vanillafluffy: (Justified -- Raylan smile)
2016-09-02 03:40 pm

Fic: Justified, Raylan Givens, OCs, "Albert"

"Mind telling me about that fella in your bathtub?" Raylan says, quickly closing the door behind him.

Dittany Crowe beams at him. "That's just Albert. Don't worry, Marshal, he's harmless."

"Really? He didn't look too happy to see me."

"Well sure, on account of, that there is his bathroom and he isn't used to strangers just barging in on him."

"Give him my apologies. Tell him I was looking for your cousin, Cletus," Raylan pushes his hat back and gazes at the door. "Have you two been together long?"

"About a year. Last time I was down in Florida visiting my folks, I went out for a walk, and I saw Albert and it was love at first sight."

Raylan nods. The more he sees of the Crowe family, the more inclined he is to believe most anything. It seems like not so long ago that he had Dewey Crowe pegged as the nuttiest pile of squirrel poop he'd ever seen, but Dittany just might take the prize.

"I couldn't help myself," she's saying. "He was just so little and awkward and cute, flopping back and forth. So I brought him home and gave him a good dinner and we've been together ever since."

"Does your landlord know about him?"

Luray waves her hand airily. "Landlord wouldn't care. Albert's a gentleman," she says. "You act like he's gonna poop on the carpet or tear up the vertical blinds. He's perfectly happy just the way he is."

"If you say so. If Cletus drops by, ask him to give me a call. He's not in trouble, I just I need to ask him about his old cellmate, Danny Rugg."

"I'll do that."

"Take care, Dittany," he says as he heads out the door--because a gal keeping a two-foot long alligator in her bathtub needs to be very, very careful indeed.

vanillafluffy: (Florida oranges)
2016-07-07 07:24 pm

(no subject)

I've been writing for prompts all day. Filled two, fairly long, considering I'm writing and posting from my phone. The first one is dark AF. It's an AU--basically, Everybody Dies. The second one is dark comedy

#1. any, any, waking up to find everyone he/she loved was dead and with no memory of what happened
The Martian:

Preachauthor's choice, any, beware the persuasive (especially when they are bored)er

God, I wish I had wifi. This is really cramping my style.

vanillafluffy: (Florida oranges)
2016-06-10 03:05 am

Original fic! -- "Early Retirement"

All I knew about the house I bought for the cost of its delinquent taxes was what I could see on Google maps. It was a couple miles outside a small Florida town--rural, on a couple quiet acres. The county property assessor’s listing said my new house (built in 1936) was 1168 square feet with two bedrooms and one bath, and it was in my price range.

Perfect, right? After chalking up twenty years in the Air Force, I’d gone as far up the promotion ladder as I could. I was tired of seeing suck-ups getting ahead of me, tired of knowing nothing was going to change, in short, I was ready to retire. I’d dropped a chunk of savings on the house, and budgeted another whack for repairs and living expenses while I got the place fixed. Then I’d see what kind of job I could scare up to pay the bills, because I’m another twenty away from collecting my pension.

Driving toward the house from the road, I halfway expected dinosaurs to come charging through the overgrowth. The wild foliage scraped the sides of my vintage Dodge Coronet, and I winced at the insult to the glossy black paint. No one had been out there in years, by the looks of it.

The house itself was a stucco cube surrounded by giant hibiscus bushes. The windows were shuttered, what the locals call hurricane shutters, probably rusted in place...getting them open was going to be the first thing on my to-do list, or I’d be stuck in a hot, humid cave. I was prepared to do some roughing it, but there were limits. I was thinking along the lines of an air-mattress in one of the bedrooms, not pitching my tent in the freaking jungle because the house was so bad.

Of course, I didn’t have a key. I could have probably forced the door open, but I might end up needing a new one if I did that. First, I strolled around the house looking to see if anyone left a spare under a convenient rock. After all, this was the kind of small town where people could get away with trusting crap like that.

Well, what do you know--it wasn’t under a rock, just tucked inside a big conch shell beside the back porch. There’s a stroke of luck.

There was a can of WD-40 in the trunk of the Dodge along with the rest of my tools, including a ginormous flashlight with the camping gear. I sprayed the lubricant on the lock of the front door, gave it a minute to work, then coaxed the key to turn the protesting tumblers.

The door swung open.

Sweeping the beam of my torch around the living room to the left of the front door revealed furniture--I didn’t expect that, although the upholstery looked like mice had been at it, and the rest looked old-fashioned. Probably not even antique--just old. Hideous flowered curtains framed the shuttered windows.

A doorway at the far end of the room led to a dining room, and that was where things got interesting. More old wooden furniture filled the space: a full china cabinet, a buffet, and of course, a table surrounded by chairs. The whole thing was suitable for big family dinners to be immortalized by Norman Rockwell.

One of the chairs was pulled away from the table, another had toppled onto its side. On the floor beside it...I moved closer, playing the light over the object to make sure it was what I thought it was: a skeleton, sprawled face-down on the stained carpet, finger-bones still wrapped around a gun.

The bones were picked clean, there was no lingering smell--the whole house was musty from being closed up, but I know what dead bodies smell like. So whoever the guy was, he’d been there for a long time. Even knowing that, my pulse was thumping faster than usual as I straightened up and moved in the direction the dead man was pointing.

There was another doorway in line with the first, this one leading into the kitchen. From my earlier recon, I knew there was a backdoor, and on this side of it was another skeleton. This skull had a silver dollar-sized hole in the back of it.

Studying the two bodies relative to each other, I reconstructed how it went down.

They had been sitting around the dining table, when First Skeleton was popped by Second Skeleton. Closer examination revealed Second had an automatic tucked into the back of his trousers, and I’d bet if I could run tests on the fabric, it would show that the gun had been fired shortly before being put there. No doubt after shooting his confederate, Second had been making tracks out of there.

Looking closely at the dried blood stains on the dining room carpet, I could tell that First had dragged himself from where he’d fallen to the doorway of the kitchen, where he’d gotten off a shot at Second and taken him down.

I shook my head. After all, isn’t the first lesson in Crime Dramas 101, “Make sure the guy you shot is actually dead.”? This illustrated why that was so important.

What had the dispute been about? My guess was it had something to do with the locked briefcase Second was slumped over.

I could have called the cops. I probably should have called the cops. The thing is, if I did that, my peaceful retirement would go to hell before it even started. The officials would come in and turn my new house into a crime scene. I’d probably end up having to camp out on my own property for days, or even worse, shell out money I had budgeted elsewhere on a hotel. When news of the bodies got out, everybody in town would connect me with a double murder that probably happened when I was in diapers, and I wasn’t ready to deal with that kind of shit.

Instead, I double-bagged the bones and their guns in a couple heavy-duty trash bags--I’d brought cleaning supplies with me, knowing the house would need some work--wearing rubber gloves for the whole process, naturally. They could go out with the trash, and once they made it to the landfill, no one would be the wiser. If anyone missed either of these low-lifes, I imagine they’ve long since given up on hearing from them.

The house is coming along nicely. I’ve got the shutters opened, bringing light into rooms long dark. A rented dumpster holds the chewed-up sofa, over-stuffed chairs, mattresses. Every scrap of carpet is in there, along with the ugly floral curtains. I’ve scrubbed the messed-up linoleum in the kitchen, but plan to replace it with basic vinyl tiles.

I only get a couple channels on TV, because I haven’t gotten around to getting cable yet, but that’s okay. I work on the house during the day, and at night I’ve been systematically trying to unlock the briefcase. With literally a million possible combinations, I figure it’ll keep me busy for a while. So far, I’m up to 102,030. Yes, I suppose I could break it open, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, you never know--it might be booby-trapped.

I’ll get it open one of these days, and then we’ll see what was worth killing for. If it’s drugs, I figure I’ll flush them. That’s not my thing. On the other hand, if it’s cash?

My retirement will be a lot more comfortable, since my home will have paid for itself.

vanillafluffy: (Retro rocketship)
2016-05-24 11:05 pm

The Martian, "A Dream of Autumn", Chris Beck/Beth Johanssen

Minor spoilers for a book/movie subplot.

A Dream of Autumn

Chris Beck is not superstitious. He doesn't believe in luck; thorough prep and hard work, that's been his philosophy throughout med school, the Air Force and astronaut training. So when they get the news that Mark Watney is alive, he's impressed, aware of how much easier it would have been to die than go on. Later, when the Ares 3 crew gets personal messages from him, he looks at the words "Tell Johanssen how you feel about her.", and reckons that if there's anyone in the history of the world who knows about regrets and if-onlys, it's the lone man on the red planet.

The thing is, there are rules against fraternization. Fool around? Commander Lewis would shove him out of the airlock. There's monitoring everywhere, he can't just walk up to her and say, "Hey Beth, I can't take you out for dinner and a movie, but maybe we could hold hands during a briefing or something." Jesus, he might as well just space himself.

He has to be circumspect. That means being hyper-aware of camera angles and locations of all the audio pickups. Chris gets his hands on one of the whiteboards and a dry erase marker. He'll write it down; as long as he doesn't brandish it at the camera, he can wipe his words and there's no incriminating evidence.

Johanssen makes it easy for him. He's heading for his bunk to contemplate the wording of his declaration as she's drifting the same way. She smiles and says, "I'm so glad they decided to let Mark contact us. It was good to hear from him."

"Yeah, he's a great guy," Chris says lamely. He gives her a little nod and they drift to where there's a semi-dead zone of surveillance. "I'll bet he's got a list a mile long of things he wants to do when he gets back."

They both know it's a huge 'if', but it gives Beck a chance to write: I WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW I REALLY LIKE YOU.

"I've got a list like that," she says as he turns it her way. She stares at it and finishes, "I guess we all do."

Under that: I'M SERIOUS, JO.

In fifth grade, he gave Lisa Kincaid a really nice Valentine's card when everyone else was swapping cheap Power Ranger and Hot Wheels shit. And then he'd forgotten to sign it. Crappy planning, Beck, he says to himself.

Johanssen makes an imperious gesture. Tamely, he hands over the whiteboard and marker, and imagines what she's writing. Probably warning him to keep his distance or she'll report him.

"I'm looking forward to a real bed," she says as she writes. "Something that's wide enough to roll over in."


Chris blinks. He knows without a doubt that he's blushing. "Really?" he manages.

She pulls out a scrap of microfiber cloth from one of her pockets and wiped the words away. "I'm also looking forward to a bubble bath," She's writing again, "and an evening on the couch with a pizza and all the episodes of 'Mysteries at the Museum' I've missed.


He can feel the big, stupid grin on his face as he reads her message.

"What do you want you do?" She asks, as if it's part of the casual conversation they've been carrying on for NASA's benefit. He reclaims the whiteboard.

"I miss weather. I'd like to go for a walk in the rain."


Johanssen nods, smiling. "What about an autumn afternoon, when the sky is big and blue and the leaves are all colors and the breezes swirl them around in little whirlwinds." That's possibly the longest non-work related thing she's ever said to him.

It's such a clear image, he pictures them strolling hand-in-hand through the vivid landscape, laughing and kicking at piles of leaves.

"Ducks honking overhead as they head south for the winter," Chris surprises himself by adding.

"Of course, on Earth right now, it's currently July." Johanssen yawns. "I'll see you later, I need to crash.

"Sweet dreams," he says, wiping the board clean and continuing to his own bunk. It won't be this autumn, he thinks, but next year? Maybe. They've admitted their feelings, that's the first step.

More than anything, he hopes Watney makes it. He wants to shake the guy's hand, buy him drinks and thank him. Chris Beck knows he wouldn't have taken the risk without his prompting. Sometimes a guy can get lucky by being spontaneous.
vanillafluffy: (Rose keyboard)
2014-12-17 08:59 pm

MI4: Ghost Protocol/Bourne Legacy: Matched Set -- William Brant, Aaron Cross (Kenneth Kitsom)

Title: Matched Set
Authored by: [ profile] vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: Gen
Rating/Work-safeness: Gen. PG-ish
Summary: Will would never have let his brother join Outcome – but he wasn’t there. Backstory happens.

Matched Set )

From a prompt:

vanillafluffy: (Macrame)
2014-12-17 08:46 pm

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol -- Surprise Party (William Brandt) NSFW

Title: Surprise Party
Authored by: [ profile] vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: William Brandt/Victor VonDoom, William Brandt/Ethan Hunt
Work-safeness?Warnings: NSFW, slash, non-con, orgasm denial
Summary: When Ethan insists it's his turn to seduce the rich guy, that's not how Brandt expected to spend his birthday. Especially when it all goes south. They can keep the card and presents, he'll settle for them coming to get him. Right. Now.
Notes: Victor VonDoom showed up because he was the first one who came to mind when I thought of "evil international rich guy"--and because the idea of Julian McMahon snarking and smirking his way through this scene was too delicious not to write. Hope you enjoyed it!

Surprise Party )

From a prompt:

vanillafluffy: (Stan smile)
2014-10-26 01:25 pm

Covenant -- Brunch (Ensemble)

This is a classic case of "One thing leads to another". The original prompt was The Covenant, Caleb/Chase, Chase didn’t use at the pool . Which I filled. And did a follow up for. And got a request for here it is:

Brunch )

vanillafluffy: (TJ Hammond leather)
2014-10-21 03:17 pm

CATWS/Covenant: The B Side

Bucky's side of 'Fun and (War) Games' (Chase Collins and the Winter Soldier bodyswap)

The B Side )

From a prompt:
Possibly more to come, depending on how many OTHER projects demand to be written.
vanillafluffy: (Stan smile)
2014-10-20 10:50 pm

TheCovenant: Ride the Lightning (Chase, Caleb)

A continuation of the prompt “The Covenant, Caleb/Chase, Chase didn’t Use at the pool” as started with Too Close to Call
Because as the title of my LJ suggests, I really do have a one-track mind…. )
vanillafluffy: (CATWS_WS1)
2014-10-18 07:08 pm

CATWS: El Soldado de los Muertos

It is not his normal uniform; it’s a good deal more theatrical than that. Whoever has planned this mission for the Winter Soldier has a twisted sense of humor. The timing takes advantage of Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, which falls at the beginning of November. It is a remembrance of lost loved ones, a colorful celebration of painted skulls and flowers, a festival throughout Mexico.

In the midst of the revelry, one more masked face excites no one. Instead of his usual goggles and air filter, today the Winter Soldier wears the face of a skull. True, the hollow eye sockets reflect non-glare lenses, and a close observer might notice that the grinning teeth are punctuated with vents. Body armor is concealed under a ruffled white shirt and a plain black suit with a sunflower in the lapel.

He has four targets throughout the city, and he carries a cheap guitar case with his weapons. Each assassination occurs with his trademark precision.

One of the marked men he is able to target from a distance; an easy shot for him of fewer than a hundred yards.

The next is simple enough, from a balcony overlooking a parade route, he shoots the candidate and is out of the building through a back door while screams still echo from the street out front.

The third man is shaking hands with the crowd. The Soldier slips a knife into his ribs as he’s laughing at one of his own jokes. He slumps forward onto one of his well-wishers, and shouts of alarm follow his killer as he departs.

He stalks the final goal through chaotic streets, finally able to shoot him in a lull. From arm’s length, three quick bullets just left of center in his chest take him down. Somewhere close by, a woman screams, but the Soldier continues walking unhurriedly, checking casually for pursuit and finding none as he melts into the throngs.

Although he has been seen, locating one particular skull-face on Dia de los Muertos is a foolish and futile notion. There are whispers, rumors, and a legend that will live for years of the Festival of the Dead when the Spirit of Death walked among them.

From a prompt: