All-In Short Story

Verin watched a group of young soldiers grapple behind the mess tent. He split his time between checking on Fynta and offering pointers when one of the guys showed bad form. So far, comms were still offline to the group that had entered the temple, but Verin didn’t worry. Fynta was impossible to kill, and he had little stake in the others. Granted, he rather liked the Togruta. She’d fought well on Tython.

As expected, when Tom opened his locker the following morning, he found a note from Tyrell. Typed on a ripped piece of paper, the instructions were clear yet concise.

The muttered epitet escaped FBI Special Agent Carter's lips, and whisked through the cold night air as he stared down at the corpse. Despite his hopes when the call had come in, there was no doubt.

Bucky had begun his fifth circuit of their tiny living room when he heard the tell-tale thump of the busted step leading to their floor: the board was near-rotted underneath the worn carpet and always slid out a bit and back in each time you stepped on it.

“Hey, not bad,” Verin remarked as they entered the hangar where the Thunderclap sat. “That thing as roomy as it looks?” The bounty hunter radiated energy on a level that rivaled Fynta. Jorgan sympathized with the man. He clearly worried about his wife, but forced a cheerful facade for reasons Jorgan would never understand. Cormac did the same when he was nervous, whereas Fynta fought back with snark, and Dorne with research. Aric wondered if he had a coping mechanism, then remembered his reputation for being a hardass.

She'd been in his apartment for a matter of minutes, and Elena was already naked and about to sink to her knees to suck his cock. Brett couldn't help but feel a little guilt, and possibly shame, run through this veins, even as his erection throbbed in his pants. No one normally needing to pay a woman for sex him, and even though there was a purpose behind it, that still didn't sit well with him. Neither did the fact that his employee's dates usually at least wined and dined them first, with sex, if it occurred desert on top of the main for the client, rather than the purpose in itself. They were escorts, not prostitutes.

Dahlia’s staggering around like a drunk person. She hugs a tree for support. When I ask

JOHANNA’S AX SLICED INTO the floor beneath her and she breathed in heavily, smirking menacingly at a slightly shocked Katniss and Peeta, who had just entered the training room. Reeve sat on the steps that led up to the platform that Johanna practiced on.

A moan rang out through the living room as Mags writhed on the couch. Olivia always did have the the tongue of a goddess and holy shit was she making good use of it now. The plan had been to wait until Shawn got home before starting the fun with Olivia, but one thing had led to the other… He could just join in when he returned. She knew he wouldn’t have appreciated another party so soon, but would definitely appreciate some fun times with Liv to help him wind down from his first day at work. Plus, she was still recuperating from yesterday.

“Here’s to the best chemist the lab could have hoped for.” He glanced sidelong at Erica and grinned, running a hand through his unruly hair. “You’ll blow them away with another brilliant solution as usual,” he said, bringing the drink to his lips. Returning the grin, Erica started to raise the cup to her lips, then paused and frowned, staring intently at the ground. Pressing her free hand firmly against the dirt at the edge of the blanket, she felt the ground shiver and then saw small pebbles and rock chips vibrate.

“You can take back your invitation into your home,” Dean’s nose brushed against her wrist as his lips pressed a soft kiss against the skin there, right on her tattoo. “You could take a log off the fire and set me alight, but that would probably kill me. Still between the two of us I would rather you kill me.”

answered the phone with the same uninterested drone, himself a day laborer. He stuffed his cigar in his mouth to free his hand and showed three fingers. His hand signal started a chain of activity on the benches with each man sliding down to fill the vacant seats. He wrote the address on a worksheet and gave it to the three next in line. He returned behind his newspaper as they walked out the door. Billowing cigar smoke rising above the desk was a sign of him.

He took in the calm look on the man’s face, the way his high cheekbones were beautifully illuminated in the orange glow of road lights- making him look almost otherworldly. The faint uptick at the corner of Stu’s lips, the way his stupid blue hair lightly blew with the aircon, the way he drummed his long fingers absently on the steering wheel were inescapable- Murdoc knew.

“What do we have to do Austin? What’s this business all about? I wanna court Ms. Ellis and your interrupting me. Some friend you are. Can’t even let an Ol’ man have some fun.” Jess said. “We do have business Jess. If you’ll remember, last night we had a hell of a camp fire and somebody’s gonna be asken’ where the Wilson brother’s bodies are. We’re gonna have a talk with the Sheriff. Then we’re gonna give our ladies some special treatment.” “Oh, now that’s different. I knew you liked Lena.” Jess said as he slapped Austin’s shoulder. “I don’t and what do you mean like Lena? Besides those aren’t the ladies I’m speaking of. I mean Madame and Twighlight. Remember?” “Oh yeah, of course. I knew that.” Jess said. Then mumbling to

" Y'ARE very snug in here," piped old Mr. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed ... Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and