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tellthatbrokebitch · 10 months

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birthday present! snippet from the next chapter of the zombie apocalypse au - this time with ACTUAL zombies!

They’re almost out of there when they hear it.

First is the groaning, a sound they’ve all - Steve and Will, that is - been conditioned to respond to with a dip in the stomach, a feeling of overarching dread. Next is the shuffle of feet, dragging listlessly on the ground. And finally, the most dreaded noise of them all: the uptick in activity, the snorts and snarls that signify their presence has been noticed.

Erica is less familiar with it, as she was only occasionally allowed to join Lucas on scouting missions, but after several seconds the sounds seem to register and she freezes in place. Mabel, however - Mabel is new.

Without looking up, she says, too loud too loud, “Should I grab these, too? They don’t-”

Someone reaches out and grabs her - Will isn’t sure who, because he’s already lunging for the door stupid stupid, he didn’t make sure it was closed, and the only thing that saves them is the fact that the door has partially closed itself, already halfway to shut when Will slams into it and pushes it the rest of the way. A filthy hand manages to slip through, trying to scratch and claw for them with its dark, blood-stained talons. But Will is nothing if not determined, and he pulls back minutely to slam against the door again, and again, putting all of his weight into the motion. A second later, someone comes up on his left to lend their weight too, and someone else bashes the hand with something club-like, and finally the door crashes shut.

“Fuck,” Erica says; she’s the one on his left, now sagged against the door and breathing just as heavily as Will. “How are we going to get past those smelly undead assholes? There’s only one door!”

Steve drops the trophy and lifts both hands to rake through his hair. “Shit! Shit, we can’t - Will, did you see how many were out there?”

“No, I was kinda busy! Judging by the noise, though-” because the zombies were still there, raking their nails against the door and slamming against it and howling and snarling with hunger and rage- “too many!”

“So what are we going to do?” Erica asks again, staring right at Steve. “You’re the experts! What do you usually do in these situations?”

“We don’t get into these situations, Erica, there is no usually! We have no plan!”

“Okay, if we survive this, you can be damn sure I’m going to kill you myself! You thought my mom was scary, you haven’t seen nothing. Count your days, Harrington-”

Will looks away as they bicker, over to the corner where he expects Mabel to still be frozen in shock. She isn’t paying them any attention; instead, she’s fumbling for something by the window, the lift cord, and as he watches she tugs on it, raising the blinds. “Mabel?” he calls out, and when she glances back at him, eyes wide and startled but blessedly alert, he continues, “Do you have an idea?”

“Oh, I - I think I saw, before we came in - the roof-”

As soon as her words register, Will rushes over to her side, peering out of the window she’s just hastily opened. The roof is indeed right below the window, and he gives a soft whoop. “Good eye, Mabel! Okay, I’m gonna go first, okay? Make sure there’s a way down safely.”

He makes sure his pack is secure on his back before swinging through the narrow window, awkwardly straddling the window pane for a moment before swinging the other leg over. From further inside the room, there’s the ear-splitting sound of breaking wood, but when he sticks his head back inside, Mabel pushes him back out - gently, but with enough force to get the point across. “Go!” she hisses, which at least tells him that she’s learned her lesson about speaking too loudly, even if it’s sort of a moot point at this stage. “Steve’s got it, just go!”

#tellthatbrookebitch #stranger things #byler #byler fic #will byers #mike wheeler #itmlaitid fic updates #ooh a cliffhanger! how mysterious #is window pane one word or two?

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believerindaydreams · 3 years

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Does it count as a slow burn if it's been less than 15000 words I dunno anyway here be the shagging chapter.

"Arcade Gannon, you're extremely drunk."

That he's saying it aloud seems to confirm the validity of the statement. Good.

Boone looks up briefly from his compulsive scribbling. It seems backwards somehow that he's sitting here with the drink while Boone is writing, but he can't entirely think of why. Tomorrow Arcade's problem.

Tomorrow along with the hangover and scavenging for survival and getting to one of the people they're meant to be rescuing. He giggles, tenderly adjusts the angle of his new glasses. They're utterly priceless, at least until he gets back to the Old Mormon Fort and can grab one of the three pairs he's put by for emergencies.

"What are you doing?"

There is a definite moment during which Boone has decided not to answer, but then he does. "Letter for my wife."

"Oh. Uhh, sorry about her...I can't, you know, take too many more emotional shocks before falling asleep. The-" he frowns abruptly, feels at his neck to see if the collar is still there. It is. "The thing thing. Enough for one day."

Compiling a list of the variables causing him to have hit this level of coherency would take long enough he'd be sober before finishing. Never mind.

"That thing," Boone says, sharply enough to break his pencil between words. He takes out a knife and starts whittling a fresh point. "Don't ask about the thing."

"Understood." He is absolutely dying to know what science involves making targets glow, but that's not Brotherhood or Legion business and it might not even be his. Much as he wants to find out. Man has a right to secrets.

He shuts up and just watches for a while. The scratch of pencil lead. The way Boone's frowning over the letters, a hint of pink tongue at the corner of his mouth, so profoundly earnest. The slight glisten on one side of his jumpsuit, catching the light-

oh. Oh! Fuck.

"I was crying on your shoulder earlier." The whole chain of memories pops up obediently, now he's looking for it.

"Don't worry about it."

"I-", Arcade starts, and promptly stops, because he was going to say he's sorry now but that might be misconstrued as rude, and why can't he offload some of this eighteen-caret vocabulary right now except making his mouth say it sounds difficult. "So you don't mind."

"In your position I'd have beaten my brains out against a Legion tentpost ages back. You're pretty coherent for a prisoner of war."

Now isn't that rich, being told he's coherent by...why is he thinking like this? That's Enclave talk, isn't it?

He firmly shoves that whole line of thought into a box and locks it away. "I should shut up and go to sleep now."

"Probably," Boone agrees. He folds the letter up, tucks it in a pocket. "I'll wake you when I can't stay awake any more."

"A watch? Do we really need one?"

"I'd rather not risk it."

It's either argue or go to sleep. He falls asleep trying to decide.

***

"Wake up before I pass out."

A return to the land of the living. Not as rough as it could have been, he's drunk so much water in ecstatic indifference to lurking radiation. Rads can be cured, dehydration can't.

He returns to the sink for more and turns around to find Boone already out, small and vulnerable the way people are when they sleep. Dragging the mattresses from the cells into this kitchen had been a good idea, there's a double layer to sleep on, another to sit on.

Compared to the life he was living, sustenance on sufferance and a guard every moment, this is the lap of luxury. Even the slave collar-

he feels the harsh metal against his throat again and shudders, returning sobriety hitting hard. This is not normal. This is not a state to get used to. He deserves better than this, as does Boone.

For a moment he considers crawling right back into a bottle, but they don't have an infinite supply and besides, Boone's trusting his life here. Best keep steady hands.

Old world poetry marching through his skull. Center cannot hold. If he has to get to terms with what's been happening to him, he will fall apart right here in this kitchen.

Focus, Gannon. Focus.

Boone turns over in his sleep, emits a soft snore, and it's silly to say that does it when it's the weight of death pressing down on them, attraction formed out of raw aching need, spending the most stressful hours of his life wrapped up in concern for the life before him; and something turns over and now he's in love. Or at least lust. His body, fed and watered and rested, is absolutely desperate for release.

A jumpsuit's not ideal for this sort of activity. Arcade removes it, adjusts his position to be able to see the entryway and Boone both, the other man's body gently rising and falling with each breath. The rhythm of it is steady, reassuring, makes for a fine counterpoint to his own meditative movements.

If an enemy comes in now, his senses are on high alert. Listening, seeing, it's an acceptable risk.

Boone isn't asking for this.

Boone doesn't need to know. They're keeping enough secrets from each other, he can have one more.

The crescent-shaped scar trailing down past the ear, normally covered by the beret. Rounded curve under the ribcage, a callus on the forefinger of indeterminate origin, every small detail whispering him on as he pulls and pulls and comes-

- the whoop of pleasure as he does so, clutching the butt of the holorifle for support, is tremendously unintentional.

Boone opens one eye, fixes his squarely.

"Huh. Nice to know you're human like the rest of us."

Sitting naked and covered in cum is so far past any reasonable course of denial or explanation, truth will have to serve. "I do find you very attractive, but we seemed to have enough to deal with without me dumping that on your head."

"...how about you give me a handjob, and we'll call it quits."

There are so many more extravagant ways to show a man a good time, but- this is Craig Boone. No surprise if he likes to keep it simple.

Arcade wipes himself off, ruining the lining of a poorly made fedora in the process, and crawls over to strip his lover.

(Can you say lover, etymologically, before actually committing the act? Never mind, it's bound to be a moot point shortly.)

He struggles to get the jumpsuit off- it's tight and Boone isn't helping much, limp with exhaustion- doesn't give him much to work with here. They might not get very far.

Nevertheless, it's incumbent on him to make the attempt.

Arcade teases the soft uninterested cock into a slightly more pliable form, careful application of fingertips that have touched more than their share of yielding flesh. Back and forth, back and forth, the hold is blessedly familiar after the holorifle grip and rightly so.

Still not getting very far. He lies down, tests a quick light lick along the shaft for a sounding before putting his mouth to work.

Boone twitches beneath him, shifts his weight, like the whole world turning over just for him. "Thought you'd just do it quick, not massage and swallowing thrown in."

Arcade doesn't hurry his investigation, the gentle play of tongue and lips, before withdrawing to reply. "Do you want me to argue or get you off?"

Boone does the thing he does best and shuts up.

He does quicken the pace after that, though- manipulation here, delicate squeezing there, minimizing the exploratory touches he would quite like to linger over- and it really is much too soon, when the warm rush hits his mouth.

Normally he would swallow, but the act ends in an anti-climatic puddle of spit and less attractive flavors, drooled out into a rusted tin can. "Tastes like cloud. No offense."

"None taken." Boone does, actually, sound relaxed now. He's unconscious in seconds.

Arcade clambers back into his jumpsuit and covers Boone best he can, before picking up the holorifle to keep a proper watch this time.

Everything that's stewing between them right now, he's not even sure this will change the dynamic between them. Death is the only thing more intimate than sex.

In the Sierra Madre hell, though, it's nice to have one thing to simply feel good over.

#fallout new vegas

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siverwrites · 7 years

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Super spur of the moment unpolished more Dangerous Games piece. More WIPishness. Not sure of even posting but what the hey. Some faux drunken Cabs alert

I don’t know. I’m just bouncing all over the timeline of how events could go here, but this’d be after death penalty was announced (which I also have partially written lord help me).

Office party. A room full of detectives and prosecutors. Not Cabanela’s favourite kind of party, but they could have their moments once some of the stiffness faded. Tonight, however he had other plans. He’d lost track of how many glasses passed through his hands. He wondered if it was possible to get a plant drunk. He was going to find out tonight. A few slips here and there and he was slowly getting himself into the smell and appearance of drunkenness as well. He saw Gant approaching. With an inward sigh for the state of his suit he tripped forward and spilled his drink on himself and the floor.

“Careful there, Cabsy! Bit too much to drink eh?” Gant said.

Cabanela swayed. “Sooorry Chief. Hope I didn’t geeet any on you. Don’t know wheeere my feet went there. Quiiite a night.” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

Gant frowned. “Every time I see you, you have a glass in hand.” He shook his head. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. I’m glad you’re taking it easy, but try not to make a mess.”

“Couuurse not. Oh… If, if you’ll excuuuse me chief. I think I…” He covered his mouth and spun away. He heard Gant’s sound of understanding and hurried out of the room.

Cabanela made his way to the bathroom and stopped. No one appeared to follow. This wouldn’t buy him much time, but he’d take what he could get. He hurried onwards toward Gant’s office.

The ticking of the clock seemed loud in his ears. He made a beeline to Gant’s safe. Moment of truth. He punched in the number and puffed out a satisfied sigh when it clicked open.

“Reaaally, Gant? 7777777? I would have expected better.” He frowned when he pulled out the contents. A bullet in a small bag. A folder.

“Temsik…”

Another folder. Psyche report. “The minister,” he murmured. He quickly flipped through. A whole lot that could deem him unfit for his job and render his decisions moot. Claims of external forces? “Somethin’s not right here…” The Minister wasn’t right since he’d given the order, but only since then.

Tick tick. The clock reminded him of his dwindling time. He returned the folders and the bullet to the safe.

He left the room and hurried back to the bathroom. Just in time. There was a knock at the door shortly after his entry.

Gumshoe’s voice rang through the door. “Are you okay, sir? I got sent to check on you.”

“Haha fiiine! What’s goes down must come uuup. Whoops! I’ll be ouuut in a jiffy!”

Cabanela frowned at himself in the mirror. He would try to keep himself tidy, but being a bit mussed up would be expected. He ran a hand through his hair. A bit out of place here and there. Loosen his tie a tad. Nothing extreme. He couldn’t be a walking disaster for this, just a small mess. His spilled drinks got the alcohol smell down. This would do.

He waltzed out of the bathroom where Gumshoe stood looking awkward in his suit. Cabanela slung a friendly arm around him.

“Gumshoe my maaan, my good fellow! Thaaanks for checking up on me. All good now as you can seeee!”

“Er right sir. I can see that.”

“Back to the party!”

He practically dragged the perplexed detective back into the room only letting him go once they were inside.

“Good man! Have fuuun! I won’t give ‘em cause to send you after me again.”

Cabanela meandered over to the bar where he fetched himself a glass of champagne. There was a hum of chatter over the room. There was Gant speaking with one of the prosecutors. There was Lynne talking with Rindge. Now was as good a time as any.

Cabanela scampered to the centre of the room and raised his glass.

“Yoo hoo! Oh, ladies and gentlemen! Officers and prosecutors! If I could steal away the attention of all you looovely people, I would like to propooose a toast for one man here. A man who has dooone so much for our force, for our safety, for justice! Of course that man is our very own Chief Gant!” He paused to allow for some applause. He waved his glass in a broad gesture allowing some to slosh over the rim.

“I am deeeply sorry that none of my words here will measure up to the truuue man our Chief is, but I will do my best!

Gant. I think I can saaay that Gant is a symbol of our force. In a way he’s the very police force itself! And he will do all in his pooower to keep our force safe so that we may keep the public safe.”

He pointed and moved his hand slowly across the crowd. “He would never allooow anyone to remain a threat to that safety. No matter how powerful! No matter how dangerous!” He sought out Lynne and caught her eye. “No maaatter how unbelievable it may be, he will make sure the facts to put that threat away are found! Why, to think what a teeerrible state our force would be without Chief Gant defies imaaagination itself! So! My fiiine people! Please raise your glasses. To Chief Gant!”

Cabanela let the low rumble of voices wash over him before he drifted back into the crowd. A large clap to his shoulder caused him to stumble. He took advantage of it to let more of his drink spill.

“Whoopsie!”

“Cabsy my boy. Watch yourself.”

“Diiidn’t see you there, Chief!”

Gant put an arm around Cabanela’s shoulders. “That was quite the speech there. I’m honoured.”

Cabanela raised his glass and let it waver. “You’ve dooone so much Chief. Haaave to honour that! Whaaat do you say to more drinks? Your glaaass is empty!”

“Hoho, I’m always up for another, but I think you’ve had more than enough.” His hold firmed and he started guiding Cabanela toward the door.

“You aaalways say I need to unwind more! Relax and go for swim!” He waved his glass around. “I’m swimmin’ tonight!”

“If you unwind anymore, you’ll leave none for the rest of the party.”

As they grew nearer to the door, Lynne emerged. “Oh, Chief! Inspector. I was look…”

“Sorry Lynne,” Gant said. “I’m just getting our Inspector here home.” He laughed. “One for extremes our Cabsy, intoxicated to levels I haven’t seen in some time! Best to get him home before he becomes an embarrassment.”

“Embaaarrassment? Chief, Chief. I dunno the meeeanin’ of the word. What do ya saaay Lynne baby? One liiittle talk before I’m off?” Cabanela gave the tiniest of head shakes to Lynne and had no idea if she caught it.

“I think you’ve got the meaning down sir,” Lynne said.

Gant laughed. “Now, now Lynne, that’s a superior you’re talking to, but I think we can let it slip this time eh?”

“Water off’f a duck’s back,” Cabanela said cheerfully.

“Come along Cabsy. Have a good time Lynne. I’ll be back shortly.”

They moved out of the room and Gant went to the phone. Cabanela draped himself over a chair and waited.

“I’ve called you a taxi,” Gant said. “Get home and sleep it off. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

“Neeever any regrets, Chief. Nooot a smidgeon nor a soupcon nor a teeeensy tiny liiittle bit.”

“Perhaps not yet.”

Gant brought him outside and saw him to the taxi. Cabanela nearly fell into it but Gant caught his arm with a firm grip and helped him inside.

“Steady, my boy. This one’s had far too much to drink,” Gant added to the driver. “Look after him for me.”

Cabanela glanced toward the driver, saw the nod, and the look back at him through the rear-view mirror. Was there someone Gant didn’t have in his pocket? He waved jauntily through the window and kept up a steady stream of rambling until they arrived at his place. The driver looked most relieved when he staggered out of the car. He weaved his way over to his door and once inside went directly to his room.

Change of outfit, coffee, look over his new facts. Whether any of the night’s activities would do any good remained to be seen. All he could hope was that Lynne at least got the message.

#writing #dangerous games

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