Simon huffed at her response.

Simon: I love you

Kiera: I love you, too. See you soon. :)

*

The sound of Kiera's truck caught Simon's attention from the kitchen of her house, wanting to have dinner at least started for her when she returned. Though Kiera wished the roles were reversed, thinking that she was the one who needed to have dinner ready for him after a long day.

Unbeknownst to her, Simon thoroughly enjoyed cooking for her. Granted, he wasn't the best cook, but it reminded him of how he would cook for his mother when she was sick. It was nostalgic to him as his wandering thoughts sunk back into the depression of finding her deceased from enemy forces, the memory never failing to leave his mind.

He heard her rustling with the doorknob, turning his head to watch her enter the house with a smile on her face. She was wearing a bulletproof vest with a badge hanging around her neck with a laptop clutched under her arm. "Hey," She smiled, the velcro of her vest ripping apart as she removed it along with her badge, setting it on the table as well as the laptop before walking up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and seeking his natural warmth. "You don't have to start dinner, I can-"

"I'm going to," He hummed, placing a delicate kiss to her neck as he was grateful for her return. "Look at you, little miss deputy." He poked.

"I figured I should've been suspicious when this break went on too long," She frowned. "You sure you want to deal with me and this crazy family?"

"Positive. As long as it's with you, the whole world can throw itself at me."

She smiled, leaning her head on his chest as her fingers spread through his hair. "I'm trying to find any leads. So far, nothing."

"You'll figure it out, C.I.A." He encouraged.

"It's one thing if it's terrorism, which I'm used to, but I've never had to deal with something like this before. Someone is wanting to attack this family and it's up to me to stop it."

"Well, I'll be guns-ready if it comes down to it."

"Oh, I know," She chuckled. "I pity whoever it is."

"That's for sure."

*

A loud moan ricocheted from the shower walls as Simon had her pinned against it, her hands bracing against the wet tiles as he had a bruising hold on her hips. Hot water streamed down his back, leaving marks in its wake. Neither had expected to be having a lovemaking session in the shower, but her constant teasing and his eagerness for her touch were too much to ignore. In one powerful thrust, she felt her feet shift against the shower floor, causing her to gasp, "Baby, don't let me fall." She giggled.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere." He smirked, using his body to push her up further against the wall, his lips finding her shoulder and pressing a soft kiss there, his growing beard scratching against her skin.

She reached her arm around his neck, turning her head to kiss him as his thrusting began to subside, his hot breath against her ear before he peppered kisses to the skin behind her ear when his hand reached down to slide down her leg, lifting it up to where her foot rested on the side of the tub, giving him deeper access. She gasped, leaning her head back onto his shoulder as his head cradled hers, their cheeks pressed together.

He listened to her moans, holding back from edging her as he did before, and let her enjoy the release of her orgasm, his soon to follow. The grip on the back of his neck intensified as her rush of ecstasy consumed her as his hand fondled her clit as his massive arm snaked down her torso.

He encouraged her through her orgasm with three delicate kisses to the crook of her neck, "There you go, love. Let go." He encouraged her, his other hand gripping her hip and rubbing soothing circles on the bone, ensuring her that he was there to help tame the wave of arousal.

She panted in overstimulation briefly as Simon's orgasm was soon to follow, his grip tightening on her as the rush subsided.

She relaxed into his touch, the water becoming too hot as the surface of her skin matched with his was beyond intensifying. "At least we're already in the shower to clean up the mess." She giggled, feeling his smirk on her lips at her comment.

"Makes it easier, doesn't it?" He smirked, reaching for the washcloth that was draped over the side of the tub, running his fingers through his wet hair as his body caught all of the water during their intimacy.

He helped wipe away the stickiness between her legs as she held onto him for support, turning the heat of the water down as he helped guide her to the falling water, insisting on washing her hair for her.

"You know something?"

He hummed in response, the pads of his fingers massaging her scalp gently.

"We never started dinner."

"Well, you were desperate to have a shower," He chuckled. "Besides, I'm never against having dessert before dinner."

"I'm surprised we didn't use all of the hot water." She blushed.

His lips pressed against her shoulder, "I mean, give me a few minutes and I'll be ready to have you against the wall again."

"Don't tempt me."

*

"Are you ever going to stop working for the day?" Simon huffed as he made her a plate of fresh food, seeing she was still on her laptop. 

"Eventually," She sighed, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "I just have to make a call." 

"It can't wait for the morning?" 

"Not something like this, babe." 

He sighed, "I'll take your word for it. Just at least eat." 

She nodded as he sat the plate of food next to her, closing the lid to her laptop before beating him to the fridge, getting him a drink before getting her own, a grin on her face as she watched him make his own. She rushed to compile the data she had been needing to search, jotting down quick notes before he joined her at the table, knowing he had been glaring at her. "Thank you," He said, appreciative that she put away her work to have dinner. "Find anything?" 

"No," She sighed, opening her can of Dr. Pepper. "I need names to run through a database and see if I can pinpoint who would've had that plane." 

"It had to have been someone with deliberate intentions." 

"I know. I ran Graves' name to see if he owned a plane. Even though he's dead, it wouldn't surprise me if word got around to take me out." 

Simon gulped.

The table fell quiet as the couple ate, a mischievous chuckle filtering through her nose as she looked up to the ceiling, Simon watching as, out of habit, reached her hand toward her shirt pocket in search of her vape pen. "What is it?" He asked, swallowing his food as he watched her chuckle. "Kiera?" 

"Right under my goddamn nose." 

[reospeeddragon]

eddie munson x og female character

Hazy Shade of Winter - a Stranger Things fanfic

Act I: Twilight Zone

"Help I'm stepping into the twilight zone

The place is a madhouse,

Feels like being cloned

My beacon's been moved under moon and star

Where am I to go, now that I've gone too far?"

POV: Winter Reid

I suppose growing up in any suburb in any corner of America in 1986 is largely the same. There are all the markers of a "thriving" small town.

A locally owned grocery market, a brick library building, sheriff cars rolling down quiet streets looking to catch teens getting high in the alleyway outside the movie theater. You will probably pass a quaint elementary school just steps from the high school, where kids park their bikes and teenagers park their cars not too far apart. And, of course, it wouldn't be the 1980s without the local video store.

Inside, two teens stock the shelves with movies about young boys riding their bikes searching for buried treasure, movies about girls who sit in class and pine after the jock with the luscious hair who sits with his feet up on his desk one row ahead of her, or, if it's to your taste, scary movies, ones full of nightmares, kids toys gone wrong, or brushes with something extraordinary and extraterrestrial.

The neon, the flashing lights, the fireworks... it all keeps our heads swiveling. We look incessantly for opportunities to waste hard-earned dollars on the latest trend or gadget.

Madonna and Michael J. Fox.

Walkmans and Weird Science.

Hair Metal Bands and Farrah Fawcett Hairspray.

It's the simple life, right? Everyone is looking for distraction.

Mom sets a casserole on the table at dinnertime and secretly crushes on the lifeguard at the community pool. A teen turns up the radio in her room and sneaks out of the window to meet a boy in an idling Ford outside. Dad grabs a can of beer, leans back in his la-z-boy, and laughs at sitcoms on TV.

Follow the trends, don't look up.

It makes people feel safe. It makes people feel normal. But Hawkins is far from normal.

Ignorance can be bliss. We try not to worry too much about the missing boy from the outskirts of town or how the brand-new mall tragically burnt down in the summer of '85. Those are unpleasant events in small-town life, the dark underbelly living under all the newness.

If you can, you will ignore it.

The illusion begins to waver once you leave the big houses with their long driveways and Reagan/Bush 84 lawn signs. If you travel outwards, you'll pass dense trees and black roads littered with potholes.

A deer struck by a car is left out in the cold, taking its last shuddering breaths in the ditch - its eyes watch the first few drops of rain beginning to fall. This is the edge of Americana, not as shiny or as new, but real nonetheless. A lopsided wooden sign at the top of a sloping dirt drive reads:

Forest Hills Trailer Park

Trailers sit at odd angles like monopoly pieces left out in the mud, abandoned by a careless child. They are identical in their desolation, with the same rectangular shape and dirty exteriors. There aren't any pools or lawns unless you count the clumps of grass spread across the dirt like patches of hair on a balding man's skull.

People live here, too, although no one thinks much of them. We all go to the same schools because there is just one Hawkins High and one Hawkins Middle. Inside the trailers, you'll see people working to live. They get home after a long shift to their quiet box and find comfort in a microwave dinner and a can of beer.

The drink is not entirely cooled because the fridges here are always lukewarm, but they open it and sip nonetheless. They're trying to be oblivious, too, although it's much harder when you don't have all the modern comforts to stack around you and create a wall between yourself and reality.

The air smells different here - it isn't spiced with pies cooling on window sills or the scent of fresh-cut lawn. The wind cuts sharper against the exposed cheeks of the residents. Lights buzz and flicker at random. Stray cats drink out of muddy puddles. Sheets hang on clotheslines, billowing and floating like ghosts in a graveyard.

It's quiet here... well, quiet enough. Eventually, you get used to the sound of the guitar blaring from the Munson trailer or the incessant barking from the Johnson's dog. Even the sounds from the woods, the low groans and chitters, it all turns to white noise at some point.

We do our best here. You learn to accept what you can't change and find comfort in dreams and wishes.

I remember sitting outside on the picnic table a few days after the mall fire. Eddie Munson stood smoking on his porch. He wore cut-off blue jean shorts - a chain hung through the belt loops on his right hip. He held his arms out like a tightrope walker, setting one black hightop converse shoe down, then the other right in front.

He walked heel to toe and tried to maintain a straight line, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration. He wore a white sleeveless band tee - the fabric frayed over his tanned arms.

I was dressed in a pale sundress. My oversized denim jacket slipped lightly off my shoulders and hung at my elbows. I could feel the warm sun graze my upper back as my pencil sketched across the blank page in front of me.

"I can't believe the mayor's precious mega mall is now a pile of ashes," Eddie said and set a cigarette between his lips. He took a long puff and tilted his chin up, blowing the smoke upwards.

"People died, Eddie."

I looked over at him and drew my eyebrows together, bothered by his lack of sensitivity. He met my gaze with a small smile. He always found my tendency towards compassion a little naive.

"What's the official story?" He tilted his head. "Oh yeah... Teenagers break in and set off a Roman Candle through skylight."

His voice boomed like a newscaster reading a scrolling headline. One hand lifted, and his fingers stretched to resemble a firework bursting in the air as he made an explosion sound effect.

He looked at me with his lips pursed into a smirk. I shook my head at him in disapproval. This caused his lips to part into a full grin. He jumped off of the porch steps and shuffled over to me. He sat on the picnic bench, his legs straddling the seat, and faced me. I focused on tracing the stem of a marigold, but I could feel his eyes on me.

"I'd say it's a win in the battle against conservative, conformist culture," he said.

I didn't look up. I was unimpressed by his big words.

He smiled slowly and continued, "Now that they've burnt down their precious The Gap and hot dog on a stick... where, oh, where will the moms go to do Jazzercise now?" He waved a hand dismissively and cigarette smoke curled in the air.

I snorted out a laugh. He leaned in, trying to force me to pay attention to him.

I finally rolled my eyes over to his.

"Well, with any luck, maybe the moms will move their Jazzercise club here. That way, you can watch them from your bedroom window."

He scoffed, "Yeah, that's not really my type."

"Don't lie, Eddie. I know you have a secret thing for Olivia Newton-John." I batted my eyelashes at him innocently.

His hand suddenly reached over and snatched my pencil.

"Hey!" I protested.

He leaned back, the pencil twirled through his fingers and rolled along his knuckles.

"This town is cursed, Winnie," he said, using the nickname he picked out for me when I first moved here... even though I hate it.

"It's just another Hawkins tragedy."

I reached for my pencil. He slid backward on the bench and taunted me by swishing my pencil through the air.

I set my elbow down on the table and leaned my cheek into my palm.

"Just like that boy who everyone thought was dead two years ago. Just like the pumpkins that were all poisoned last Halloween..." I shrugged. "Shit happens."

Eddie smiled and leaned forward, offering me the pencil back. I reached out for it, but he snatched it back again and quickly tucked it behind his ear. He slapped his thighs and hopped up on the bench. I looked up at him, bewildered.

"What are you doing?"

He held his cigarette in one hand, which hung by his side, the other slowly raised to his mouth, forming a fist. Suddenly, a discordant jumble of sounds fell out of his mouth, causing me to flinch and let out a surprised giggle. His neck snapped left to right, and he continued to produce a sound effect that I gathered was meant to sound like radio static.

He jumped atop the picnic table, towering above me and looking as if he was on a stage. I held my breath in anticipation, unsure what he would do next.

He began to speak softly into his closed fist as if it was a walkie-talkie.

"Status report: USA, Indiana, 1985..." He enunciated every letter in 1985; his body remained still while his eyes darted around him as if he were observing something foreign. "This is Starman speaking. It seems the American dream experiment has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Somehow, the creatures who inhabit this place made a wrong left turn straight into conformism and unchecked capitalism. No signs of intelligent life anywhere, but... plenty of fried foods."

I stared at him in amusement as he pointed his still smoldering cigarette at me.

"I have just found one being with an IQ higher than 75."

I looked behind me quickly, then back at him and mouthed me?, finding it hard to resist playing along.

"She informs me that the outlook here is bleak. My ship crash-landed and is beyond repair. I seem to only have two options," Eddie sighed.

His voice grew low and sounded defeated.

"One, enter the ranks and join a weird ritual where men sweat on each other. I believe they call it a sports team." His eyebrows knitted together. "The creatures of the male variety here seem devoid of any basic communication skills or emotional depth. They seem to have designed an entire system of ball throwing and back-slapping just to allow them to touch one another and express affection without being judged."

He made a good point, and I found myself nodding my head in agreement.

"My second option..." he continued. "Fling myself off the nearest cliff and promptly dive into the unknown."

He lowered his closed fist and raised the cigarette, sucking the smoke into his lungs. He thought to himself for a moment.

He rolled his neck around as if coming to a difficult decision.

He cleared his throat and continued, "This is Starman again. Informing HQ that this will be my last transmission."

I watched as he sauntered to the end of the picnic table, the toes of his shoes tipped past the edge.

He raised his head - a steely determination lit up his deep brown eyes.

Once more, he raised the closed fist to his lips and whispered wistfully, "It has been a pleasure serving with you boys. Starman, signing off. Over and out."

His voice mimicked static again as if the "radio" call had abruptly ended.

He stood on the edge of the table and flicked his cigarette. He turned and gave me a wink and a two-fingered salute, then dramatically fell forward to his "death". I gasped loudly in surprise as he plummeted forward and fell onto his back.

I watched as he lay convulsing on the ground and pretended like blood was spurting from his chest. I slowly brought my hands together in light applause.

"Outstanding performance, Eddie," I shook my head in amusement at his theatrics. "But I think Sigourney Weaver made a better point about the destruction of humanity... and she looked better doing it."

He was still on his back in the dirt, but his eyes rolled over to meet mine. A look of offense passed over his face, and he slowly held up one middle finger in my direction. I laughed and slammed my sketchbook shut.

Was he dramatic? Yes. But he's not totally wrong.

Hawkins is full of people pretending and conforming, but not Eddie Munson. He'll stand on the cafeteria tables at school and give a loud rebel yell while the boys in his Hellfire club are sitting there, watching him with sparkling admiration. Most days, I wish I was more like him. Instead, I clutch my books and walk down the hallway, observing life blurring past me.

Forest Hills Trailer Park's homes are certainly not split-level ranch houses on Oak Street. The first two trailers you'll see as you drive in stand opposite of each other, separated by a patch of dirt. In the back bedroom of the one on the right, a teen boy headbangs while Poison blares in his room. Across the way, a girl sits at her desk and sketches a wildflower while a Fleetwood Mac vinyl spins on the console in the corner.

more chapters published on Wattpad & ao3

title: Hazy Shade of Winter

author: REOspeeddragon

[veunho]

This game is so fun what. And the amount of LORE I come up with after I unlock the survivor management skill. Or even without it like. Fate or God or whatever has decided that Hannah's encounter with fellow combatants always end up in tragedy, so she decides to exclusively go on solo missions; everyone keeps looking between her Jayme to figure out what the hell happened between them. Xavier is the local guy who is just really nice to be around in general, always fixing something or other or doing silly murals with the local kids. Hannah used to always send Pete and Dave scavenging together bc she thought they'd bond over their experiences as bald single dads in the apocalypse until their children begged her to stop, bc they were competitive assholes and making their lives impossible. Reece "Spikey" Saadi genuinely believes he's a cowboy ever since he was jokingly named sheriff and given a hat. Something about Stephen puts everyone on edge. The Doc is not even a real doctor. Samuel Green is an ex-cop with anger problems and an alcoholic, but the local cat is ENAMOURED with him so he has that going on. Major Holt reminds me of that lady head of nurses or head of practicians or something in Grey's Anatomy and I genuinely believe this whole camp would be in shambles without her. Also her husband is really sweet and they have triplets. Simon is a himbo. Paco Saadi is literally Dean Supernatural, which is funny bc his brother Spikey is literally Sam Supernatural with a fake mustache.

[tatsuma-forever]

this isn’t devilman posting, but i’d like to share what i found on the snapmap in wisconsin because it’s terrible

two different people lip syncing and driving. like, the car was moving

a guy saying oppression is ‘karma’

same guy says there are ‘trans species’ in ANOTHER TOWN’S school district. keep in mind this guy was balding

he also called gender affirming care ‘genocide’ because trans people are depressed?

anyways, obligatory wisconsin guy begging for beer

a trucker talking about fentanyl and making sure you get ‘the real pills’

“god bless our sheriffs”

obligatory wisconsin ‘back the blue.’ i vom’d a little, honestly

a joker tattoo stencil

“welding in the rain, hope it don’t end in oain”

“does anyone want to cane shopping with me and my dad?”

t*m m*cdonald simping

anyways, i’m not making this shit up

[mr2swap]

The great shift: sheriff Buck Miller

It's amazing how fucked up my bad luck is, my name was Jack Thompson I was 28 years old before all this body-changing shit ruined my fucking life, I must have the worst luck in the world if I end up in this old fat-tired body.

I was in prison serving a 10-year sentence for drug sales and illegal possession of firearms when the Great shift of shit hit me if I hadn't been hit I would have gotten out of prison by the time I turned 38.

Waking up in redneck sheriff Buck Miller's smelly old trailer, his life is horrible! but at least I'm not in prison anymore, but it could get even worse, Buck's body was sluggish, and I couldn't walk 3 minutes without leaving my now huge shirt full of sticky sweat from him.

Damn, I hate my fucking luck! this body is awful, every day I have to put up with waking up in the hot trailer and this obese, bald 60-year-old body with a bushy mustache, I can't even cut it off because the real buck loved this furry crap stuck to my face!

I had to pretend to be Buck for fear of going back to prison, unfortunately, I was right, in Buck's body, I was able to discover that the government planned to return all convicts like me to prison as quickly and quietly as possible to prevent the chaos takes over the streets.

So I have to pretend to be the obese and incompetent Buck Miller if I don't want to spend my last days complaining about my back pain from my huge belly in prison. Sometimes I wonder why the real Buck never claimed his life back. Maybe it's the slow government's fault, or maybe I'm faking it too well and your appeal to come back into his life was denied. But I have to take care of myself and pretend I love donuts, spend my afternoons drinking at the nearest cop bar, and go fishing so I don't go back to prison.

I plan to pretend to be Buck until I get my retirement and after that, I'm going to fuck Buck's life up, sell all his stuff and get as far away from this horrible place and this fucking life as I can, but I don't think I can escape. of this body. I just hope the old Buck doesn't show up and ruin my plans. I don't plan on going back to that fucking hole.

Hello guys this is one of my old stories from my patreon I hope you like it, if you want to see more of my stories you can take a look at my patreon page

[sisterspooky1013]

More Than A Feeling, Chapter 4

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Week Two- Kansas City, MO

“Don’t sweat on the chicken, Buddy Boy. You’re cute, but not cute enough that anybody wants to season their food with ya,” Madge admonishes Mulder, prodding him away from the grill with the business end of a pair of tongs. “Well,” she adds, eyeing him curiously, “maybe one someone might.”

He ignores what is yet another attempt to get him talking about Scully, which he has carefully avoided. He’s used to people assuming that they’re an item, but the carnies seem particularly set on seeing the two of them make it official. If they only knew that Mulder doesn’t need any convincing that Scully is the girl for him—he’s known that for years.

The temperature edged over eighty degrees just before noon, which would be tolerable if he weren’t standing over a grill in the cook trailer brushing marinade onto half-cooked chicken breasts. The Kansas City crowd has so far proved to be a bit more entitled than the patrons in St. Joseph, and while Mulder and Madge have minimal interactions with customers, the way they treat the crew bleeds over into their demeanor around mealtimes.

Picker and Lenny are hunched over a picnic table with beers in hand, griping about some rube who threatened to call the sheriff if they didn’t give his kid a Little Mermaid plush on the house, on account of the fact that the game is obviously rigged.

“That’s a two way joint,” Lenny says angrily, “and it wasn’t even gaffed. Not my fault his rube kid ain’t got no aim.”

“I got your back, Lenny,” Picker says with a yellow sneer. “He got on the Sizzler right after and I had Joey make sure he got the gold car. Spun him up real good.”

The two men laugh conspiratorially and clap their hands together over the table top to congratulate themselves on a job well done. Mulder chuckles and shakes his head.

“Hey,” Lenny says, his demeanor shifting. He leans in towards Picker and speaks at a lower register, but Mulder can still easily hear them over the music in the trailer. “That green help, Barry. What’s your read?”

Picker sits back and looks around them quickly to see who is within earshot. Mulder has learned that he and Madge are often treated as though they are invisible, which serves him just fine.

“Somethin ain’t right,” Picker agrees. “He all but begged Mickey to put him on the punk rides. Seems a little too eager to help the kiddies get up on the carousel, if you ask me.”

“He fuckin’ creeps me out, man,” Lenny adds. “I’m gonna flag Tami on it.”

Mulder has seen the person they’re referring to—a forty-something pasty white man with a badly executed combover and a greasy smile. He was hired on this week along with a tall, lanky man named Mitch who shaves his head out of stylistic preference rather than baldness, and a plump Latina woman named Maxie who was assigned to a joint but seems to spend a lot of her time tagging along with Summer and Scully. Barry hasn’t struck him any kind of way during the few meals they’ve shared, though from the sounds of it, it’s the presence of children that brings out the behavior that has Lenny and Picker on guard.

“Goddamn it, Ricky, you’re burning the fucking chicken!” Madge snipes, shoving him aside and quickly turning over each of the half dozen chicken breasts on the grill, which are a little more well done than intended but far from burnt.

“I was watching it, Madge,” Mulder defends, caught off guard by her uncharacteristic brusqueness.

“Like hell you were,” she replies, not looking at him. “You were too busy eavesdropping on Lenny and Picker. You always do this, Ricky. You just can’t mind your own goddamn business.”

Mulder touches her arm lightly and she looks up at him with moist eyes, the haze of developing cataracts shimmering in her pupils.

“I’m Luke,” he says softly, unsure whether she’s having some kind of episode.

“I know that,” she says with a huff, though he gathers from her expression that it was more than a slip of the tongue.

“Who’s Ricky?” he asks, and Madge starts wiping down already clean counters and organizing utensils that don’t need organizing.

“Nobody, forget about it,” she says curtly.

Mulder steps up behind her and takes the rag from her hand, guiding her towards the door of the trailer with a gentle touch to her shoulder.

“Go sit down, Mom, I’ve got it. Take a break,” he says sweetly, and she stops in the doorway, her expression shell-shocked and her lip quivering.

“Are you okay?” he asks sincerely, wondering if the heat is getting to her.

She nods, the trace of a sad smile curling the corners of her mouth.

“Been a long time since anybody called me that,” she says tightly, and then leaves.

He finishes prepping the chicken, putting it in the hot-holding area until dinner breaks start, and then slices up tomatoes, onions and lettuce. He’s found that he enjoys the methodical nature of food prep, his mind wandering while his hands stay busy and music floods his ears. It gives him time to think about the case, and their available avenues for investigation, but mostly he just thinks about Scully. Her cute little coveralls and her dirty fingernails, and the way the sun is bringing out the freckles on her cheeks.

The new location for the show doesn’t have a grassy knoll, but the last two nights they’ve met up at the Ferris Wheel, sitting in the lowest car with his latest concoction to talk about the events of the day. Last night he brought her fried pickles with lemon pepper ranch for dipping and they discussed the locally hired help, who they have to consider at risk of disappearing.

“What do you make of Mitch?” he’d asked, and she immediately pulled a face.

“He made a crass comment to me about redheads,” she replied, dragging a pickle chip through the sauce he’d made from scratch. “So suffice to say I hate him.”

“I hate him in solidarity,” Mulder said emphatically, and she smirked at him.

“Barry seems pretty benign,” Scully added, “and I like Maxie.”

“You know who else likes Maxie?” Mulder asked rhetorically, and Scully rolled her eyes.

“It’s like being in high school again,” Scully complained. “I’m half expecting Summer to ask me to pass Maxie a note that says ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’ She asked me to apologize to you on her behalf, by the way.”

“Summer?” Mulder clarified, and Scully nodded. “What for?”

“In her own words, ‘for being a colossal bitch about the fortune teller.’”

Mulder shrugged. “I’d already forgotten about it, no grudge held.”

Scully chewed her lip thoughtfully. “It’s almost like you’re desensitized to bitchy women,” she said, carefully watching his reaction.

He narrowed his eyes and blinked at her. “You’re not referring to yourself,” he said. A statement, not a question.

Now Scully shrugged. “I have my moments,” she admitted, popping the last pickle chip into her mouth with a crunch.

“Maybe so, but I’d never use that word to describe you,” he said, collecting her plate and moving to stand up.

“Never?” she asked, disbelieving.

He stopped to truly consider it, leaning on the stabilizing pole that holds the wheel up.

“Well, maybe that time you yelled at me for eating your peanut butter cups,” he finally said, his tone teasing. “I may have had a fleeting thought of that nature, but I suspect there were extenuating circumstances that contributed to your out-of-proportion reaction.”

“Out-of-proportion?” she repeated, eyebrows kissing her hairline. “Those were gourmet peanut butter cups, Luke. And you washed them down with a warm coke.”

Mulder began slowly backing away, sensing that he was reopening a wound that had never fully healed. In the dark, he couldn’t see the cord lying across the ground just behind him and soon enough found himself flat on his back, dew soaked grass wetting his T-shirt and the yellow sliver of the new moon filling his visual field. Despite his bruised ego, and his bruised ass, Scully’s cackling laugh at his expense made it more than worth it.

He smiles to himself at the memory as he wraps up dinner prep, but his reverie is interrupted by a rapping on the side of the trailer.

“Hey kitchen boy,” Summer calls out, more playful than condescending. “Is Penny back from town yet?”

He turns to see her just outside the door, Maxie at her side.

“You’d know better than I,” he replies, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “I haven’t left this trailer since 10:00 am.”

When the shirt is no longer blocking his line of vision, he finds that Maxie is looking at his bare belly with slightly parted lips and a hungry expression, while Summer is looking at Maxie like she just declared that the earth is flat.

“Tell her to come find me if you see her,” Summer says flatly, tugging Maxie by the arm and leading her away from the cook trailer, and Mulder wonders if he’s just landed himself back on Summer’s shit list.

With nothing else to do until after dinner service, he turns up the music before he walks out of the trailer, breathing in deeply as the air temperature drops by at least fifteen degrees. Spotting Madge at one of the picnic tables furthest from the trailer, he pours himself a tall glass of ice water and makes his way over to her.

“Feeling better?” he asks as he takes the seat across from her, and she smiles at him sheepishly, the deep lines around her eyes highlighted by the harsh light of midday.

“I’m sorry about before,” she says, eyes on the table. “I got confused for a minute.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mulder reassures her with a pat to the back of her crepey hand.

“Ricky’s my son,” she says softly, lifting her head to look at him. “Or he was, anyway. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says genuinely. “I didn’t know.”

Madge shrugs. “How would you? I don’t talk about him much. He’s been gone near twenty years now, so it’s an old hurt. But sometimes…you just reminded me of him today, I guess.”

Mulder is quiet, unsure how to respond and sensing she has more to say.

“I wasn't a very good mother,” Madge says, her expression grim.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Mulder insists, but she shakes her head.

“I wasn’t. I was strung out on smack most of his childhood. I kept him fed, but that was about it. By the time I kicked the habit and had two brain cells to rub together, it was too late. He was already mixed up with these street kids and—.” She stops talking and stares at her hand, the index finger tracing a gap between the boards in the table. The cartoonish beeps and wails from the midway suddenly feel offensive and out of place. “I was the one who found him,” she says, and he can see that the memory is as vivid as the day it happened by the stricken look on her face. “Needle was still in his arm.”

Mulder slides his hand across the table and places it on top of hers.

“It’s not your fault,” he says gently, and her face contorts as a tear runs down to the tip of her nose.

“You’re a good boy, Luke,” she whispers hoarsely. “I bet your mama is real proud of you.”

He can’t bring himself to refute it, so he just squeezes her hand.

-

The Datsun jumps and pitches through the dirt parking lot as Scully steers it back toward the boneyard, one hand on top of a stack of papers on the passenger seat to keep them from tumbling to the floor.

This is the first day off she’s had since beginning this assignment, and she went straight to town to locate a phone booth, which she then spent the better part of two hours standing in while Skinner asked her a myriad of questions and became increasingly more irate at her lack of answers.

“Am I correctly understanding, Agent Scully, that you and Agent Mulder have made absolutely no progress on this case in the past eight days?” he’d asked gruffly, and she was glad he couldn’t see her face.

“Not yet, sir, but these things take time. We have to build trust with the other staff members before we start asking too many questions, or it might look suspicious.”

“Well, you’d better hope no one else goes missing while you two are standing there munching on cotton candy,” he spat, and she accepted the verbal lashing with a series of “yes, sirs” and “thank you, sirs” and a promise that Mulder would also call on his day off.

The sun is just beginning a slow march towards the horizon as she parks beside her trailer to stash the paperwork in the locking cabinet, then heads into the fairgrounds. As she nears the cook trailer, she sees Mulder standing at one end of a picnic table, his bare back glistening with sweat, and prepares herself to avert her eyes.

There’s something about him here that has cranked up the volume of his attractiveness to her. Normally a static hum that she actively ignores, she’s finding it more akin to a megaphone aimed directly at her ear. It may be his snug blue jeans, or the apron tied around his waist, or maybe the kitchen-infused scent of his sweat. It could be the scruff on his cheeks, as he hasn’t bothered shaving with a razor but only keeps a full beard at bay with an electric trimmer. Maybe it’s the self-satisfied smirk on his mouth when she takes the first bite of the food he prepares for her, or the way he leans into her more readily without FBI agent fraternization policies to worry over (not that he’s ever seemed to worry much over those). She looks forward to midnight every day, and those few stolen moments where he looks at her dirty, grease smudged face like she’s dressed to the nines.

“Henny Penny,” Lenny calls out in greeting as she draws near, and Mulder turns to look at her, giving her a once-over in her jeans and thin white tank top. She keeps her eyes glued to his face, the velveteen ripple of his chest and belly teasing her periphery.

When she steps up beside him, he slings an arm around her shoulder in a kind of side-hug, his sticky skin dampening her arm where it collides with his torso. She resists the urge to push him away, to tell him he’s getting her all sweaty, and instead leans into him.

“We missed you today,” he says fondly, and she feels a flush of embarrassment at his open affection.

“Did I miss anything?” she asks, surveying the handful of staff who sit around eating chicken sandwiches and guzzling water. June has only barely begun and she hopes this assignment ends before they are subjected to the full heat of a midwestern summer.

“Other than Mickey getting royally ralphed on by some kid who didn’t know when to quit, not really,” Lenny says.

“Summer was looking for you a bit ago,” Mulder says, dropping his arm away from her shoulder. “She wanted you to go find her when you got back.”

“Okay, thanks,” Scully says, stepping away. “See you later.” She meets Mulder’s eye briefly and then lets her gaze skim over his chest, turning away before she gets as far as his belly.

“You better put a goddamn shirt on, son,” she hears Lenny say to Mulder just before she is out of earshot, and her cheeks burn.

She finds Summer near the maintenance trailer, in a protected corner behind the concessions where she set up the fortune teller for the week. She’s showing the machine to Maxie, who looks excited and amused as Doraldina moves her hand and turns her head, signaling that a fortune is about to be dispensed.

“Hey,” Scully calls out, and Summer’s head snaps over to her and then lights up with a smile.

“There you are, Miss Woman-About-Town,” she says playfully, and the fortune pops out at the bottom of the machine. “Alright, Maxie, the moment of truth,” she says as she plucks the card out and hands it to her.

“I’m nervous,” Maxie says, a hesitant smile on her mouth.

Summer steps closer to Maxie and winds her slender arm around Maxie’s shoulders, not unlike Mulder had done to Scully moments ago.

“Let’s read it together, on the count of three,” Summer says, and they count one, two, three in unison before Maxie flips the card over.

“Keep an open mind—new experiences will change your perspective,” Maxie reads, and Summer throws Scully a triumphant look.

“Does that mean anything to you?” Summer asks Maxie, who shrugs.

“Maybe it will, sometimes it’s for the future,” Summer replies, and Scully can’t stop herself from huffing a laugh.

“My break’s over, I gotta go,” Maxie says, tucking the fortune into her pocket.

“See you later,” Summer says with a megawatt smile, then watches Maxie walk away until she rounds a booth and disappears from sight. Summer lets out a low wolf whistle and then turns to give Scully a significant look. “It should be illegal to have that ass and those tits,” she proclaims, though somehow it manages not to come off as derogatory.

“I’m sure the authorities will be here any moment,” Scully quips. “Luke said you were looking for me, what’s up?”

“Do you know what happened to that other set of hex keys, the one in the red case?” Summer asks.

Scully opens her mouth to answer, but is startled speechless by two hands clamping firmly onto the tops of her shoulders. She spins around, breaking free of their grasp, and finds Mitch standing behind her.

She disliked him from the moment they were introduced. Something about his buzzed head, square, minky eyebrows and the everpresent smirk on his mouth told her that he’s a man who thinks he’s doing the world a favor by existing in it. And as soon as his eyes landed on Scully, he seems to have decided that she would be the one on which he would bestow the gift of his romantic interest.

“Ladies,” he says with unearned confidence, “how are we doing this evening?”

“Can we help you?” Scully replies flatly, not answering the question.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you, Red. My ride, the Viking? I think it’s got a bolt loose or something. It’s making a little clicking sound. Maybe you can come take a look?”

His mouth is coiled into that smarmy little smirk, his eyebrows pushed together like he’s speaking to someone leagues beneath him in terms of intelligence. She lifts her chin defiantly.

“My name is Penelope,” she says levelly. “I’m off today, maybe Summer can help you.”

Summer snorts, and the smirk fades from Mitch’s mouth. He looks past them, one hand digging in his pocket.

“I see you’re going to play hard to get, Red,” he says, producing a nickel between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s alright, I’m a patient man. Maybe this machine here can tell us what our future holds,” he says, stepping towards Doraldina.

Summer moves her body between Mitch and the machine.

“Don’t touch her,” she says plainly, unintimidated by the substantial height Mitch has on her.

“I’m a paying customer,” Mitch says, holding up his nickel with a sneer.

“She isn’t part of the show, fuck off,” Summer retorts.

Mitch sets his jaw, his empty hand balling at his side in a tight fist. Scully gathers that he is a man capable of violence.

“Mitch, could you actually do something for me?” Scully says, shifting her tone to a placating one.

Mitch turns away from Summer, stepping closer to Scully as that nasty smirk finds its way back to his mouth.

“Of course, I’m happy to help,” he coos, successfully distracted.

Scully turns on her own flirtatious smile, pushing her hair behind her ear and dropping her head demurely.

“It’s silly, but I forgot that I’m supposed to close the midway down tonight and I didn’t get the key from Lenny. Could you go find him for me and get the key to the midway, please? I’d really appreciate it.”

“The key to the midway?” Mitch repeats with a hint of confusion.

“Did they not tell you about that in your training?” Scully asks, and Mitch straightens his spine, nodding emphatically.

“Yes, of course they did. I’ll go get it for you, give me five minutes,” he says with an almost impressive level of confidence for something she is positive he has never heard of.

He rushes off to find Lenny, and Summer grabs Scully’s shoulders, shaking her with a laugh.

“It’s official, Penny, you’re a carny!” she declares, and Scully smiles proudly.

“What will Lenny do?” Scully asks, knowing that the key to the midway is a prank often played on new staff members, but not sure how it actually plays out.

“Oh, Lenny will tell him to go ask Joey,” Summer explains. “And then Joey will tell him that he’ll give it to him, but only after Mitch finds him a left-handed monkey wrench.”

Scully barks a laugh, and Summer’s demeanor shifts.

“That guy’s a fucking creep, Penny,” she says gravely. “He’s not going to let it go. Why don’t you just tell him you’re with Luke? He’ll probably give up if he knows you’re taken.”

“Luke and I are just friends,” Scully insists, and Summer’s face falls into a deadpan expression.

“That man eats you alive with his eyes every time your back is turned,” she says plainly. “And he’s cute, I know you think so. So what’s the problem?”

Scully shrugs and shakes her head gently. “We work together,” she says, which is actually a very honest answer.

Summer rolls her eyes, looping her arm around Scully’s shoulders and walking them towards the maintenance trailer.

“I guess I can respect your insistence on professional boundaries, even at a shithole like this,” Summer says. “But I’ll tell you this much, as a board certified lesbian and cunnilingus connoisseurr: that man knows how to eat pussy.”

Scully wants to ask her how she could possibly know that, but she finds herself speechless as she imagines, not for the first time, what Mulder can do with that smooth talking mouth.

-

Scully is already waiting for him at the bottom of the Ferris Wheel with freshly showered hair and two sodas.

“I contributed,” she says proudly, handing him a coke and taking one of the small paper boats from his hands.

They settle into the lowest car, and it rocks gently as she examines the food in the low light.

“Waffle fry nachos,” he explains, and she raises her eyebrows at him.

“You’re going to have me packing on twenty pounds by the end of this,” she says regretfully, but plucks a waffle fry coated in nacho cheese, ground beef, and olives out of the boat and drops it into her open mouth.

“What’d the Skin Man have to say?” he asks, being careful not to speak too plainly.

“He was less than impressed with our lack of progress,” she says, holding her hand in front of her open mouth to conceal the food she’s still chewing. “But he did confirm that Damian and Chris are both alive and well, so we didn’t miss anything. Coincidentally, there was a missing person reported in St. John mid last week, but they didn’t work for the show.”

“Lenny and Picker aren’t big fans of Barry,” Mulder says between bites. “They think he’s a little too fond of the kids.”

“They think he’s a pedophile?” Scully questions, and Mulder shrugs.

“I haven’t seen it myself, but they both noticed some suspicious behavior..”

Scully nods, looking out towards the boneyard where she can see people gathered around Tami’s trailer, drinking and laughing. When she looks back over at Mulder she finds him watching her, and he smiles sheepishly before turning back to his food.

“How was your day?” she asks, the question feeling oddly domestic.

“Hot,” Mulder says. “I had a good talk with Madge, though. Oh, and Mitch asked me if I knew where the light bulb grease was, then flipped over a trash can when I told him I didn’t think light bulb grease was a real thing.”

Scully’s mouth blooms into a slow grin, and Mulder quirks his head at her.

“He never did bring me that key to the midway that I asked him for,” she says, and Mulder returns her smile.

“You’re in big trouble now, G-Woman,” he says, shaking his head. “His tender ego will never recover.”

“That so happens to be exactly what I was hoping for,” she says triumphantly.

Mulder chucks their trash then returns to his spot beside her, kicking off on the platform to send the car rocking gently forward and back. He threads his arm across the back of the bench and Scully shivers when it slides over her bare shoulders.

“Cold?” he asks, scooting closer.

She shakes her head, then tilts it up to the dark, cloudless sky. Mulder mirrors her and they watch the sky in silence until he kicks off again, sending them swinging, as he hums a familiar tune that she can’t quite name.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[fleetwood-mac-andcheese]

My thoughts while watching Holes for the billionth time

It’s fucked up that the movie starts with all the supporting characters watching their friend attempt suicide

How long was Stanley’s trial and how short was Zero’s trial? Because we know that Zero got arrested the day after Stanley did, but he arrived at Camp Greenlake significantly earlier. Like, he knew Barfbag, he already had a nickname, people knew he liked to dig. How long was he there before Stanley showed up?

In the book when they sing the song, they howl on the word moon (it’s written “moo-oo-oon”) and I wish they did that in the movie

The Yelnatses screwed Stanley over by not getting him a lawyer. The little bits we see of his case prove they had no clue what they were doing. And when they eventually do get a lawyer, he’s let out almost immediately.

I love how Dr. Pendanski is written. He’s such a terrible person who has convinced himself and is trying to convince those around him that he is the nicest guy around. He fucking sucks and I love how he’s written and how Tim Blake Nelson plays him.

“Today’s menu: Chili, string beans, re-fried beans, garbanzo beans, green beans, and banana jello” — aren’t green beans and string beans the same thing?

The cinematic choices made in this movie are just *chef’s kiss*. The way they jump from timeline to timeline without ever losing pace is masterful

Eartha Kitt is flawless.

While Eartha Kitt is flawless, I want it noted that in the book, Madame Zeroni is described as a one legged Romani person (Sachar actually used the G slur) and Eartha Kitt is neither one-legged nor Romani.

Zero is the fastest digger in the camp, but they never really explain how big the camp is. Like, is he the fastest out of 25 people? 60 people, 140 people?

Just to revisit point 8, I fucking love Eartha Kitt

The yellow spotted lizards are such an excellent plot device

All the inmates are either A) mentally ill B) people of color or C) severely traumatized. But most of them are D) all of the above

When Squid throws out Stanley’s letter, catch Zero in the background with a pool cue ready to beat the shit out of that motherfucker

It’s weird that they show Sam as some kind of snake oil salesman when we know that his product actually works. The yellow spotted lizards won’t bite you if you’ve eaten his onions. Why claim they cure baldness or that Mary Lou is over 100 years old?

Zero back at it again ready to throw hands for Stanley, this time with a billiards ball

The fact that magnet got locked up for stealing a thousand dollar puppy

“You are here on account of one person. You know who that person is?” “Yeah, my no good, dirty rotten, pig-stealing, great great grandfather. That’s who it is”

Henry Winker provides such comedic levity

When Zero asks Stanley to teach him how to read and it’s such a nice moment of vulnerability, only to be shot down by Stanley. I just want to cry

What happens if someone actually dies at Camp Greenlake? Like, Zero and Stanley ran away and Barfbag got sent to the hospital, but they all survived. What would the protocol be if someone just dies while digging? Clearly there’s not a lot of oversight because Stanley can get away with Zero digging his hole, so what happens when one of those kids get overheated working all day in the Texas sun and just collapses in their hole one day and nobody thinks to check on them until the next day when the buzzards are all gathered around their corpse?

I’ve waited long enough to say this. Sigourney Weaver in this movie is one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. I fucking love her

Sam and Katherine. nuff said

“Well then I guess you’d be in a lot of trouble if your boat leaked.” *sobs*

Just casually reciting Edgar Allen Poe from memory as a way of professing my love to a woman I legally cannot be with due to racist laws forbidding interracial relationships.

I can’t help but remember that Scott Plank died during the post production of this movie. Respect to him and his ability to play such a good villain as Trout Walker

“No one ever says no to Trout Walker.” “I believe I just did.” SAY IT LOUDER, KATE!

Sam

I love that Kate’s MO came from a racist sheriff sexually harassing her

The sunflower seed thing reminds me of something that happened to me at RTC and it’s just a really nice moment for me

Stanley acting so casual by not doing the one thing he’s supposed to be doing

The look on Magnet’s face right before Stanley covers for him

I really want to know more about the Warden and Mr. Sir’s relationship

I also really want a bottle of that rattlesnake nail polish, but maybe that’s just me

I also really like that Sachar didn’t shy away from the racial implications of a white guy having a black guy do his labor for him. Then again, the whole story is an indictment of racism and the American prison system, so it makes sense he wouldn’t ignore that

The way Stanley gets so excited when Zero mentions that park. Like ‘oh, we have something in common. We used to go to the same park!’ and Zero just shuts it down with “I used to sleep in the tunnel next to the swing and bridge” Stanley may have been cursed, but he still had a home

Zero finally gets to throw hands on Stanley’s behalf. He’s been waiting to do that since point 14

Pendanski really is the shittiest

“No one cares about Hector Zeroni” “I do”

I love that Twitch was just instantly ready to help Stanley steal Mr. Sir’s car

What are the chances of Kate, Zero, and Stanley all finding Sam’s boat in the middle of the desert? And I know Kate probably spent years looking for it after the lake dried up and for Zero and Stanley it was destiny, but still

Zero, you gotta ration that sploosh

One more time for emphasis: I love Eartha Kitt

Kate dying and she hallucinates Sam, only to be snapped out of it by Trout Walker. Just Trout stopping them from being together one last time

“It hasn’t rained here since the day they killed Sam” and you think whatever deity made that happen is gonna let anyone in the Walker family end up with Kate Barlow’s fortune?

“I can’t leave without Hector.”

“Call my mom. Tell her I said I was sorry. Tell her Theodore said he was sorry” cue Small Steps

Justice reigns over the Walker family and rain falls over the Walker estate

I would love for someone to find out just how much that treasure chest was really worth. Can one of those theorist channels get on that, please?

Hector finding his mom is nothing short of heart-melting. I’m not crying, you’re crying

“Camp Greenlake was closed and the boys were released on time served and sent to real counselors” Wait, are you implying that forced labor is an unjust prison sentence? Someone better tell the prison industrial complex!

So what happened with Sweet Feet? Did they sit him down and explain the misunderstanding before or after signing him as the spokesperson for their product? He was the prosecution’s lead witness at Stanley’s trial, but nope! All is forgiven!

The soundtrack slaps

Point 53, however you have Shia Labeouf and Eartha Kitt in the same movie and you put which one of them on the soundtrack? Just wondering who made that call. Like, you layer ‘I Want To Be Evil’ or ‘Burned As A Witch’ over any of Kissing Kate Barlow’s scenes, it’d be perfect. But no, instead we get the dude from Even Stevens trying to rap.

[bookishofalder]

Joke of a Batman

Spencer Reid x Male!Reader

Request: @meowiemari Okie dokie!!! So Spencer x male reader where the reader is the driver for the robbers. They arrested him after finding him in a gas station getting snacks. While driving in his car with Morgan, Reid, and Hotch, the reader is in the passenger seat telling them the location because he was just there for the money. Hotch and Morgan went while Spencer stays to keep an eye on him. Reader’s playlist in his car plays old Justin Bieber songs and it’s gonna be me by NSYNC. Spencer sees his embarrassment and  awkwardly sings a bit so he doesn’t feel shame. Later in absolute a few minuets the two started singing and as soon as Morgan comes back with Hotch, they both quickly turn off the playlist and exchange numbers. :)

Warnings: Swearing, implied SMUT (super brief)

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this, and hope I you enjoy. This was my first time writing the reader as male-so please tell me if I can improve! Tried to keep reader description as vague as possible. Thank you to @mermaidxatxheart​ for encouraging me to get writing :) 

“That’ll be $11.75, please.” The bored gas station attendant droned, staring at you expectantly. You began to pull out a few bills from your wallet, ready to get home and eat your pint of ice cream in peace, but before you could count out what you needed, a voice behind you cut in.

“He’s no longer going to be making a purchase today, actually,” Spinning around in alarm, you find yourself face to face with two imposing men, one with a deep frown and overall authoritative air with his crisp suit, the other a handsome but tall and physically intimidating specimen.

With a gulp, you stuff the cash in your wallet. Who were these guys?

“Y/F/N?”

You nod as heat creeps up your neck, burning your face. Fucking Peter Robbins, you always knew, was going to be the death of you. And now it looked like your latest foray into his questionable life was going to land you in jail. These had to be cops.

You knew you should have ignored his call. You’d been telling yourself for years not to help him, he was just going to get himself in trouble again and call again, and you got nothing out of it. He used you because he knew you liked him. The two of you had been friends for years, and it didn’t take him long to realize the ways he could manipulate you because of how you felt.

It took you a lot longer to catch on to what he was doing.

But fuck, you still came running when he called, didn’t you? Like you were some joke of a Batman and he was shining his light into the sky calling for you. If only.

“That’s, yeah, that’s me.” You replied, slowly shoving your wallet into your front pocket before holding your hands in front of you in surrender. Whatever happened, you decide at this moment that you never want to see Peter again. Because giving that man a ride in hopes he’d one day say he was interested was not worth this.

“Mr. (Y/L/N), we’re placing you under arrest,” The frowning man held out his badge, showing you he was one Agent Hotchner from the fucking FBI. You tuned him out, your ears suddenly ringing, alarm shooting through you. Getting arrested was one thing, but the FBI? What in the living hell had Peter gotten into? Got you into?

He called you for a ride. It was just supposed to be a ride.

You were surprised when they didn’t cuff you, but you weren’t stupid enough to question them. They led you outside, where the gas station was quiet, only their large black SUV and your Honda Civic parked out front. You kept your eyes down, a sting threatening the corners but you were not going to cry. You needed to take this one step at a time, and not overreact. You surely didn’t fuck up that badly, did you? They’d said ‘suspicion of aiding a crime’, only suspicion.

“Listen, kid,” The bald Agent whose name you learned was Morgan turned and faced you, his expression serious. You bristled slightly at him calling you ‘kid’, but based on the crows' feet around his eyes, maybe he was older than he let on. “We know that you were just the driver today, and that you’d probably have no clue what’s going on right now.”

You raised your eyes to meet his, “Peter Robbins has ensured I fuck up my life at least once a year for nearly a decade. This is just...a new level for me.” You shrug, trying not to think of what your family was going to say when they found out. Would you lose your job?

“We’ve been watching Peter and his associates for a while now,” Agent Hotchner replied, and your brows raised in surprise. “Yes, he’s escalated from petty crimes that upset the local sheriff to armed robbery. Unfortunately, one of his partners happens to enjoy killing. Which is why we were called in.” He stops speaking abruptly when another Agent, you assume from the gun on his belt, steps around the SUV and up to your group.

For a moment, you’re caught off guard. This Agent is stunningly handsome, much younger than the other two. His eyes, which met yours for only a moment before flitting away, were a soft honey brown that sucked you right in. He had a bit of a shadow along his jaw, his wavy brown hair unkempt in the best kind of way, as though he’d just rolled out of bed looking that perfect. And you could tell he didn’t even realize the power he had. Standing next to two burly, thick muscled Agents, you could understand why. But in your brief assessment of this new man, you could see the lean strength of him, the muscles of his lower arms, veins in his hands. He was tall, too, taller than either of the other men, which was saying something.

“What’s up, Reid?” Morgan asked, and the new arrival-Reid-held up his phone.

“Garcia can’t pull anything from the Honda, it’s, her words, an ancient species.” He spoke quickly, almost as though the words couldn’t find their way off of his tongue quickly enough. You tried not to fixate on his mouth, because damn it, his lips were perfect.

Absentmindedly, you crossed your arms across your chest, feeling tense and tired. When Reid’s eyes followed the movement, you felt frozen under his gaze, watching with your breath held as it dragged slowly up to your face. His expression was unreadable, yet you still felt your cheeks grow warmer.

“Listen, (Y/N), we know you don’t have any real part in Peter’s crimes. We intercepted his calls and texts, we know he asked you to pick him up today, last minute.” Agent Hotchner said, his eyes burning into yours.

You looked away from the other men, shame flooding through you. “Peter always calls, and I always answer. But I really don’t know anything about what he does, I didn't know he was even with anyone else today. He asked me to pick him up right out front of the pharmacy, that’s all.” You couldn’t help the edge to your voice, the wordless plea that they understand you had no clue what was going on. And if innocent people were dying, you would do anything you could to help them put a stop to it.

Reid tilted his head slightly as he watched you, “We’ve seen the messages, (Y/N), we know how he treats you, giving you a little, yet taking a lot,” The tears almost threaten now, so you glance away, looking at the ground as you nod, “And he doesn’t even tell you what he’s taking, the danger he’s putting you in. He’s going to go away for a long time, but you don’t have to.”

At this, your head snaps up and you look between the three men, expecting them to laugh and finally cuff you. But they all wear the same neutral expression, all watching you.

“Like I said, I don’t know much abou-“

Reid shook his head, politely interjecting, “We understand. But you know where you took him today, right?” At your nod, Reid stepped a little closer, peering down at you, “We need you to take us to him. And tell us any other addresses you can remember picking him up from or taking him to in the last year. Can you help us? You won’t be under arrest if you can give us what we need to stop Peter and the men he’s working with.”

You almost wanted to laugh. Of course, you would help, regardless of whether you were still under arrest; you had no loyalty whatsoever to Peter. You only ever showed up for him because you hoped, each time, that it would be the time he would go beyond flirting. That the feelings were mutual. But if he was committing crimes-fuck, robbing people, working with a murderer, then you were done with him.

“I can tell you addresses, and I can show where he is now, I just,” You paused, closing your eyes briefly to pull in a breath, steadying yourself, “Please, don’t hurt him, if you don’t need to, I mean.”

Reid’s eyes, which you found the moment you opened yours, visibly softened at your words. He seemed a little surprised, you thought, though it was hard to tell. He was difficult to read, and you’d only just met him. He nodded reassuringly before looking to Agent Hotchner expectantly while you waited, your insides in knots.

“(Y/N), Spencer is going to go with you in your vehicle, and we’ll be following behind. Take us as close as you can without being obvious. Reid,” He turned to the handsome agent, “We’re going to check the car first, can you-“ He gestured wordlessly in your direction, which made you frown in confusion.

Reid nodded, and you watched as the two other agents moved to search your car, while he moved toward you. “I’m going to search you for weapons, okay?” He explained, holding his hands out as if waiting for your permission.

You stared, perhaps a beat too long, at his long-fingered hands. With a shy bob of your head, you looked to Reid, “Of course, I understand.” And the agent began to pat you down as you stood awkwardly.

It wasn’t as though the action was intimate or affectionate, but for whatever reason, you did feel his touch was hesitant. He was gentle, considerate...it surprised you. And then his hands slid up your back as he stood in front of you, and you became acutely aware of the thin cotton t-shirt your wore, instantly becoming self-conscious. You wondered what he thought of you, of your body.

Mind out of the gutter, you told yourself.

It was then, when Reid leaned back, his hands sliding from your back to your chest, that time seemed to stand still, just for a moment. They moved across your stomach briefly, and as they began to pull away, the search complete, you looked up. Reid was staring at you, his cheeks flushed, eyes heavy. You caught your breath, his gaze was so intense, but before you could even try to think of what to say, he was swiftly stepping back, breaking eye contact with a heavy swallow.

You were kind of relieved. That had been almost too intense, whatever that was. The relief lasted only moments until Agent Hotchner called out that your car was good to go, and you remembered you had a twenty-minute car ride alone with the Reid.

Fuck.

+

The first few minutes of the drive are bearable enough, Spencer takes the wheel as you give him directions to the subdivision where you had dropped Peter off. It’s when the silence starts to press in, and you don’t know what to say to fill it, that things swiftly change.

Sensing the tension, no doubt, Reid reaches out to the audio power button and hits your stereo on. With an internal groan, you suddenly wish you could just jump out of the moving vehicle when the song you’d been listening to picks back up.

'Cause I've had everything But no one's listening And that's just fucking lonely I'm so lonely Lonely

You had put on a playlist you considered your ‘sad songs’ compilation for whenever you were let down by Peter or any other man. You enjoyed wallowing in self-pity for just a little while after each encounter. But now, as Justin Bieber crooned sadly, you didn't feel sad, just humiliated. You were in your car with a fiercely hot FBI agent who had given you some kind of fucking bedroom eyes just minutes ago as he pats you down, and this song plays.

Your expression must have been obvious, as you saw Reid look at you a few times out of the corner of your eye, frowning somewhat. When the song ended, you didn’t get a chance to be relieved before ‘Somebody to Love” began playing. This time, you sighed aloud, sinking somewhat into your seat and wishing you could dissolve into a pile of goo like the Wicked Witch.

Until that is, you glanced up and saw Reid’s fingers tapping gently on the steering wheel to the beat. Surprised, you looked around to the agent and he was mouthing the words, singing along with the chorus. Stunned, you just watched him for a moment, quickly finding yourself enraptured by the way his plump lips moved around the words, how his tongue would wet them between lines, how his eyes-

Fuck, he was looking right at you. You smiled quickly but looked away, your hands fidgeting in your lap. You really had much bigger, more important shit to be concerned with right now, yet here you were wondering what the hell this perfect man, this FBI agent that was far too handsome for his own good, was doing singing along with the silly song, and why the look he gave you had butterflies erupting in your stomach.

Not to mention, the guilt that accompanied those thoughts, brief as they were, of what the lips would feel like on yours. What they would feel like on your body. Wrapped around your cock. Fuck.

He hadn’t said anything, but his fingers continued to tap along with the beat with ease. Eventually, when you directed him to the final turn, you chanced another glance at him. As if expecting your gaze, he turned his head and smiled at you, “I’m Spencer, by the way, Dr. Spencer Reid.” You blinked. Doctor?

“Oh, uh. Wow. Nice to meet you, Dr-“

“You can call me Spencer,” He cut in, his expression somewhat amused.

You nodded, “Nice to meet you, Spencer. Though I wish it were under different circumstances, perhaps where I wasn’t a criminal piece of shit.”

He pulled the car over, stopped at the community mailbox you had described as the perfect place to park. Once he’d turned the engine off, he turned to face you, those warm eyes giving you a gentle look. “You aren’t a criminal piece of shit, (Y/N),” Oh, you loved the way your name sounded coming from him. “I’d go as far as to say you’re a victim in all of this.”

You scoffed, waving a hand in protest, “No, I really should have known better than to help Peter.”

But Spencer shook his head, “As I said earlier, we saw the messages. He manipulates you, and he doesn’t ever tell you what he’s actually doing. He just gets you to give him rides, acts like it’s a way to hang out when really he’s using you as a cover because, in reality, you’re a law-abiding, hardworking, kind man. Men like him don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, (Y/N).”

Letting out a breath, your mind went blank at Spencer’s words, failing you entirely. You believed every word he’d said, and you felt warm all over at the intense way he watched you, it was almost...protective.

Before your mind could reboot and you could trust yourself to open your mouth and not simply drool, a tap on the window drew your eyes beyond Spencer. Agent Hotchner stood there, waiting patiently with his arms crossed.

Spencer climbed out of your car, but you stayed put, glad for a moment to close your eyes and try to steady your beating heart. After this was over, you were climbing into your bathtub and staying there for the rest of the week. Maybe the rest of the month.

“Prentiss and JJ are parked at the North end, they’re going to come with us. Can you wait here, with (Y/N), and call Garcia and have him give her the other locations?”

You heard Spencer agree and bid his fellow agents goodbye before climbing back into your car. He smiled warmly at you, and you couldn’t help but return it, your own shy and uncertain. “You heard what our task is?” He asked you, his head tilted again, watching you curiously.

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. But first, can you give me your phone, please?” He held his hand out expectantly. You handed it over, first pointing it towards your face to unlock it. His fingers brushed yours when he took the phone from you, and if you hadn’t been looking at him already, you wouldn’t have believed it was intentional. But it was because at the slight contact, your eyes had widened and Spencer...Spencer had smirked.

He clicked around on your phone for a moment, hit one final button and then passed it back to you, looking satisfied. When you took it back, his phone chimed in his pocket. Confused, you peered down at your screen to see he’d added his name to your contacts and sent himself a text from your phone. Well fuck.

He was watching you with an amused expression, “Once this case is over, (Y/N), I’d love it if you would allow me to take you to dinner.”

“I, wow,” You stammered, nervously running your hair through your hair. His eyes followed your movement, and you saw a glint behind the warmth, of desire. Hunger. You didn’t think twice. “I’d love to, Spencer.” He grinned at you.

And surprising even yourself, you reached out and squeezed his hand. And when he returned the pressure and ran his thumb softly across the back of your hand, all thoughts of Peter left your mind as *NSYNC played in the background and you didn’t feel lonely anymore.

Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!

✨Taglist: @mermaidxatxheart @paintballkid711 @snitchthewitch

[vriedi]

grunts are naked molerats because of the list of traits they share with them my evidence

no real aging (phobos is stated to be as old as nevada itself and is just larger than usual and sheriff is very very old himself, age is not shown in grunts)

no ears

mostly bald (not completely)

mostly nocturnal (though not by evolution or choice, the sun fucked off and died)

claws

vestigial eyes

small back legs

caste system of sorts but not a very complex one (its just morph differences, and can be artifically started, grunt n go3lm n mag, though phobos was unaltered and still grew to go3lm size)

mammals

murderous

regicide

cant have cancer from what we know about them so far

this could also mean theyre small as hell compared to people/humans and also wrinkly as fuck (naked molerats are also immune to acid isnt that fun) though they also purr but thats only one point for cats

[watermelonlipstick]

Losing

This was written as a request for the eternally lovely @samwisethegr8​. Hope you like it, baby! Idk where the chipmunk stuff came in, I must’ve had forests on the brain or something. As always, I’d love any advice or critiques!!

Title: Losing

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3283

Summary: Losing her hair following a spell makes it challenging for the reader to feel like herself. 

Warnings: swearing, fluff, hair loss

           Dean knows better, by now, than to say anything about the beanie you straighten as you get into the backseat, giving you some soft eyebrows in the rearview mirror that are maybe worse than if he’d kept joking about it. Typical, for the spell making your hair shed like some cartoon pulling out fists in a temper tantrum to be one of the few you’d seen hang on after the casting witch died. You’d been doing research for weeks now on ways to get it back with nothing to show for your efforts except a few stomachaches from attempted potions (and one influencer-inspired collagen and ACV concoction you’d dumped out after feeling ridiculous). Sam had convinced you that getting back into the swing of things might make you feel better, and was trying a little too hard to be cheerful next to his brother in the front seat.

           “The weather’s so nice today—sometimes you forget how good the sun feels, being in the bunker for a while.” He flashes a smile over to Dean expectantly, willing him to say something encouraging too. Dean looks exasperated for a fleeting second before relenting.

           “Yeah, uh, great day for a drive.” You catch the tail end of his tiny eye roll in the rearview mirror.

           “If you guys are going to treat me like an invalid I’m out of here.”

           “Invalid? I just think it’s a nice day out,” Sam says, trying for indignancy through his put-on ignorance and not quite hitting it. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he’s able to hold onto it for about 2 seconds of eye contact before his face relaxes into more familiar kindness. “Okay, fine, sorry. I’m just happy you’re coming.”

           He’s unphased by your glare back at him, keeps up the sympathetic puppy dog eyes because he knows your snark is coming from a pit of frustration and self-consciousness. Just like Dean’s tenderness of omission in not saying anything about it today, it’s simultaneously comforting and annoying. You feel a lump forming in your throat. “Stop looking at me like that.”

           “Like what?” Sam seems a little hurt.

           “Like I’m dying or something. Both of you. I’m serious, you’re making it so much worse.”

           Dean catches your eyes in the reflection. “Kid, you just seem so fuckin’ bummed. It’s only hair, it’s probably even going to grow back.”

           “Easy for you to say, you’re not going fucking bald! So, are we going or are we doing group therapy in the driveway all day?” You can hear that you’re being too harsh but can’t muster up the energy to stop, flopping into the seatback with your jacket balled in your lap. Sam and Dean exchange a look and Dean turns the key in the ignition.

           It really is a nice day, sun streaming through the windows of the Impala and cutting the still-slightly-chilly spring air just enough to be pleasant. You make a conscious effort to let go of your indignation, counting farm houses on the way out of town as a sort of meditation. Dean starts singing along to the Deep Purple tape playing, and when he catches a glimpse of your smirk he really hams it up, banging out the drum line on the steering wheel and pulling faces that would make Billy Idol jealous. After a few bars you can’t help yourself and start to laugh, the excited accomplishment that breaks through Dean’s act to light up his eyes sending a pang right to your heart. He holds his fist up in a facsimile of an invisible microphone to Sam, who plays along. By the end of the next song the Impala is rocking like Madison Square Garden, radio up so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts as you scream-sing until you’re laughing so hard you can barely catch your breath. The music changes over the next few hours,  the volume turned down for snippets of conversation or debriefing about the upcoming case from Sam then back up for one of Dean’s favorite B-sides, and by the time the sun is going down you’re genuinely only thinking of how hungry you are while Dean turns into a diner that stands alone sharing a parking lot with a strip mall.

           Dean’s two steps toward the restaurant by the time Sam has the back door opened to offer his hand to you. He looks surprised when you don’t take it right away, standing there awkwardly for an extended beat with his palm outstretched and his head tilted like a curious dog.

           “I’m not going in.”

           Through the windshield you can see Dean stop and turn back toward the car, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets like he thinks he’ll be waiting in the chilly evening for a while. Sam wraps his fingers around the top of the door and runs his other hand through his hair. “Babe, come on, it’s just some stupid diner. No one will even notice.”

           “Sam, I’ll notice. Forget it. I’ll wait here, you guys go—grab me a sandwich or something.”

           His lips tighten into a sympathetic but frustrated line and he looks over the car to his brother, who shrugs without taking his hands out of his pockets. Loud enough that you can hear him through the windows and around the car, Dean calls out, “How’re you planning on talking to the sheriff if you won’t even walk into a diner, hot shot?”

           You match his volume. “Good point—I’m not planning on talking to the sheriff, I’m staying in the motel.”

           Sam takes a deep breath and winces. “You don’t know anyone here and we’ll never see them again. You’ve gotta eat something. Please?”

           “You’re not the fuckin’ Elephant Man, you’re a chick wearing a hat,” Dean offers loudly, absolutely not helping. Sam shoots him a look that says as much and clenches his jaw. Dean shrugs and opens his jacket with pocketed hands as if to say ‘what?’ Sam jerks his chin toward the diner and Dean nods, spinning lazily on his heel to walk in alone. When Sam moves forward, you slide over on the bench seat to allow him to sit next to you in the backseat.

           “It’s just hair.” He says, low and soothing, just above a whisper. “You’re still the same person.”

           You let your head roll back onto the seat behind you. “You don’t get it—my hair was the only pretty thing about me.”

           Sam’s face contorts in disbelief like you’ve just told him not only are unicorns real, but you have one in your duffel bag. “What?”

           “You heard me,” you repeat, training your eyes Dean through the diner window, winking at a woman in her mid-twenties whose cheeks are full and cherubic under bright, friendly eyes. You can see even from here that she bites the inside of her lip to keep from beaming back at him, holding onto his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before taking her tiny notepad back to the kitchen.

           Sam shifts to put himself more directly in your line of sight. “Baby, the pretty thing about you is you. These hands are beautiful because they’re yours, because they, I don’t know, put an extra dryer sheet in with the laundry so it smells amazing, scratch Dean’s back when he can’t fall asleep. Your eyes are the first ones I want to see every day, not only because they’re beautiful—and don’t argue with me about this for once, please—but because they’re the same ones that always seem to notice that last symbol we’re looking for after I’ve read a stupid book of runes 400 times. Your lips—” he pauses, touching your lower lip with his thumb so light it could be a feather, “—are beautiful because they’re the only ones that I can hear your voice through. Was your hair beautiful? Of course. And it’ll be beautiful again.”

           “You don’t kno—”

           He rolls his eyes. “I do know, but even if it isn’t, you’ll still be you. You can borrow mine if you want.” Sam’s eyes are so earnest, so sweet as a tiny smile tugs at his mouth, that you can’t help yourself as you lean forward and press your lips to his. The way he kisses you back is such naked affection and relief, slipping a hand around the side of your neck to cradle your jaw, that it’s hard not to believe it’s how he really feels. 

           The moment is broken when Dean opens the driver’s side, startling you enough to take a sharp intake of breath against Sam’s cheek. “Quit sucking face and look alive,” he says, nonplussed as he hooks an arm over the front seat to hand you a paper bag filled with Styrofoam boxes.

           “That was, ah, fast,” Sam replies, and it’s almost steady enough to hide the stammer.

           “3 BLTs, not like they fucking built the Great Wall. Waitress in there said there’s a motel in the next town over, 10 minute drive.” He waits until you have the bag supported with a hand on the bottom and one taking the handle from him. Sam squeezes your thigh once before slinking back into the front seat, but Dean’s eyes stay trained on you. “Touch my fries and die.”

           You manage to keep your mitts off everyone’s fries until you pull into Walnut Suites a few minutes later, thinking to yourself it sounds like some kind of hotel for squirrels and hope sort of absentmindedly it’s one of the kinds of motels that decorates to a theme; even when they’re stupid—maybe especially when they’re stupid—anything to break up the monotony of thousands of motel rooms over the years is welcome in your book. Sam coming out of the office dangling a room key attached to a plastic walnut is evidence that you might be in luck, and you grab the food as you get out of the backseat.

           Dean already has your duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “This feels light; you bring your gun?”

           You wait a second to see if he’ll figure it out himself, but Dean only raises his eyebrows and juts his chin out like you haven’t heard him. “Hardly need a blow dryer now, do I?”

           If there was more light in the parking lot you’d probably have been able to see Dean’s cheeks flush as he cleared his throat to cover. “Uh, right. Do still need a gun though, so as long as you’ve got that.” He offers Sam his bag and shuts the trunk as his little brother reaches the parked car.

           “Apparently we’re in the chipmunk room.” Sam’s going for above-it-all but he knows you secretly like this kind of shit and drops the key into your palm with a wink. “It’s the only one with queens instead of fulls.”

           “Whatever,” Dean grumbles. “I’m hungry enough I’d eat a damn chipmunk.”

           “What does that even mean?” Sam asked, annoyed in a way only a sibling can be as the brothers trail after you to the room.

           “That I’m fucking hungry, what do you think?”

           “A chipmunk is like, the smallest animal you could possibly say. It doesn’t make any sense; anyone could eat a chipmunk.”

           “You trying to chow down on a chipmunk kabob, Sammy? Aren’t you like 99% vegan now? It’s the principle of the thing.”

           Sam rolls his eyes in over the top sarcasm. “Yeah, I’m vegan now, that’s why I’m about to eat a BLT with mayo, dumbass.”

           “Bacon doesn’t count. And it’s about timing; you said chipmunk room, I said I could eat a chi—you know what, I’m not explaining this to you. You either understand comedy or you don’t.”

           As you open the door, the light from the room illuminates Sam’s bitch face kicking back on his neck. Winchester bickering had already put a smirk on your lips but the décor was everything chintzy you could’ve hoped for; forest embroidered quilts on the beds and a chain of hand-holding chipmunks that appeared to be hand painted in a waist-high border around the walls. The bed frames were made of those stripped logs that could look very chic in otherwise minimalistic Scandinavian architecture, but here they looked impossibly cute and dorky with chipmunk stuffed perched on each bedpost. Dean seems not to notice any of it at all, throwing his duffel on the bed closest to the door and snatching the bag of food out of your hand.

           The three of you eat watching Alf while sprawled on various furniture. When the half-hour flips the programming over to Mork and Mindy, you offer Dean the rest of your fries and get up to stretch your back. “Either of you dying to use the bathroom? I want a shower.”

           Both shake their heads so you grab your ditty bag and head to the reasonably sized bathroom, trying not to be startled at the large Chip and Dale portrait painted onto the back of the door that reveals itself in the mirror when you go to set your things down. It’s clean and the water pressure is good, which is far more than you can say for many similar places you’ve stayed in, and you linger in the shower longer than you need to, shaving your legs twice for an excuse to stay under the water and out from under the oppressive weight of your self-consciousness here where the boys can’t see you. Washing your remaining hair as quickly as possible and chuckling once, mirthlessly, at the lingering reflex to squirt the amount you used to need into your palm, you finally leave the shower with only momentary nausea at the amount of hair you have to grab from the drain to let the water empty. For the ever-growing list of pros and cons for shaving your head you’d been building in your head: no more shucking these sopping hairballs into tacky little wastebins across America. You wrap a towel into a turban around your head more as a reflex of propriety than anything, marveling again at the amount of rituals there are—were—around hair. Maybe being unburdened by that would be freeing. And it feels sentimental in an annoying pseudo-useless way staying attached to the hair that remains, like lingering in the victimization of this stupid spell when you could just as easily shave your head and be done with it, become some kind of Tank Girl badass version of yourself and pretend you’re too cool and tough to care about girly shit like ponytails and the way Sam held his nose to the crown of your head sometimes, took a deep inhale of you and smiled so you could feel it laid on top of your hair like a tiara more precious than any you could imagine. In any case it won’t be right now, so you throw the loose t-shirt you’d gotten from your bag over the towel on your head and slip on some athletic shorts before heading out to the room.

           You were in the shower for even longer than you thought because Dean is in his standard “just-before-sleeping-on-the-road” outfit, having lost the flannel he wore that day as well as his belt. The jeans will come off just before he gets in bed, pooled on the floor with neatly set boots beside the mattress so he can jump into them like a firefighter if he needs to, an old habit that you’d stopped making fun of the Winchesters for when it actually had come in handy a few times. Sam usually folds the jeans and sets them on top of his boots next to your bed. Dean grabs one of your hands and flips it over for inspection as you walk by. “Surprised you’re not a raisin. Going to send this county into a drought.”

           You roll your eyes good-naturedly and toss your toiletries on your bag as you head to your bed, watching Sam brush his teeth in the kitchenette sink. Dean follows with a tight handful of clean tee and boxers as Sam comes back to you, the younger Winchester grabbing the back of his collar to tug off his t-shirt and toss it on top of his bag in one fluid motion before folding back the sheets and getting in. Over your shoulder, the shower turns on and you can hear Dean humming through the door. The beanie you’d taken off was exactly where you’d left it, and you flipped your head over to take off the towel on your head and replace it with the hat as inconspicuously as possible.

           “Babe, you don’t—” Sam starts softly, stopping when he sees you turn back to him with your jaw set.

           “Can we just go to sleep?” you reply, almost succeeding at keeping the sting out of your voice. He bites his lip and nods mostly to himself, flicking the covers on your side back in invitation. You crawl in, turning your back to him partly to be wrapped up by the warm shell of his body and partly so he can’t see your face. A large hand covers your hand where it lays on your sternum, intertwining your fingers in his and pulling you back into him a touch. After a long minute of listening to the shower-dampened noise of Dean going through Skynyrd’s greatest hits, you feel Sam’s voice through the knit on your head.

           “I feel like we’re camping.”

           “What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

           “You wearing a hat to bed, you only do that when it’s freezing.”

           “I really don’t want to tal—”

           “I know you don’t, but I just…you’ve been boxing me out for weeks now. Listen, I know I don’t get it, I know it’s not the same as if it had happened to me, and I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this, but I don’t care about your hair. I mean—fuck—not like that, I care about it because I care that it’s affecting you, but I just wish I could get you to understand that nothing about the way I think of you has changed. You’re always going to be the sweet, funny, badass girl I’m beyond lucky lets me hang around. It’s like this spell took your hair but the real punishment is putting this wall up around you.”

           You take a deep breath to steady your voice and realize there’s no way you’re going to be able to talk without it cracking, instead just yanking the hat off your head and letting it fall to the ground beside Sam’s jeans. He hesitates for a second before pressing his face to you, and you can feel the smile against your scalp. It’s a struggle, but you manage not to wince when he kisses a spot you know is effectively completely bald.

           “You smell good,” he murmurs against you, and you don’t know why it’s that simple statement, after all the flowery poetic things he’s said for weeks and especially today, but there’s something about the total acceptance, no hint of the disgust you thought was inevitable no matter how hard he tried to insist wasn’t there, that melts you. It’s enough to unwrap some of the defensive prickliness you’ve built up, and the amount of emotional energy you’ve been putting into keeping it there dissolves the way it sometimes does the second your body realizes the adrenaline of a hunt is no longer needed and you crash in the backseat of the Impala. The heat from Sam’s body and the delicate sound of his heavy breathing on your neck puts you to sleep before Dean’s out of the shower.

-

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