#drone permits

[dronesbynomad]

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[brahmenbones]

My mind is an enigma

[boththemanandthecold]

Going insane about Grian being on a smoke break. All he wants is to become one with the ocean, and now he has to engage in bureaucracy?!? The horror!

Screenshot redraw

[getsuthebiker]

Well this is gonna be fun to figure out

[salingers]

october's end.

dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: a filthy halloween night with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [you get him to briefly wear a ghostface mask]. [enjoy that! i did]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. alcohol. au. begging. cream pie. dirty talk. dom!joel. fingering. jealous!joel. language. masked!joel. no outbreak. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. unprotected piv. word count: [about] 3,800. a/n: hi! debut, written for @mermaidgirl30's halloween writing challenge. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics.

Everything’s bigger in Texas, including Halloween. Your childhood neighborhood is locally televised each October’s end, due to every home’s enthusiastic participation. There’s an annual stoppage of traffic for the singular evening’s festivities, permitting only costumed bodies to roam the gated community’s residential roads. 

Branches draped in gauzy webs. Yards engulfed in artificial fog. A beloved holiday tradition, predating the tailend of the seventies, when Dad and Joel were elementary aged and wielding pillowcases of candies. Now, they’re fifty-somethings, bemoaning mutual back pain and cursing pesky lawn decorations.

“Here,” Joel gruffs, while individually sliding Dad two Reese’s pumpkins, from across the kitchen’s counter. “Protein break. ‘S four grams.”

Dad swipes them both up, before confirming that statement by thumbing one’s wrapper, “That ain’t bad.”

You’re quietly laughing at their supposed refueling, while stooping behind the fridge’s door and scanning the moistened shelves. There. A seasonal beer, from your favorite brewery in Austin. It’s comfortably predictable, returning home for Halloween; From Dad purchasing your favorite autumnal ales, to Joel Miller’s ruggedness.

You properly right yourself. Then, using your waist, nudge the appliance’s door shut, “Dad, where’s your bottle opener?”

Dad’s phone abruptly drones, reverberating against granite and interrupting your question; He grimaces at the caller’s illuminated identity.

You guess, “Ghostface?”

Dad laughs, before emphasizing, “Worse. My neediest client.” He abandons his barstool, continuing, “Actin’ like buildin’ up in Waco makes ‘er Joanna Gaines.” Dad apologetically nods toward you, “Joel. Will ‘ya?”

Joel’s scruffy chin tips upwards, directing you, “C’mere.”

Something’s brewing, once Dad vacates the vicinity. Your forced proximity to Joel is newly palpable; Tonight’s different. You’re obedient, in approaching him. Joel doesn’t stop staring. The bottle’s neck is being strangled, under your dominant hand. You can’t completely ward off an image of taking him into your palm.

Your minimal passage to his barstool seemed slow-motioned, almost. You’re not sure. Time’s just apparently lengthier, under Joel’s browned gaze.

 Joel grunts, fingering his carabiner of keys, attempting to sift out his bottle opener keychain, “You playin’ Michael Meyers, ‘gain? ‘Round one night, only?”

You amusedly scoff, “Keepin’ track?”

Joel shrugs, “Eight days, in eight years.”

You’re genuinely surprised that Joel’s noted your absence. Maybe, Dad revealed that specific number, correlating to your sparse appearances in Austin; Well, it could’ve been that Dad mentioned to Joel about how since your high school’s graduation, you’ve only managed to visit home yearly. That’s just basic math. Right?

You stammer, “Uh huh. ‘S my favorite holiday.”

Joel hums, before abruptly wrapping his calloused palm around the entirety of your hand and the beer bottle’s width, “Hm. ‘N that your favorite beer?”

You’re momentarily silent, muted by Joel’s warmth. A sizable hand, roughened from decades of hard labor. The tips of his delectably thick fingers begin tightening at your wrist, securing his hold as he’s standing himself up.

Even fully seated, Joel’s intimidating in size. Him standing toe-to-toe with you? That’s another story. His construction boots are weathered and worn; They would be comically large, in comparison to your measly-sized sneakers, but nothing’s funny about Joel Miller’s body mere inches from yours.

You reply by mustering an eager nod; And, whether that’s in response to Joel’s prior question pertaining your liking of the beer, or merely an approval of his nearness to you? You haven’t decided.

Joel rasps, “Anythin’ else?” He’s pulling your combined hands downward, to his waist. The carabiner’s remained attached to his belt’s loop, “That ‘ya favor?”

You’re struggling to think of something witty to retort. Because, the frayed seam of Joel’s zipper is right there. He’s deftly notching the bottle’s cap inside of the opener’s teeth; The beer crisply hisses, releasing any contained pressure.

Joel whispers, “What, darlin’? Bat got your tongue?”

You defeatedly laugh, “Somethin’ like that.”

He grins, carefully releasing you, “Taste it.”

You harshly gulp, “S–Sorry? Oh, right. T–The beer.” 

Joel agrees, “That’s right.” Then, darkly teases, “Y’know, that pretty mind ‘a yours is boundin’ for the gutter.”

He crosses his arms against his broad chest, the canvas fabric of his Carhartt jacket drawing taut. Joel’s now cocking his head, sending his gaze along the pathway from the glass vessel that you’re feebly holding, to the lower lip that you’re inadvertently biting; Daring you.

You’re feignedly bold, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You drink, even if it’s primarily to keep yourself from further stuttering. At first, it’s an adequate enough distraction; The alcohol’s frigid in temperature, soothing to the high-strung tendons of your throat, from the inside-out. Then, you’re curiously drawn to Joel’s own gulping throat, and that transient composure of yours is gone.

Joel’s devotedly watching you, his glare heady and sensual. His Adam’s apple jerks, moving atop the clenched muscles and corded veins of his neck. You’re somewhat tipping back, gathering your final mouthful, for now; You’ve drained three-fourths of it, by the time that you’ve halted your sipping.

Then, Joel’s thumb darts out, before smoothing against your glistening mouth. He drawls, “Got it lookin’ real good. Let’s see.”

You’re only narrowly audible, “Oh? Joel.” 

Joel’s tongue, deliciously large and scrubbed pink, strokes his finger. He groans, “Mm. Ain’t sure. Need ‘t sample it from the source.”

You inwardly whimper, “Yeah?”

You’re foolishly tempted to extend him the ambered bottle itself, because surely Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend, would identify that as the ‘source’. Not your parted, wanting lips. Like Joel’s read your hesitant mind, he reassuringly pins your hands behind your back, easily dismissing the beer; A singular hand of his own, dwarfing the pair of your wrists.

Joel’s ghosting your lips, “Yeah.”

For good measure, Joel lightly moans, sucking his dampened digit. Humming around the pumpkin spiced suds, lapping up any residual taste from his finger. Arms restrained, spine straightened; Your chest’s rising urgently.

Joel’s own chest, delicately hairy below his threadbare t-shirt, is an odd inch away. A desperate heat’s begun permeating your lower abdomen; Achingly unfurling, taking up residency in your cunt.

Of course, it’s then that Dad’s barrelling over, having withdrawn from his nearby office, “Sorry ‘bout that, kid. Get ‘er open?”

You’re coughing out, “Y–Yep.” Then, “Thanks, Joel.”

Dropping your wrists, Joel winks, “Oh. ‘M pleasure.”

Your incriminating closeness to Joel goes unrecognized by Dad; Seeing as, Joel’s wide shoulders completely obscure you from view.

Dad sighs, “Gee, there ain’t no escapin’ this shiplap.”

Joel immediately laughs, casually reclaiming his prior barstool. The jarring segue from Joel’s flirting with you, to his joking with Dad, is absolutely disorientating. You’re fidgeting, repeatedly and silently tapping your foot. You can’t do Joel here; You’ll settle for doing last-minute Halloween preparations.

You blurt, “Goin’ to start organizin’ the candy. ‘S all in the garage, Dad?”

Dad assuredly nods, “Sure is. ‘Cept these.” He chuckles, gathering the forgotten wrappers from his earlier ‘protein break’ with Joel.

You remind him, “Don’t forget to refill the fog tanks.”

Dad, who seemingly had forgotten, regretfully snaps his fingers, “What would I do without ‘ya?” He’s bragging to Joel, “Look at ‘er.”

Joel agreeably nods. Eyeing you, “Good girl.”

Because, Dad and Joel are career contractors, who are simultaneously life-long friends and next-door neighbors, it’s only right that they’ve done an elaborate, joint Halloween for three decades; Locally dubbed the ‘Construction Fright’.

A (questionably) age-appropriate spread of horror, featuring thrifted tools that bludgeon and dismember an assortment of plastic skeletons. Hard hats, faux-bloodied and stabbed with rusted nails. Construction tape, riddled in spiderwebs.

A half-dozen, battered wheelbarrows, brimming with chocolate candies; Three brown ones, carrying Hershey’s, Rolo, and Tootsie Roll. Three orange ones, containing every imaginable variant of Reese’s. 

 You’ve already been working for nearly an hour; Arranging the color-coordinated barrows of candy. You’re jamming the recycling bin’s lid shut, overtop the cardboard and plastic wrappings of king-sized bars, when the entry door’s opened.

Dad’s entering the garage, “Sun’s settin’ soon, kid. ‘Oughta get dressed.” He lazily squeezes you in an impromptu side-hug, “Thanks, for helpin’.”

You breathily sigh, “Mhm. Oh, I need ‘t light the Jack-O-Lanterns.”

Joel appears, insisting,  “Go on, darlin’. I’ll get ‘em sweatin’ for ‘ya.”

You’re thinking, ‘That’s ridiculously slutty of him to say’, when Joel continues, this time addressing Dad, “Hey. Phone’s ringin’ over ‘gain.”

Dad sighs, “Got ‘t be kiddin’ me.” Then, grumbles, “Sure hopin’ it’s Ghostface.” He grins, lightly pinching your elbow.

You giggle, “C’mon. She can’t be that bad.”

Dad shrugs, smiling before swiftly jogging up the garage’s concrete steps; When Dad’s fully retreated inside, and the door’s naturally swung shut, Joel doesn’t waste any time pinning your body against it.

Joel whispers, “Bet ‘ya find that this pussy’s wet ‘f me, when you’re undressin’ it.” His jeaned, muscular thigh’s nudging your legs ajar.

You airily groan, “P–Please. Fuckin’ kiss me.”

Joel grins, wedging his ample thigh’s sturdy surface against your beating cunt. He kisses you; Joel Miller fuckin’ kisses you. He’s grabbing your face, thumbing your cheekbones. His lengthy fingers, scraping your skull.

His tongue’s deeply delving, eagerly exploring your mouth’s every crevasse. You can’t breathe efficiently or think coherently. Everything’s Joel. His graying beard, raking your chin; A woodsy scent, like that of the hardware store’s lumber aisles, exuding from his clothing.

You’re moaning, “Ngh.” Then, ripping at the silvery hair that’s curling against the nape of his sun-freckled neck, “More.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck. Need ‘t stop.” He can’t stop, and sucks your bottom lip, once more. Then, “H–Hear ‘im? He’s gainin’ on us.”

Sure enough, Dad’s approaching. It’s damn-near impossible to quit rutting along Joel’s denimed, upper leg. You’re whining, “Need ‘ya.”

Joel’s panting, “T–Tonight, darlin’.” He arousingly whispers, “All night. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.” Then, darker and deeper, “Repeat it.”

You repeat, “Tonight. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.”

You’re admittedly distracted, during the evening’s trick-or-treating segment. You understand that nothing’s allowed to appear awry around Dad, but Joel’s playing casual too well. You shouldn’t overthink, but it’s torturous; That he’s apparently unaffected. Drinking with Dad and Tommy. Never really staring at you.

Joel’s (conveniently) costumed as himself every Halloween, but himself during working hours; A leathered tool belt, cinching his tender waist. A backwards Filson hat, tamping his unkempt curls. His dirtiest ‘white’ t-shirt; The neckline’s absurdly tattered and torn, an array of holes displaying his body’s coarse hair.

Midland’s country cover of ‘Wicked Game’ is emitting from neighboring speakers. You can’t resist likening the song’s drumming pattern to your own heart’s pulsating rhythm; Yearning for Joel’s attention. Then, Dad’s whistling for your attention.

Dad’s pointing, “Look, kid. Your ‘ol boyfriend, Nick. He’s fuckin’ Ghostface.” Dad humorously roars, standing, “See ‘im? H–Hold on.”

You’re avidly protesting, but Dad’s already approaching Nick, who’s not wearing, but holding his hooded mask; Fingers cupping the elongated, rubbery chin. There’s nothing inherently wrong about him; He (morally) should be your holiday hook-up, not your dad’s best friend. It’s too bad.

Joel snipes, “Dick?”

You tut, “It’s Nick.”

Joel’s feigning understanding, “Oh, Prick.”

You’re unsure what’s initiated this potent sexual tension, but it’s consumed your every thought this Halloween; While, Joel’s every word is loaded. His irritated sarcasm’s gunned your way. Any bickering’s uncommon, for the pair of you. You’re hoping that Tommy’s too busy proffering candy to notice.

Dad’s returned, towing Nick, “Weren’t we just talkin’ ‘bout him, kid? So funny.” Dad, and his dorky penchant for inside-jokes.

Nick cluelessly smiles, “Hi, you.”

You politely reply, “Hi, yourself.”

Nick’s extending his hand, summoning you from your designated seat, “Got ‘t see this costume.” Then, he’s declaring you, “Stunning.”

You’re incredulously laughing, “They’re bloodied overalls.”

Nick grins, persisting, “Love ‘em. Also, this apron’s awesome.” He’s thumbing your accessory’s front, tracing the logo, “Carhartt girl, huh?”

You’re aiming to get under Joel’s skin with, “Scream girl, too.” You inspect Nick’s black robe, feeling his arm’s draping sleeve.

Oh, Joel Miller’s jealous. He’s rolling his earthy-toned eyes; Aggressively peeling his beer’s damp label, while instigating Dad, “Hearin’ this?”

Dad’s indifferent, shrugging. He’s always approved of Nick for you; He’s Texan, and plays Minor League Baseball. That’ll do it.

Nick’s pleading, “Let’s please walk ‘round, sweep the neighborhood?”

Joel snarks, “Hell. Reckon he’s recruitin’ for Neighborhood Watch?”

Nick’s nervously smiling, having not heard Joel’s dig, but surely hearing Dad and Tommy’s abrupt snickering.

You kindly respond, “Let’s. Love seein’ the decorations.”

It’s nine-thirty. Your street’s grown habitually sparse; Toddlers, having resigned to stringent bedtimes. Teens, having retreated to erupting parties.

You decipher Joel’s looming silhouette; His rocking chair’s creaking, upon the dimmed porch’s planks. A gleaming tumbler of (presumably) whiskey is resting against his crossed leg, the glass winking at you.

Joel’s dragging his index finger’s edge against his groomed mustache, thumbing his angrily tightened jaw. He rasps, “Ain’t walk ‘ya home?” 

You’re ascending his porch’s tread, “Didn’t need that. Told ‘im so.” Then, untying your apron’s chaotic knot, “Uncross your leg, Joel.”

Joel’s pleasingly pliant; He warns, “That’s the only order that I’m takin’ tonight.” His lap’s deliciously spreading, “Get ‘t drawin’ the blinds.”

The anticipation’s wetting you. You’re immediately scampering along the porch’s perimeter, rolling down every privacy blind; Joel’s patiently swigging his auburn liquor. You whimper, “A–Anythin’ else?”

Joel’s rolling the wick of his adjacent kerosene lantern; Thrusting his opened lap, scrounging his Zippo lighter from an anterior pant pocket. His hand’s arousingly veined, while flicking the lighter’s flint wheel.

He belatedly replies, “Drop your apron. Undo your overalls.”

You’ve dropped the apron, and something’s spilling out from the largest pocket; Joel’s deeply exhaling, “Explain that.”

The lamp’s emitting faint light, fire illuminating his hardening expression. He’s so scarily sexy. You’re inching nearer, but Joel hoists his palm, stopping you.

You embarrassedly gulp, “N–Nick’s mask. Asked me ‘t hold it. He never wore it.”

Joel’s impatient, waving, “And?”

You’re tentatively unhooking your denimed straps, gently uttering, “W–Would ‘ya? Wear it?”

Joel’s mildly surprised, “Oh?” Deciding, “Bring it here. On your knees.”

You instantly kneel, before gathering up the discarded disguise using your teeth. You’re crawling to Joel, crossing the porch’s dully-lit surface. The bib upon your overalls undone; The garment’s buckling loops clinking.

Joel involuntarily moans, “Ngh. Dirty fuckin’ girl.” His index finger’s pumping from his balled up fist, signaling you.

Your pussy’s thumping, because of his commanding, curling digit. You’re itching to suck it. You need anything of Joel’s inside of you.

You’ve gradually reached Joel; You’re being caged in-between his lengthy legs. Joel forcibly pinches your face, removing the mask from your bite’s grasp. The item’s resultantly spat, against his abutted groin.

He’s astonished at the filthy sight, rustling, “How ‘bout that.” You’re resting on your haunches, while Joel praises, “Good girl.”

Joel’s abruptly leaning downward, before hungrily lifting your body’s entirety along his own. He’s immediately kissing you, sinking against the rocking chair’s curved spine; The porch’s cedar ground sighs, creakily duetting with Joel’s groans.

You’re practically siphoning the remnant whiskey from his tongue’s cushioned pad; Your mouth’s rabidly sucking, while your waist’s desperately grinding.

Joel’s bypassing your denimed, disoriented trousers; His palm’s greedily grasping your back’s arched column. His remaining arm, ladling your ass. Then, Joel’s effortlessly hauling your goosebumped figure upward; The rocking chair’s momentum being an assistant. The mask’s wedged in-between your upright bodies.

Joel breathes, “T–The lamp. Hang tight.” You’re licking Joel’s partially bearded throat; He’s briefly hunching, responsibly lowering the wick, consequently extinguishing the flame. Your quartet of limbs, wrapping his flexing torso.

You’re whispering, “You’re so big and strong, Joel.”

He amusedly sighs, “Yeah?” Promising, “Ain’t seen nothin’.”

Then, Joel’s roughly stamping your body against the front door’s exterior; His bulge swelling, pinning your pussy. The entry knob’s blindly twisted. Joel’s heavy-footed steps are reverberated, crunching his home’s metallic threshold.

First, Joel carelessly clears his entry way’s waist-heighted table. Juggling you, while his tanned arm’s sweeping everything off; A ceramic, coffee-stained mug of loose change’s completely shattered. Second, Joel harshly kicks his anterior door shut; There’s an impressive boot print, left behind.

Joel’s panting, “Tell me ‘t stop?”

You’re begging, “K–Keep goin’.”

He hums, “Hm. Need it, darlin’?” Joel’s hurriedly planting you upon the table’s cleared crest, kissing your nodding throat. Agreeing, “Yeah. You do.”

It’s dizzyingly hot; Joel gruffly ripping off your mussed overalls, easily tugging off your slip-on sneakers. He’s lobbing them across the room, away from the mess of coins and shards. You’re noticing the Ghostface mask, under his unmoving bicep.

Joel’s noticing you, “This what ‘ya want?” He’s hesitantly thumbing the mask’s gaping jaw. “Ain’t scared?”

You quietly say, “Like ‘t be scared.” You’re reaching upward, prying off his hat; His hair’s deliciously gray and tousled. “Here.”

Joel’s flinging his accessory away. Then, handing you the hooded, horror mask, “Go ‘head.” He warns, “Wearin’ it ‘till you’re comin’. Understand?”

You’re stroking his untidy hair, readying him, “Won’t be long.” You murmur, “S–Soppin’ for ‘ya.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck’s sake.” Kissing you, in-between threatening, “Filthy. ‘Oughta edge ‘ya. Talkin’ like that.”

He impatiently rings your wrists; You’re positioning the mask properly overhead. The draping fabric’s hitting Joel’s colossal shoulders. 

Your pulse’s hammering, “Oh.”

The mask’s milky-colored expression, surveying you. Stark, against the setting of Joel’s unlighted home. His index finger’s impulsively traveling your body; Dragging over your bottom lip’s dampened flesh. Then, carnally downard, riding your throat. Fingering your jugular’s delicate divet. Hooking your undershirt’s airy collar.

Joel’s taunting, “Heart’s racin’.”

You’re anguishly rutting against his console table’s lacquered top. You need to be touched. You beg, “J–Joel. Oh, Joel.”

Joel’s eerily tilting his head, “Pussy’s racin’ like that, too?” Whispering, “Ain’t it?”

You’re deliriously horny, “Yes.”

He’s humming, “Hm. Shirt’s got ‘t go, first.” His unoccupied hand’s rummaging his hind pocket, while, “Reckon that my knife’ll work?”

You’re pleading, “C–Cut it off.”

Then, Joel’s brandishing his utility knife. The blade’s expertly flicked outward. He urges, “Try ‘t hold still.”

Joel Miller’s carving your fucking shirt; His blade’s blunt edge skimming your sternum. He’s effortlessly halved it, forging an impromptu vest. He’s instantaneously shoving the garment overtop your rigid shoulders.

The knife’s frigid handle brushes your tapered nipple; Joel’s awaiting permission, hovering your underwear’s waistline. You’re nodding, kneading his large shoulders. His finger’s hitching the material, before his blade’s cutting it.

Snipping the remaining side, Joel grunts, “Cunt need stuffin’?” He’s pocketing your saturated underwear and his retracted knife, “I know it’s wet ‘nough to take two fingers.”

You’ve been fantasizing about Joel entering you all Halloween. And, finally; He does. He’s groaning, “S–Swallowin’ both of ‘em. ‘Jus like that?”

Your angling head’s hitting the paneled wall. You’re obscenely squelching around his battering digits. You belatedly respond, “JoelJoelJoelJoel.”

Joel’s roughened wrist’s repeatedly rubbing your beating clit. You’re clenching speechlessly around him, innately meeting every re-entry. Your spine’s warming; Your stomach’s taut.

Your arousal’s watering his driving hand; His palm’s pooling. Joel’s incessantly steady. Praising, “Comin’ up. Doin’ good.”

You’re gasping, “There. Oh, right there.”

The instant that you’re coming, Joel’s yanking off his hindering mask. His beard’s patchy and sweaty. He grins, “Man ‘a my word.”

Then, Joel’s amused mouth’s pounding upon your own; He’s desperately inhaling your breaking moans. Licking your teeth’s underside. 

You’re abundantly squirting, as Joel’s uncorking your cunt. Your spotting vision’s correcting leisurely. You’re languidly sighing; Breathing deeply.

He’s genuinely insane for drinking you from his cupped palm. Then, Joel’s mouthing his soggy fingers; Hitting knuckle. You’re blurting, “Need ‘t fuck.”

Joel’s arching his aging brow; Rasping, “Ask nicely.” Then, he’s towing your body overtop his broad shoulder. Spanking you, “Greedy fuckin’ girl.”

You’re nakedly suspended, Joel’s bicep rippling below your ass. He’s entering his living room; Carefully placing you across his cognac-colored sectional. You’re propping upon the chaise’s leathered cushions. You whine, “Please, Joel.”

Joel’s tutting, “Better’n that.” 

You supply, “Pretty please?”

He’s gradually moving nearer; His denim-clad shins, butting the couch’s edge. Joel’s unhurriedly thumbing his belt’s loop, painfully prolonging his removing it. You’re wetting and writhing against his furniture’s fabric.

Joel’s unimpressed, “C’mon.”

Shedding his accessory; Working his zipper. His acting arm’s so freckled, tanned, veined. Joel’s yanking his t-shirt overhead, before subsequently revealing an appetizing, softened tummy. His happy trail’s graying and wiry.

You’re begging, “Joel. Please.”

He’s winking, “Good ‘nough.”

Every sound’s tantalizing; Joel’s boots and pants, thumping across the carpet. His bare, bulky thigh’s abruptly rubbing against your naked pussy; Then, Joel’s mirroring your body’s horizontal position. Mounting you.

Your arousal’s drenching his underwear’s front; His length’s largely tenting the humid material, “Beggin’ like that. Fuckin’ slut.”

You’re involuntarily panting, when Joel’s finally and fully undressed. His cock’s deliciously girthy. The tip’s engorged, reddened and seeping; Erecting far beyond his belly’s button.

You’re whimpering, “PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel grins, “Cunt’s quiverin’. Feelin’ that?”

You desperately nod, “Need you ‘t feel it.”

Joel’s immediately pistoning his fleshy waist; His cock’s knocking your cervix’s wall. His rough thrusting’s fastly inching your bodies upward, until your head’s rearing the sofa’s supple tailend.

He whispers, “Warm ‘nough?”

You gasp, “C–Cock’s perfect.”

Joel’s inaudibly responding; Ramming your hand, palming your pelvis. You’re feeling his cock, below your abdomen’s exterior. He’s interlocking your fingers; His own swallowing yours; Pressing. You’re practically tracing his bulbous, twitching tip.

He’s praising, “Takin’ me well.”

Joel’s bottoming-out, pounding steadily; His bloated, weighty balls welting your taint. Your clit’s puffing, from his pubic bone’s rhythmic route. Dementedly fucking you. You’re moaning, “Ah. F–Fuck.”

He murmurs, “Cunt’s gulpin’ me.” Joel’s hooking your knee’s underside, before lugging it overtop his broad shoulder’s slope, “Needy fuckin’ hole.”

You’re stammering, “Ngh. M–Mm. RightThereRightThere.”

Then, Joel’s angling deeper, differently; Laying his body’s robust weight against your languid, vertical leg. Your foot’s achingly surpassing your head. His chest hair’s graying and saturated; Scraping you.

Your pussy’s overwhelmingly spasming. Joel’s messily tonguing your nipple’s peak; His mustache’s prickling the sensitive skin. You’re tugging at his hair’s curling strands, “J–Joel. Close.”

Joel’s echoing your prior words, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You’re shockingly surprised, that Joel’s remembered the momentary retort; Your faux-bold response and pumpkin spiced alcohol. That’s it. You’re blindly coming. His cock’s densely brimming your contracting hole; Hammering you.

Your pussy’s pornographically sloshing. Joel whimpers, “A–’Atta girl. Drenchin’ it.” Then, “Comin’ inside. ‘M snipped. Yeah?”

You’re immediately kissing him. Palming his beard’s rugged stubble. Sucking his tongue’s pink pores; Tasting your arousal’s heady flavoring.

His climaxing moan’s roaring down your throat; Cum rapidly spurting, coating your cunt. You’re rubbing his rolling eye’s crinkled grooves. His forehead’s tanned and wrinkled. Joel’s especially gorgeous, while cumming hard.

You’re pouring, when Joel’s unplugging you. He’s breathlessly cursing, “Fuckin’ hot.” Standing, “Gettin’ towels. Need anythin’ else? Water?”

You’re beginning to respond, when Joel’s unexpectedly bending; Kissing you. You smile, tapping your bottom lip, “What’s that for?”

Joel’s embarrassedly pointing, toward the nearby microwave’s blinking clock. He explains, “Ten thirty-one on October thirty-first. ‘Dunno. Good luck? Make ‘a wish or somethin’.”

You’re actually dumbfounded, “Oh? You’re absurdly cute.”

Joel frowns, “Ain’t allowed ‘t call me that. ‘Specially while leakin’ my seed.” He’s nakedly turning, preparing to walk, “Water?”

You’re pulling Joel’s hand, “Wait. Want ‘t hear your wish.”

He gulps, “That… You’ll be visitin’ home on Thanksgivin’.”

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Month - August 2024

1.Negative Power Prices Hit Europe as Renewable Energy Floods the Grid

European power markets are experiencing a notable shift as renewable energy sources, particularly wind and solar, become a larger part of the energy mix. On Wednesday, power prices in several European markets, including Germany, dipped below zero due to a surge in green electricity production.

2. Taiwan introduces ban on performances by captive wild animals

Live performances by wild animals held in captivity, including performances by dolphins, tigers, and other non-domesticated mammals, will no longer be permitted in Taiwan under new Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) regulations.

3. FTC bans fake online reviews, inflated social media influence; rule takes effect in October

The FTC voted unanimously to ban marketers from using fake reviews, such as those generated with AI technology, and other misleading advertising practices.

The ban also forbids marketers from exaggerating their own influence by, for example, paying for bots to inflate their follower count.

4. Chinese drones will fly trash out of Everest slopes

Come autumn, Nepal will deploy heavy lifter drones to transport garbage from the 6,812-metre tall Ama Dablam, south of Everest. This will be the first commercial work an unmanned aerial vehicle does in Nepal’s high-altitude zone.

The heavy lifter from China’s biggest drone maker, Da Jiang Innovations (DJI), will take on tasks traditionally handled by Sherpas. Officials believe it will help reduce casualties on Everest.

5. Swiss scientists have found a way to use the whole cocoa fruit to make chocolate and not just taking beans and discarding the rest.

Kim Mishra (L) and Anian Schreiber (R) cooperated on the new chocolate making process

Food scientists in Switzerland have come up with a way to make chocolate using the entire cocoa fruit rather than just the beans - and without using sugar.

The chocolate, developed at Zurich’s prestigious Federal Institute of Technology by scientist Kim Mishra and his team includes the cocoa fruit pulp, the juice, and the husk, or endocarp.

6. Six-year-old boy found in Vietnam forest after five days

A six-year-old boy who was missing for five days has been found deep in a forest in Vietnam. Dang Tien Lam, who lives in the northwestern Yen Bai province, was playing in a stream with his nine siblings on 17 August when he wandered into the hills and got lost, local reports said.

He was found on Wednesday by local farmers who heard a child's cry while they were clearing a cinnamon field close to the forest.

7. Lego plans to make half the plastic in bricks from renewable materials by 2026

Lego plans to make half the plastic in its bricks from renewable or recycled material rather than fossil fuels by 2026, in its latest effort to ensure its toys are more environmentally friendly.

The Danish company last year ditched efforts to make bricks entirely from recycled bottles because of cost and production issues. At the moment, 22% of the material in its colourful bricks is not made from fossil fuels.

----------

That's it for this month :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to share this post with your friends.

[ikkosu]

TO LIVE AND TO SERVE

part three

(sentinel.gn.miner.reader)warnings : mild nsfw!!

one, two, three

HE'S  a lot more quiet when he's alone.

You found him in the Thirteenth suite (where the Prime's statues were concocted in tribute to their deaths, as well as serving as the strategy room for military use).

He was by the round table, nursing a cup of energon while he stared blankly ahead, lost in the colorful blurs of the Iaconian lights that shone through the arched glass windows.Three bottles of engex littered the table. To your baffled confusion, you also counted around thirteen cups, possibly more, on the ground, scattered.

Ever since he gave you the proposition to serve him, you hadn't interacted with the Prime for a while, given he was busy with his 'responsibility' as Prime and the most you'd seen him was his figure pottering along the halls and in and out of rooms. At these times, you tucked yourself away into your room, reading a book or exploring the limited areas of the castle you were permitted to use. Any farther than that were gauranteed a violation. He'd take you back to the mines.

You didn't want that. 

But in regards to his behavior, this has gotten quite frequent, you notice. After every conference about his expeditions, or a trivial meeting for that matter, led him cooped up in the Thirteenth Suite.

He was different.

No grandiose gestures, no banter, no anything —none of that pretense you know holds up everytime a crowd cheers. Watching him change through the screen and in here,  disconcerting wasn't the word you'd exactly use to describe him. Unpredictable was better. There was nothing more dangerous than a mech with unpredictable motives. 

You didn't know which side you preferred.

" There you are." 

You blinked out of your stupor and found him swivelled towards you. He tipped his helm back with a smile, placing his cup down. "Where have you been?" 

You weren't sure whether to step into the room or not so you teetered by the doorway and tightened your servo into a fist. 

"Exploring, my liege." You say, cautious. 

"You're not hiding away from me, are you?" He mused. 

You glance to the exit. " No, sir. Not at all. Airachnid showed me around ...and lost my way.." 

" Happens all the time. You'll get used to it.." He chuckled and patted his thighs, which spreads out a little to expose his panel. You look away, digits digging deeper into your palm.

 He cocked a brow and leaned back with his elbows both on the handle. "Second thoughts?" 

You didn't meet his gaze as you neared, fixated on a particular spot on the statue of the Prime behind him. Megatronus's mask. The hollow optics peered down. As though watching.

"Not at all." You say.

He hunched forward and held your waist, servos engulfing the entirety of the width. His digits glides over the intricate lines on your stomach, pressing against sensitive regions before feeling up your shoulder with his palms.

With a push against your back, you fell deeper into his embrace, servos a tacl against his shouders. You thought back to the drone with the dent on his chassis, and the image of Sentinel plunging a servo through your abdomen, sparks igniting, energon spooling out, plagued your mind. 

A little, you shake. He was too busy pressing is face against the spot between your shoulder and neck to notice you froze. With every vent of his intake and every touch of his wet, sticky lips against your cheek, angex prickles your olfactory sensors. Down the shoulder, his servos glides over the curve of your aft then to your thighs and squeezes it.

"Get on my lap." He nudged your jaw with his nose, breathy and eager. 

You swallowed. "Yes, my liege." 

"Oh, call me sir." He scoffed and leaned back as you swung your legs over his thighs. "It's pretentious when you say that." 

You don't say ...

You kept quiet, opting to put your servos on his shoulder while he tucked you close against his chassis. The servo on your back cupped the nape of your neck before pulling you close and into a wet kiss. You tensed up. However, he wasn't detterd and eased your mouth open with his glossa, large and slick , prodding against your own. 

Megatronus was behind, peering down. Watching.

" Feels good, doesn't it?" He said between breaths, tilting forward to taste the back of your mouth, dentas grazing your lips and tongue. 

You didn't know what to say. There was nothing worth saying, only putting your focus to breathe and not wince at how deep his digits are digging into your sides at how forceful he was trying to pull your body close. You made a sound as he tipped you forward, knees pressing against his side as he chased your mouth. 

In the moment of reprieve when he let go of your lips, you said "It does, sir." 

And Sentinel was about to lean in when the words register. He paused, pulled away and stared at you for a moment before laughing incredulously and, unfortunately, very deeply. You've never seen him this amused by what you've said. You could only strain your jaw not to be bothered by his reaction and shook along the vibration of his chassis. 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and optics, as though wiping off a tear. 

"You know I hate liars." Eventually, he says. " Especially when they go into detailed, detailed stories about how they're not..."

He leaned forward until his helm, through your viewpoint, was under Megatronus's and vividly vividly you had the feeling the surrounding statues were staring, hollow optics turned to one mech. 

Sentinel.

"Insanely ridiculous, don't you think?"

[jam3sacaster]

Hello, would you write something for rupert and taggie in which she says daddy and both Declan and Rupert answer her 🙂🤭

“Daddy, can you…”

Roped into yet another tedious business meeting for Venturer, Taggie O’Hara sat slumped at her dining room table. Television executives, her father and Rupert Campbell-Black stood splayed around her. A charcuterie board, laden with salami, Brie, crackers and grapes sat in the middle of the table, greedy fingers being poked into it repetitively. “Great spread, Tag.” Rupert glanced down at her, a devilish smirk across his lips. Widening her eyes to cease his teasing, Taggie bit her bottom lip, desperate to not show any form of affection towards him.

“So, we need to sort out our permit, because it’s really important that we don’t…” Declan began, but Taggie ignored the endless droning of business talk. She was there to eat the food she had provided but, more importantly, catch a glimpse of Rupert. Any opportunity she had, she would grab it with both hands. Hand outstretching across the dinner table, Taggie struggled to reach the bread basket, grunting under her stubborn persistence not to get out of her chair. “Daddy, can you pass me the bread?” She asked, fingers still desperately grasping.

“Yes?” Rupert answered to his affectionate name being called, looking up at her with an upturned brow.

“Yes.” Declan spoke, immediately reaching for the basket.

The agonising silence that ensued was unendurable. Not a single soul dared to speak. Taggie immediately clamped her eyes shut, praying that the ground would swallow her whole. Rupert, on the other hand, spun round to face the wall on his heels, his shoulders visibly bobbing in laughter. Declan’s brows furrowed in rage— his cheeks glowing a livid shade of red. His lip quivered as he opened his mouth to speak.

“WHAT THE FU-“

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes from the burned bodies of a Palestinian family after an attack by the Zionist occupation army, killing the father and six other family members and severely burning the mother and her four children, the sickening result of an American-made bomb being dropped on their family home.

📈 The current death toll in "Israel's" Special Genocide Operation in Gaza has now reached 33'137 killed and another 75'815 injuries.]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏠💥🚑 🚨

MURDERS SLOW BUT DON'T STOP ON 183RD DAY OF "ISRAEL'S" SPECIAL GENOCIDE OPERATION IN GAZA

On the 183rd day of "Israel's" Special Genocide Operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 4 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 46 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 65 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

A number of victims of Israeli bombings remain buried under the rubble of their homes and shelters, while corpses still line many streets as the occupation army continues to block ambulance and civil defense crews from reaching the sites of Israeli attacks.

In a report today, published in the American newspaper the Wall Street Journal, the news outlet said that the Biden administration is pushing the Zionist entity to accept one of the sticking points in negotiations with the Hamas resistance movement, the return of Palestinians to the northern Gaza Strip who've been displaced by the Israeli aggression.

This has been one of the main demands from Hamas in the negotiations, with the others being the withdrawal of Zionist forces from Gaza and the free flow of Humanitarian aid into the besieged enclave.

According to the report, the Biden administration asked that the Israeli entity's Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, allow a limited number of women and children to return to the north of Gaza, while continuing to block men between the ages of 18-50 from returning.

The newspaper said this would "allay American fears of an Israeli attack on the southern city of Rafah," essentially permitting a planned Israeli ground offensive in the area. More than 1.4 million displaced Palestinians have crowded into Rafah, a city of only 171'000 prior to October 7th, 2023, stretching the city's resources thin and helping to spread disease while under starvation conditions.

According to Arab negotiators mediating the talks, the Israeli entity has said it could accept the return of civilians to northern Gaza at a rate of just 2'000 people per day, as long as those returning are women and children, and with a cap of no more than 60'000 Palestinians allowed back to their utterly destroyed homes.

However, with the continued blocking of basic materials like concrete, and no men allowed to return, where the 60'000 Palestinian civilians would live seems an open question.

Hamas, for its part, according to a CNN report, rejected the idea of only allowing 60'000 women and children to return to the north. An unnamed diplomat involved in the negotiations told CNN that "They rejected (the proposal) and considered that it ignored their demands,” adding that the Israeli proposal "did not include anything new," and therefore the movement does not "see any need to change its proposal."

Meanwhile, the Zionist bombing and shelling campaign responsible for so many tens of thousands of civilian casualties over the previous six months has slowed since the recent massacre of 7 foreign aid workers in a series of targeted drone strikes back-to-back with a second atrocity, and a blatant war crime, when Zionist forces bombed the Iranian consulate in Damascus, the Syrian capital, but has yet to stop despite heavy international pressure, including some limited pressure put on the Netanyahu regime by the Americans.

In a recent letter sent to the American President, signed onto by the House Democratic leader Nancy Pelosi, dozens of Congressional Democrats urged U.S. President Joe Biden and Secretary of State Antony Blinkin to withhold arms transfers to the Israeli regime until a full investigation can be held and completed into the slaughter of the 7 foreign aid workers.

The letter was issued by U.S. Congressmembers Mark Pocan, Jim McGovern and Jan Schakowski and signed by 40 other lawmakers, including Pelosi, many of whom are considered staunch supporters of the Israeli entity.

According to a report about the letter, frustration has been mounting among House Democrats for months as the Netanyahu regime prosecuted its deadly Special Genocide Operation in Gaza, slaughtering tens of thousands of civilians, including over 14'000 children who've been killed since the start of the war.

However, Tuesday's deadly strike on the World Central Kitchen (WCK) personnel as they finished unloading many tons of humanitarian aid into a distribution warehouse in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, and bombed as they were leaving the city, has shook many lawmakers and their aides, many of whom believe the attack to be a turning point in U.S. support for the Israeli regime's genocide campaign.

Even some lawmakers who've refrained from criticizing "Israel" until now have since begun to call for a ceasefire, and some even signed onto the letter issued to the Biden administration, such as U.S. Congressmember Chris Coons, who came out on Thursday in favor of placing restrictions and conditions on American military aid to "Israel".

Meanwhile, the bombing and shelling in Gaza continued, albeit at a slower rate than before Tuesday's attacks on the WCK convoy, the Israeli occupation artillery forces shelled Al-Sika Street in the southeast of Gaza City, and also shelled Beit Hanoun, both in the northern Gaza Strip.

Zionist forces also fired artillery and live bullets at high intensity towards residential neighborhoods in southwestern Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip.

At the same time, the occupation army targeted several residential homes in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, along with the Al-Sabra neighborhood in central Gaza City, and also the Tal al-Hawa and Sheikh Ajlin neighborhoods southwest of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of three Palestinian civilians, and wounding at least 10 others. Many of whom were transferred to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital.

Similarly, Zionist occupation forces fired artillery shells towards neighborhoods in the southwest of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, while occupation forces also shelled the the central and western areas of the city as well.

IOF warplanes bombed several residential homes and buildings in the Al-Amal neighborhood west of Khan Yunis, while at the same time, live bullets fired by a Zionist sniper stationed on the border fence east of Al-Fukhari, located east of Khan Yunis, critically wounded one female Palestinian civilian.

The Zionist aggression continued when Israeli occupation soldiers detonated multiple residential homes in the northern areas of Al-Mughraqa, north of Al-Nuseirat, in the central Gaza Strip, while Paramedic crews recovered the corpses two martyrs in the same city while under the continuous artillery shelling of the occupation army.

In another Israeli war crime, Zionist warplanes bombed the Al-Sharafa family home, located in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, killing and wounding three displaced Palestinians sheltering in the building at the time.

Simultaneously, Zionist gunboats "intermittently" shelled the shores of Deir al-Balah, in central Gaza, where children and families often gather to enjoy the beach, even as the Israeli genocide has unfolded.

In yet another violation of International humanitarian law, occupation soldiers fired live bullets at Palestinian civilians gathered at the Al-Kuwaiti roundabout, south of Gaza City, at the intersection of Salah al-Din Street and Street 10, wounding at least 7 civilians who were transferred to Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahia, in the northern Gaza Strip.

Zionist forces also bombarded a residential home belonging to the Mansour family in Jabalia al-Balad, in the north of Gaza, killing a number of Palestinian civilians, while occupation artillery fire also concentrated on the east of the Jabalia area.

As a result of "Israel's" Special Genocide Operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll among Palestinians has now risen in excess of 33'137 citizens killed, over 14'350 of which being children, while another 75'815 Palestinians have been wounded, and yet another 7'000 remain missing under the rubble of their homes since the start of the Zionist aggression on Gaza beginning on October 7th, 2023.

#source1

#source2

#source3

#source4

#source5

#source6

#source7

#source8

#source9

#graphicsource

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[curio-queries]

ARE YOU SURE?!

Production Notes from eps 1 & 2

At this time, I'm not planning to do full response posts for these episodes. Maybe once I'm done with my Run BTS series but for now here's some production thoughts.

My initial thoughts are they've done an excellent job of merging the concepts for Bon Voyage and In The Soop while also adjusting for a reduction of members from seven to two.

To really understand this though, let's talk about some of the logistical requirements and goals of the previous shows for comparison.

Logistical Assumptions

So I think y'all do realize that there is SOME amount of planning that has to happen for a show like this to be made but honestly...the way some of you talk, it's like you think this footage just magically appears in front of an editor, capturing whatever the members happened to wander into. These aren't self-recorded vlogs. This is a full production with a crew, a budget, and a deliverable requirement; just like any other TV show.

One of the cutest moments for me was at the brewery when JM was teasing JK about a summary of what the show about. I KNOW this was the 5 second explanation that both of them would have had to say/hear dozens of times while pitching the show. That's what's so endearing about the way JM says it and JKs reaction.

They also know that statements like that, captured during filming often end up in promos. All the members are very aware as they're being filmed what footage ends up being used. We've heard them time and time again, 'please use this as the thumbnail', 'please keep this in', etc.

Jimin has always been the most vocal about questioning if the content works for their intended purpose. How many times have we heard him say 'can this even be used?' or 'this will be cut'. Usually it sounds to me like he's aware the footage they're getting in the moment doesn't align with the predetermined plan. But as is common with the footage we getnof the members, even though it wasn't according to plan, doesn't mean it's not releaseable.

The main point of JMs AYS concerns being his sickness. I'm sure he thought the show was in jeopardy of not fulfilling their deliverable requirements since it would be difficult to completely edit out. There is a legitimate concern that if they aren't able provide the agreed-upon footage, the show would never air. I'll talk more about this in my section on the edit.

For now, here's a list of SOME of the basics that have to be managed for y'all to keep in mind when consuming any kind of produced content.

Camera management: How many and what kinds of cameras need to be brought along? Are there special operators required like a drone operator. How often is the footage saved. How is it backed up? When and where are batteries charged? Who locations require early access so the crew can place stationary cameras prior to the member's arrival.

Sound management: Someone is making sure the microphones are charged, and capturing correctly. Being mic'd up is one of the easiest indicators of when the show is actively being filmed or not.

Security: this is BTS. The members didn't go anywhere without a security consultation and discussion of requirements.

Crew management: These are people that have to have places to eat, sleep, and have time off as well. They don't just vanish into thin air as soon as their job is done.

Location approval and tax requirements: Every country in the world has different regulations, incentives, and permits to be managed. The US varies these laws state-by-state.

Budget: Businesses don't stay in business by not managing the finances. We can talk more about this if anyone's interested but there are definitely some interesting points with how much on-screen time we got over the years regarding members' spending on the shows.

There's more but let's leave it at the for the moment and talk more about why I think this show was such a good blend of Bon Voyage and In The Soop from a production standpoint.

What was the initial goal of Bon Voyage?

I believe it was to promote the band and the members to viewers by giving us access to what it would be like to travel to various destinations around the globe. They knew the episodes still needed a catalyst though so there were various preplanned activities and games to motivate the editorial narrative.

BV1 was very experimental as they were obviously managing the challenges of such a production. There was a heavy emphasis on trying to make the members seem like regular ppl and seeing how they would tackle the problems many of us face with travel, chiefly budgetary and managing how to feed all of the travelers with strict spending limits.

BV2 completely game-ified the concept with the mini challenges and breaking everyone into different groups. It's very clear that this is not the strategy they preferred as BV3 was much lighter on the control. There were still some structured activities and events but the members were experienced enough to bring forth some of these moments themselves during the shoot rather than as a completely planned itinerary.

BV4 was a continuation of this with us also getting footage of the members being included in the event planning as well. I'm not saying they didn't have input in the planning of the previous seasons but by this point, production knew the members understood the requirements of a successful show as well as many of the necessary logistics. But it was still a travel show with some key events to fuel the storytelling.

How about In The Soop?

Enter pandemic. They obviously still wanted to do another show once they worked out what was permissible to film at the time. But now the changing of locations would not be a part of the engine. How were they going to ensure they still had a viable show? They did put in place a semblance of their previous formula with that silly daily schedule (that was ignored nearly to the point of being completely edited out) and a couple of events like the 94s mountain hike and vhope's car drive. But overall, they realized they had to rely purely on the members to find story moments and insure they were captured. Their trust was rewarded though and ITS1 was a hit.

Now ITS2 is a more interesting case. I do believe it may have started with the same intent as season 1, but it must not have been long in the pre-planning stage before a new goal was added: controlled access of a BTS tourism destination. I'm sure I'll go further into this topic whenever I do finally make posts on this series, but it's very plain to even the casual fan that the ITS2 location was a planned financial investment.

Enough about the location though, what were the filming objectives? Honestly? Not much. The members were clearly ready for a break and were mired in the uncertainties of the time period. Balancing the focus of the english-solo-songs era with the preparations for ch.2 solo activities resulted in an odd lack of direction for the members, which is evident in the show. Yes, there are great moments and segments but there's no progression and very little footage of all the members all together except during certain meals.

But ITS2 is still hailed as enough of a success that there was justification to add to the franchise with Tae's friendship installment.

But what does all this mean for Are You Sure?

We'd heard from many of the members during ch.2 that they would like to continue Bon Voyage so it honestly wasn't surprising that we'd eventually get another travel show featuring our beloved BTS members. Early in episode 1 of AYS, Jungkook says he's never traveled so loosely before. However this show was justified, it definitely wasn't planned to be another hyper-detailed barrage of JM & JK going from activity-to-activity like early BV but it also couldn't be as aimless as ITS. For as long as the conversation was surrounding the name of the show, we never hear them suggest Bon Voyage 5 because AYS was never intended to be another installment of that series.

This is why I said AYS is a perfect mesh of the two kinds of shows. Granted, the first episodes definitely had some unexpected obstacles due to the unexpected health concerns but I think the production team managed it well. Although, I'm convinced there's at least one activity they did have planned that had to get scrapped to let our poor guys rest and recuperate. I also wouldn't be surprised if by the time they started filming in the US, they hadn't locked another destination and schedule with how unsure JM & JK are when talking about the scope of the show. (And I hope we get some update on the poor motorcycle, I want to know how it got where it needed to be from the rainy grocery parking lot).

The Edit

The overall tone of the show is very lighthearted. Kind of surprisingly so for me. It's not the vibe I would have necessarily expected but it's one of the points that leads me to say they have merged BV and ITS so wonderfully.

A major aspect of BTS's content is usually the chaos and shenanigans the surround the members. Now much of that is emphasized in the context of one of these shows but I honestly wouldn't have been surprised if the edit had tried to make up for the lowered member count. Instead, it's a very laid-back edit. The quality and tone of the on-screen captions was world's different from some of the BV seasons (thank goodness!)

Now, about Jimin's illness. There's a reason why the coverage is cut the way it was to only bring us in on the story once both JM and JK started talking about it lightheartedly. If we'd had all of that footage chronologically, we also would have had building tension throughout the day's activities. But this way, we're able to enjoy the show per the original pitch as much as possible.

This show would have been planned during the time when the members were under heavy scrutiny for how successful they'd be as individuals and how their content will be received without the full seven members. Again, the way some of y'all talk about these shows, it's like you don't realize that the members are aware of how this content is structured. They are. They absolutely are.

Also, a big part of greenlighting AYS would have been a discussion of how it could be made with just 2 of the 7 members. JM and JK would have to take on a lot more of the burden since there wouldn't be other member to cut to. The solo vlogs we got at the beginning of ch.2 absolutely would have been used as a proof of concept. There are easy comparisons to make between JKs camping vlog and the camping scenes we got in these first AYS episodes.

Another key justification of the show could have been as promotional material for the current musical releases. While they did highlight quite a bit of both JK and JM's work in these episodes, the narrative definitely wasn't tilted in the direction of promotion. I love that because it's absolutely not what I would have expected.

What am I looking forward to for the remainder of AYS?

From a production standpoint, I'm already curious about the following:

Will there be any tonal shift? Specifically now that JM and JK have some uncertainties about the viability of their US adventure. Will it seem like they're compensating?

We know Tae is going to be in at least the next episode. How is this going to handled narratively and will there be any visible contradictions from that narrative in the production?

At what point was the final quantity of locations and shoots locked down? And when/if will JM and JK make mention of this.

If/How will the music promotion narrative shift? It's clear that this episode could not have been released until after MUSE's release once they decided to keep the footage of JK listening to Who. But when was that decision made?

What are your thoughts on the production of AYS so far?

Editing to add a link to my post on episode 3. Surprisingly I had a lot more to say!

Are You Sure?! Production notes from ep 3.

And there has been even more to say so here's a MasterList link

Are You Sure?! MasterList

[dronesbynomad]

Commercial Drone Photography Company in UAE

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In fact aerial photography is actually a stream of landscape photography and you can see why. From the air the most impressive photos are taken of vast landscapes, perhaps of mountains and deserts. One of the most popular places in the world for aerial photography nowadays in the steep slopes of the dubai.

DronesByNomad is a company that offers the best commercial aerial photography and drone operator uae services. The company also has skilled professionals who can assist individuals to create the best aerials shoots.

Original Source: drone company uae

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Office Space 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you're an assistant to private and corporate investigator, Nick Fowler, and find yourself brought into the fold of his shady professional life. 

Characters: Nick Fowler, Jonathan Pine, this reader is known as Elfie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Another thick folder falls on your desk. You look up as Mr. Fowler strides without a word into his office. No explanation, no directive, as ever he's elusive but demanding. 

You sigh and push your mouse aside, bringing the folder in front of you. You open it up and find stacks of hand-written notes, receipts, and reports. You get the happy task of digitizing each one and sorting it into the electronic archive for investigation.  

Your boss closes himself into his office as you sit in the vacant silence of the small lobby. It's no walk-in location. PI work doesn't exactly operate that way. Corporate investigations are even less advertised. Fowler does more than find the corruption, he scrubs it when necessary. 

You expect the discretion of the work is why he hired you. You don't talk much. You do you work without question and clock out. Still, it doesn't keep you from after hours or early arrivals. He texts and you're where you need to be. 

You sort through the thick folder. Chronological or by type? Some don't have dates and what would you categorize a cocktail napkin as? You get up and haul it all into the copier room. It's the smallest room in the rented space, made tighter by the filing cabinets and the industrial printer. 

You unhook your laptop and bring it into the copier room. You put it on the narrow table and go to task. It's mindless work. You fall into the pattern of scanning, numbering, and cataloguing. The copier hums in the empty static. 

No music, no noise. Your request for white noise was declined without consideration. You accept without argument. Fowler isn't the type to entertain pushback. He's the boss. 

Whatever, you wouldn't trade the silence for the top ten on repeat at your previous retail gig. The people are enough to make you tolerate the isolation. Besides, it's a job, it's not meant to be fun.  

You get your kicks after work; a drink with your fellow corporate drones down at Retro's. Thinking of, it's been some time since you had a spicy margarita. You pause your work and go to retrieve your phone from your purse. As you find it hiding in the middle pocket, Fowler's door opens and he promptly marches over to stamp his mug down on your desk. Shoot. 

"Emergency?" He wonders as his blue eyes narrow at your grip on the phone. 

"No, sir, checking the time," you lie and drop the cell back in your purse and hide it in your drawer. "Coffee?" 

He doesn't answer, merely taps the brim and walks away. He leaves his office door open as he retreats. You give a tight smile to the empty office and snatch up the dark blue cup. 

You take it into the little room meant to be some sort of break space. You don't take breaks and neither does he. You approach the expensive nespresso machine and go through the motions. Cappucino. You've become a pseudo-barista since you started the job. 

The smell of coffee tempts you. You're permitted to have one of your own but you have to supply your own coffee and dairy. It's easier to hit the cafe on your way or pack a cup from home.  

You carry it out and tentatively approach Mr. Fowler's door. You peer inside and clear your throat. He sneers at his phone without acknowledging you. You near and place his cup on the marble coaster beside his apple mouse. 

"We have an extra mug?" He asks without looking up. 

"Yes, sir, I think--" 

"I don't need you to think, I need yes or no." 

"Yes," you swallow down his bluntness. As you least you never have to wonder what's on his mind. He'll tell you. 

"I'm in expecting someone in twenty minutes." 

That's it. You have the pieces, put it together. His visitor will require their own beverage. Lovely. A rare drop-in is hardly exciting, more stressful. If they're important enough to come in, they're important enough to be concerned. 

You go to find a second cup. You have your own, a red travel mug without a handle. You’ll leave the silicon lid in your drawer and give it a quick rinse.  

You wait behind your desk, the mug clean and sparkling beside the nespresso in anticipation. You’ll go back to your scanning once you have the visitor settled. You know Fowler wouldn’t want them walking into an empty desk. In the meantime, you sift through another case file on your screen. 

When the door opens, you pop up, overly alert. That’s not your usual state. This place makes you sleepy. You stand up to greet the man as he steps through. 

He’s tall, taller than Fowler, but slender. While his shoulders are broad, the rest of him is trim. His blonde hair is kept neatly and his blue eyes are crystalline where your boss’ are dark and stormy. This man is like sunshine compared to the usual grim cloud over this place. 

“Hello, uh, sir,” you smile, “you must be here to see Mr. Fowler.” 

“Yes, that’s me,” he says breezily, “Jonathan Pine.” 

“Okay, erm, I’ll let him know you’re here,” you round the desk, hitting your hip on the corner but hiding the pang it sends down your thigh, “uh, would you like a coffee?” 

“How kind to offer, but no, I’m more of a tea drinker,” he replies, “pardon, but I didn’t get your name.” 

“Elfie,” you utter instinctively, “er, excuse me, I’ll just go let Mr. Fowler--” 

You scurry to the office door and it opens before you can reach it. Mr. Fowler steps out and sends you a sardonic look. You wince and step back out of his way. He struts by and approaches Jonathan, Mr. Pine properly, with his hand out in offering. 

“Pine.” 

“Nick,” the man answers familiarly, “long time.” 

“Not long enough,” Fowler counters as they shake hands firmly. He’s a few inches shorter than Pine though hardly falters at the fact. “Elfie, coffee.” 

“She did offer,” Pine intones, “I politely declined. You know it isn’t my style.” 

“Mm, yes, I know your style too well,” Fowler rebuffs and lets him go, gesturing him through his office door. As he follows, he glances back at you and arches a brow. What did you do wrong this time? 

[scarlethexelove]

The reader is concern about dating a centuries-old witch, Agatha. Feeling like a fleeting moment in her long existence can be daunting

Fleeting

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word Count: 1067

Warnings: A bit of angst, Some fluff, A little bit of magic talk

A/n: At first I was really struggling with a way to write this out but I'm happy with how it turned out. But I got to put in that happy ending.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

The tv plays on as Agatha talks over it. This isn’t anything new to you and you love to listen to her explain the inaccuracies of history. You think of how amazing it is that your girlfriend is a great and powerful witch who has lived centuries. She knows history better than anyone you have ever met before in your life. 

But it always makes you think. Your mind wanders to another aspect of life with the witch. While right now things are good and happy between the two of you it won’t always be. You will slowly age until you look older than her and she will stay looking the same as ever. You love Agatha so much but it’s hard to think about the future. Having kids with her and growing old together, but the problem is she won’t grow old. She is already centuries old having lived so many lifetimes already. 

You don’t notice the tear that has fallen until a hand cups your cheek gently wiping the fallen tear away. “Sweetheart what’s wrong?” Agatha asks her voice soft and calming to your racing mind. Despite her calm demeanor your breath quickens as your mind spirals and you panic. You didn’t think you could love someone so much and to think of losing her is crushing you. “Woah, woah, woah baby please talk to me.” Agatha cups your face in her hands forcing you to look at her as more tears stream down your cheeks. 

Agatha has no idea what happened. You were just smiling at her as she droned on about how wrong the history books got the Salem witch trials. When her eyes landed on you she noticed the tears and the far off look on your face. How your body slightly trembled in front of her. She doesn’t know what triggered it but she wants to help. So she pulls you in her lap and hugs you close. Your hand grip the front of her shirt tightly like she is going to disappear from right in front of you. It breaks her heart to see the sudden change and having no idea what is going on. How can she help you? The only thing she can do right now is hold you tight and try to calm you down. 

It takes time for Agatha to calm you down. Your grip on her shirt never falters even as your sobs turn into sniffles. You don’t want her to go, to leave in the past like all the others. So you hold on. It doesn’t bother her though she lets your grip stay as she cups your cheeks in her hands again. “Please sweetheart tell me what’s wrong.” You’re quiet for a bit trying to collect the thoughts, too scared to tell her how you really feel. You know you have to tell her, but how do you explain it? Would that mean she starts to age and dies. Can she even do that, you know she is powerful but how powerful is she really. 

“I’m scared.” You mumble slightly nuzzling her hand for comfort. “Scared of what baby?” Agatha is truly lost on where all of this is coming from. “I’m just a fleeting part of your life Aggie. You have lived many lives and loved so many people. I’m nothing special in the spectacle of your whole life. I’ll be but a memory soon enough to you but to me… to me you mean everything.” More tears cascade down your face as your voice shakes. “I want to hold on to everything in this moment, but how can I? I’m just another chapter to a book that already has so much. I’m not worth you wasting your time here with me. I’m nothing in the grand scheme of your life.” 

Your words break Agatha’s heart. “No sweetheart, you are not nothing. You are my everything. I can say in all of the lives that I have lived on this earth not one person compares to you. You are the earth, the moon, and the stars to me. You want to make me keep living.” Tears start to flow down her cheeks. “I need you more than anything in this world Y/n. You are my love, my one and only.” 

Agatha leans her forehead against yours. You want to accept her words to believe that all of it is true but the question that still remains is that you will age and she won’t. There isn’t anything that can be done about that. You are human with no way of extending your life beyond that of what your own body can handle. “Aggie-” You breath out a watery sigh. “I’m still mortal. One day I will leave you.” Agatha shakes her head with her forehead still pressed against yours. Her hands encasing yours as they still hold onto her shirt. “What if I told you that I have a way.” You pull back looking at her face searching for any hint that this isn’t real. “H-how?” You question her. “There’s a spell. It’s dangerous but it would bind our life forces together. As long as one of us is living, so shall the other.” Agatha leans in kissing you deeply before pulling back again. “I have never met a person in my existence that I would have wanted to risk it all to spend my time with… That was until I met you my love. I want you now and forever.”

Your once sad tears turn to happy tears. “Yes!” You shout. “I want nothing more than to be with you forever.” You kiss her again, excitement coursing through your veins, hope rising in a once sorrowful heart. “Baby it will be dangerous. I-I don’t know what will happen if it doesn’t work.” Agatha’s voice laced with concern. As much as she wants to do it she doesn’t want to kill you in the process. “I trust you Aggie. I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you.” 

And so that is what you two did. It took many extensive conversations and many nights of practice before Agatha was sure she was ready to try. It wasn’t easy and with a bit of a scare the spell was successful. You never expected to see so many different lifetimes pass by but with Agatha by your side those lives were worth living. 

[ineffable-endearments]

Aziraphale as a natural collectivist and Crowley as a natural individualist raise their beautiful heads once again!

Aziraphale's huge mistake during the Final Fifteen is, obviously, as we've rehashed a lot, assuming Crowley would accept being reappointed as an angel. This isn't out of a lack of love for Crowley as a demon. It's because Aziraphale's first instinct when he's anxious is to look toward validation from a collective of some sort...and the Metatron has just reminded him of what Heaven could "offer" as that collective. A way to do good! Safety! Openness! He doesn't consider how Crowley will feel about this in large part because thinking individualistically doesn't come naturally to him; he's so busy thinking about the joy of Belonging that he doesn't consider how much Crowley values being outside the system - indeed, that it's an essential part of him.

Crowley's mistake, I think, is arguing that it can be very literally "just the two of us." Of course they can be a couple! Aziraphale wants that. He's happy with Crowley as his most unique, enduring, intimate connection. But just as Crowley's individuality is essential to him, Aziraphale is always going to need some cause to serve, somewhere to belong. That's who he is. And he loves Crowley so much that he wants, with utter desperation, for the two of them to belong in the same place, with the same people.

As I've said before, Aziraphale's sense of individuality is growing. He wants to be an individual, not just a faceless, passionless drone in a group of other drones. I think ultimately the reason he loves Crowley so much is that's the gift Crowley's given him - the safety to explore that thing he wants so badly. He needs, I hope, to reframe himself as "belonging" to Earth, rather than to Heaven.

And Crowley does not actually want to be isolated, adrift in the universe with just one other person. He wants to put down roots. He wants to belong somewhere. I think if you had to choose a reason why he loves Aziraphale, that would be it: Crowley can feel belonging with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale also gives him opportunities to connect with others - with humans, specifically - in ways that would ordinarily never be permitted for an agent of Hell. However, he's afraid to make his connection to Earth's community irrevocable, and his fear has always been entirely reasonable, both because it puts his and Aziraphale's safety at risk and because it's heartbreaking to watch what humans do to themselves and each other ("Humans. You don't let yourself get too attached."). He'll have to overcome those fears not because they're so wrong, but just because they're in the way of what he wants.

[the-guppy-fish]

Cold snake.

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Tags: colleagues to friends to lovers, hesitation, confessions, callsign: Viper, its a little long, but! smut will follow, 3 parts...maybe more to come.

Content warnings: none. (other than my possible spelling mistakes)

Summary: Ghost being a little soft...for now. (2,8k words)

Edited slightly: 27.11.24 (military inaccuracies)

About Vipers: named after the family Viperidae, they are venomous and have long hinged fangs that permit deep penetration and injection of their venom. These snakes can decide how much venom to inject depending on the circumstances. Rattlesnakes for example, have evolved the strike-and-release bite mechanism, which provides a huge benefit to snakes, by minimizing contact with potentially dangerous prey animals.

Vipers come in many different sizes and colours, they are highly adapted to their environment and the type of prey they hunt.

You and Ghost fled the warehouse. The mission had been successful. While Ghost kept the coast clear, you retrieved the confidential documents, Price wanted you to secure from a target warehouse. Once the documents were safely tucked inside the pocket of your tactical vest, you gave Ghost the sign to get out of there.

Just as you left the warehouse, you heard Price in your earpiece,

"Ghost, Viper, get the hell out of there. Enemy activity confirmed by drones. Safehouse Foxtrot-Whiskey-Bravo is clear. Pick-up tomorrow at 1700 at the safehouse. Radio-silence until then. Do not answer. Price out."

You and Ghost simply nodded at each other, silently running off in direction of the safehouse, while keeping eyes and ears open for any activity in and around the warehouse. Once you had laid back a decent amount of space between you and the rusty warehouse, running through tall grass sprinkled with frost, you walked the remaining distance to the safe house in silence, still being alert to your surroundings.

A few hours pass, and the sun begins to set. You're still marching towards the safehouse, now crossing a large meadow surrounded by trees. The cold creeps into your nostrils and fingertips, as the warming rays of sunlight slowly hide beneath the horizon. Your breath is visible, pulsing through the fabric of your balaclava in small clouds. Ghosts breath-clouds are much larger than yours, his huge lungs needing a lot more air than yours, to feed oxygen to all his muscles.

You can see the small safe house not too far away, hiding in between large pine trees. While walking the last few hundred meters, your eyes fall onto Ghosts back, clad in tactical gear and tucked-in weapons. The leg of his camouflage trousers slightly fluttering in the cold breeze, the grey fabric hugging his hips just right. Do you feel bad about looking? Not at all. It is not the first time your eyes linger on him, how could you not? When he is so largely built and looks like he has been sculpted by a group of goddesses, who knew exactly what they were doing?

Your relationship to Ghost used to be very professional. You only spoke together when needed. Always kept the conversation light and work-related. When you were surrounded by the rest of the 141, you barely even glanced at each other.

It was safe to say, you were surprised beyond your imagination, the day Ghost began small-talking with you.

A few weeks back, when you were home on base, the huge brute of man asked you, if you had had a good day. Just like that. Over dinner in the mess hall. While it was just the two of you. Normally you would have just ate in silence and then given the other a polite nod once you finished, and left. But no. You carefully chatted with him, being slightly SUPER suspicious of his friendliness. After finishing your meals, the conversation naturally died, and you went to each your dorms.

The following evening it happened again, and then he evening after that, and all the following ones. But always when it was just the two of you. Ghost would go completely silent if any one else joined you.

You slowly began to talk more and more, sharing more and more details of your lives. Even though Ghost rarely shared anything from his life. If he did, oddly enough, he mostly shared about his favourite meals or new movies in the telly.

You began to talk throughout the day, not just at dinner. When he caught you in the briefing room or in either of your offices, he initiated a conversation, eyes fixed to your face, looking at every little polite smile and expression you made.

But always, when you two were alone.

One time, Soap walked in on one of your conversations in the common room. You had stood with your back to Ghost, rummaging in the small tea-kitchen, trying to make a cuppa for the both of you. Ghost watched your every move, how your clothes hugged you frame, while listening intently.

You did not notice Soap entering, before turning around and only seeing Soap.

Ghost nowhere to be found.

"Who are ye talking to bonnie?", Soap looked at you with confused eyes.

"Uhm, I was just talking to Ghost." you answered, perplexed at Ghosts sudden disappearance.

"Seems like he flew away, bon. Don't feel bad about it, you know how he can be." You tried to hide your disappointment, while Soap eyed the second cup of tea in your hands with large puppy eyes.

When you met Ghost later that evening at dinner, he initiated conversation as he did every dinner, but the conversation failed to reach around his disappearance. You let it go, thinking he had to leave for some important reason unbeknownst to you.

The conversation moved along, you finished eating and you chatted back and forth, like some table tennis ball experiencing the match of its life.

While talking you accidentally unconsciously touched his arm, which was resting on the table you ate at, while telling a (to you) very exhilarating story about your latest attempt at making a new soup at home.

You were so enthralled with your story telling, that you completely disregarded the shift in Ghosts form.

He went from sitting sluggishly, resting his elbows on the table, arms crossed, and looking at your lips, while you rambled on and on about that soup.

Ghost cared little about soup, but when you spoke about it, it seemed to be the most interesting topic of conversation ever. When your fingers found his forearm and snaked around his bare skin, he froze. His mind short circuiting and vision blurring. Still looking at you, feigning his newfound interest of soup, every fibre in him focussed on your soft skin on his rough and scarred one. He fell deeper and deeper into the blur your touch had created in his mind. All his thoughts vapourised and no sound was picked up by his ears.

All to sudden, Ghost was ripped from his hyper focussed state by your voice.

"Ghost? Hey, what do you think?" He blinked the fog away from his eyes, cleared his throat, and croaked out a quick "sorry?", focussing his eyes on yours, mind still running laps in his skull over your fingers resting on his arm.

"I asked, whether you think the soup would be better with or without garlic?", you looked at him with a small smile, expecting his answer curiously.

Ghosts ears peaked at your question, and he could not avoid the small smile forming on his lips under the fabric covering his face.

"With." was all he managed to say, which earned him a satisfied smile from you.

"I'll try that next time then."

With that, you gave his arm a quick squeeze and lifted your fingers from his skin to pick up your tray. Your touch and bold display of comfort around him made his mind grow foggy again.

"You done as well?" You stood up with your hands on your tray and nodded to the one beside him. He gave you a silent nod, and you pulled his tray across the table to balance yours on top of it.

While you went up to return the trays, Ghost sat completely stunned, waiting for you to return, so he could walk you to your dorm (another thing he had absentmindedly begun doing).

Back in the meadow, you and Ghost had reached the treeline and made it to the poor example of a safe house: a simple shed, neatly tucked away by the large pines, small enough for you to question whether there was space enough for two rooms in it.

And you were right. The sheds interior consisted of a small fireplace, a bunkbed, a large chest and a table with two chairs. Everything looked well used and ancient in your eyes, the smell of old cigarettes and firewood confirmed your suspicion about this place being many decades older than you.

Ghosts deep voice tore you from your disappointed thoughts about the safehouse.

"You're on top." While he began stripping out of his gear, placing it neatly beside the lower bunk, he had claimed for himself.

You followed along, closing the wooden door and bolting it shut with the large piece of wood acting as a lock. You laid your gear at the foot-end of your bed, as to keep it close while you slept, should anyone want to pay your shed a visit during the night. Your gut told you that this place was safe enough, for you to relax in. The remote location, the bolted door, and Ghosts presence, assured you that this was good enough for tonight.

Neither you nor Ghost lit up the fireplace, knowing the smoke outside and light from inside the shed could lead anyone to your super cozy hiding spot. The shed was safe enough to not have one of you keep watch for the night. So far away from anyone and anything, bolted and locked, no light or other visible factors making it stand out. No one knew anyone was here, besides Price.

After having settled into the thin mattress, under a thick wool blanket Ghost had pulled from the chest, you tried to get some rest.

But sleep never came to you, as the cool air crept inside and under your blanket. For what felt like hours, you laid crumpled up like a small ball to keep, whatever heat was left, close to your body. But nothing worked, the cold bore into your skin and settled uncomfortably in your bones.

You scolded yourself: as a special forces soldier, you were supposed to fend for your self in every possible way; and you usually did so, perfectly.

But this never ending, merciless cold was going to beat you.

Your stubbornness kept you from climbing down to look for another blanket. But also the thought of waking up Ghost; anyone who woke him up from his precious few hours of sleep, would feel his wrath in the morning.

So you stayed. Freezing and shivering under your heavy blanket. Just existing in the coldness, hoping that some heat would come your way, at some point.

Heat never came, but a deep voice did instead.

"Viper?" Ghost called out quietly.

Your teeth clattered at you let out a weak "yeah?".

Ghosts gravelly voice made its way to your ears again, "If you don't stop shaking my bunk with your shivers, you can sleep on the floor." His oh so humorous comment made you shiver even harder, and you mumbled a quiet "sorry", wrapping the blanket impossibly tighter around you.

Once again you tried falling asleep, willing the shivers to stop, only for them to return with even greater force than before.

You heard Ghost sigh from his mattress beneath you. The bed croaked and you sensed a shadow move in line with your eyes, over the edge of the bunk bed.

Ghost had gotten out of his blanket-cocoon and stood centimetres from your icy face.

"Did you not hear me before?", his hot breath fanned over your frozen features, warming you just enough to answer him in a full sentence.

"I did..sorry.. I just can't get warm." Your voice came out much weaker, than you had hoped for, and seemingly did nothing to stir empathy within Ghost. As if not accepting your weak apology, he pulled the blanket from your shivering form and quietly said "get down."

Puzzled, you unfolded your cold body in a sloth-like motion, slowly climbing down the bed. You stood in front of Ghost, not believing that he actually wanted you to sleep on the floor.

After all, you were the same rank, so he could not order you to do it. So you stood before him, shivering furiously, waiting for him to actually tell you to sleep on the hard, wooden floor, just so you could weakly scold him for trying to punish you.

He said nothing, sat down on his mattress and rolled in under his blanket, his back facing the wall. You stayed on your feet, absolutely confused beyond your mind.

You knew Ghost could act weird from time to time, but this was beyond the usual weirdness of him.

The moonlight from outside only cast enough light inside, for you to make out the outline of his body. Once he had settled, he opened the blanked towards you, which only sent a waft of cool air towards you. As you stayed on your sock-clad feet, still so, so confused, Ghost quietly told you "come 'ere. Can't 'ave you freezing like that."

And like a much faster sloth you slid into the oh so warm comfort of his strong arms and the thick blanket covering him. He wrapped his arms around you, making sure that the blanked covered every millimetre of you.

"Christ Viper, you're like an icicle." His hot breath fanned over your head as he pulled you into his warm embrace.

Your shivers slowly ebbed out, leaving you smushed up, face first, against Ghosts t-shirt covered chest, arms awkwardly tucked close to your own chest. You became embarrassingly aware of just how close you were to one another.

You tried to shimmy away from him, just a little bit; get a some space between the two of you. Keep it professional, you know. But a strong hand around your middle kept you close.

"Stay", Ghost whispered, hugging you closer again, wordlessly telling you that he didn't mind you being this close to him.

With the warmth seeping into your body, the words returned to your mouth in a quiet whisper, "I thought you wanted me to sleep on the floor."

A quick, exhale blew onto the top of your hair and his low voice sounded above your head, "I did" , followed by an even quieter whisper, "but then i remembered, that i like you."

Heat rose to your face, warming your cheeks. You knew Ghost tolerated you, maybe even enjoyed your company from time to time, he definitely liked looking at you, based on how often you felt his eyes on you.

But that he liked you. Oh boy.

"I didn't know you liked me", you whispered into his chest, raising your face to look up at his moonlit, masked one.

His eyes found yours in the dim light, "I do. 'ave for a long time."

Ghosts rough fingers slowly slid up along your spine, fingers gliding over the soft fabric of your shirt. His fingers reaching and curling around the, now warm, skin of you neck. You felt his thumb soothingly swipe back and forth on that very soft patch of skin on the side of your neck.

You hummed at his admission, melting into the touch of his fingers on your skin.

Not knowing how to respond verbally, you turned your palms from your own soft chest, to his much more muscular one, gently squeezing his muscles, to let him know his whispers were heard.

The warmth had truly settled inside you by now, and your eyelids grew heavy, threatening to block the view of Ghosts dark, moonlit eyes looking at your tired ones.

During a dangerously slow blink of your eyelids, Ghosts hand squeezed your neck; just enough to get your attention, but not hard enough for you to open your heavy lids in attention.

"Get some rest Viper. Sleep well." His whispers made a tired smile tug at your lips, and you responded with another whisper.

"Goodnight Ghost."

In front of your closed eyes, a satisfied smile grew behind Ghosts mask. His eyes glanced over your face, taking in the sight of your calm face: eyes closed, brows at ease, just a hint of a smile on your lips and deep, steady breaths blew quietly through your nostrils.

He almost couldn't believe that you were actually sleeping in his arms. He could almost not believe that he had had the courage to pull you close and be soft with you.

His troubling and traumatic past made him fear close relationships, afraid that the people close to him would get hurt. With you though, it was different. Ghost knew you could handle any challenge thrown at you, just like himself. He knew how strong and capable you were, and it pulled him closer to you. Made his heart skip a beat or two, when ever your mere presence filled the room with authority and control.

He had wanted to let you this close to him for a while the last many many weeks, but could never muster the bravery, and did not want to scare you away. To not make you think he was some creep, like other soldiers on base, he took it slow; showed you more and more of himself in adequate amounts.

Ever since your soft fingers had snaked around his arm that evening in the mess hall, he had wanted to reciprocate the comfort and affection, but an occasion had never come along.

Until now. And he was filled with glee, deep into the marrow of his bones.

Ghost held you a little tighter, feeling your body against his. He sucked in the warmth of your skin against his and sweet smell of your hair. His smile only growing larger and more giddy (not an emotion, Ghost was truly familiar with yet)

Gently, he brought his masked lips down on your forehead, giving you a feather light kiss.

"Sweet dreams little snake"

[cherry-romper]

hello!! i’m currently in love with your writing style and i wanted to request a superior officer! reader babying reno bc hes so baby, and maybe hes feeling insecure of his battle scars and his ability to kill kaijus and reader comforts him, angst to fluff? thank you!!!!

RENO X CAPTAIN!READER

Love requests like this! I had fun writing this, thank you anon <3 I've never written angst before, so idk if its any good :(

Warnings; none

Contains; GN!reader, angst to fluff

Word Count; 2065

Three tight knocks at your door pulled you from your work. “You wanted to see me, captain?” Reno’s voice was cautious, laced with worry. It wasn’t often you asked a subordinate to your office, and when you did it was never for a good reason. 

“Ah, Ichikawa! Please come in, take a seat, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” you tried you best to sound inviting, but given the mountain of paperwork you were faced with, you just sounded stressed. 

Reno strode into the room, as anxious as he was, his body language didn’t display it. He stood at the other side of your desk, back straight and arms tight to his sides, refusing to take a seat. Always so formal, you thought. Finishing up the sentence you were writing, you laid down your pen. 

“I thought I told you to sit, Ichikawa?” You eyed him, watching as he tensed up at your stern voice. 

“With all due respect, captain, I can’t.” You cocked a brow at him, looking between the empty seat and him. “Why not?” 

“I sustained an injury on the field, captain. It makes it hard to move my hips.” He explained, slightly embarrassed, a dusting of pink on his cheeks. He’s hurt his ass, you chuckled to yourself. 

“I understand, you can just stay standing then,” you permitted, an amused smile on your face. Standing from your seat, you walked round to where he stood. As young as he was, he was taller than you, only by a few inches, but taller. You weren’t much older than him, being the youngest captain in the Defence Force. Still, you sighed at the difference. He’s not even finished growing yet. You perched on the desk next to him, crossing your legs and arms. You stayed like that for a minute, in silence; half trying to find the right words, and half to tease him. 

He looked to you, his body still facing forward despite you now being at his side. He shifted uncomfortably in the silence. 

“You know, Ichikawa…” You started, staring up at him from where you were perched. He observed you, anticipating a beratement for his failings in the field. Instead, he was greeted with worry. “I was worried about you out there”. 

Confused by your words, he questioned you “I don’t understand what you mean, captain…”

“Stop being so formal would you, its bugging me out, I told you to call me Y/N when we’re alone,” you winked at him, sending him spiralling. His blush deepened and he was certain that the whole country could hear his heartbeat. He tried hard to stammer out a reply of agreement, but his brain betrayed him. You’d made him incoherent. A smirk played on your lips, watching as he nodded his head instead of speaking. Sweet boy.

“When I heard what happened, with that kaiju, I mean…I feared the worst”. You didn’t meet his gaze, you couldn’t. Truth be told, underneath your exterior, you had such a soft spot from Reno. He was more than capable of looking after himself on the field, you knew that better than anyone, given how much you’d watched him, but still, he was young…and reckless at times. It scared you, knowing how often he’d put himself in danger for his friends. He wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself if it meant he could save them. He reminded you of your younger self. You admired him for that.

“You were injured. Badly from what I’d heard. And the drones were destroyed…I didn’t know if you were even alive…” You looked to him, hoping to find relief in his eyes that would mirror your own, but you were met with distain. His face was scrunched up and his brows knitted. He jerked his head away from you, disgust plastered on his face, like you were a rotted piece of meat. 

Taken aback by the sight, you rose from the desk, turning your body to him. “Speak freely, Ichikawa.”

He took a moment to collect his thoughts, thinking of how best to convey his opinion respectfully. You were his superior, and he would always treat you with respect, no matter how much he disagreed with you. 

“I came to you in a moment of need, after Kafka got injured, you told me to find you when I felt lost. You told me to treat you like a friend. Then you went and told me then not to get attached in this line of work, you said ‘it never ends well’. And now…now you’re telling me you were worried about me dying, captain?” He didn’t meet your eyes, he just stared out the window, his eyes glinting in the evening sun, a deep venom hung on his words. 

You felt your heart sink. He’s not wrong, you thought. You tried to digest his words, to understand where he was coming from. His outburst wouldn’t have come without reason. You hummed, “I see”. 

Thinking back to that time, you remembered trying to comfort him when Kafka had been injured. Poor kid was beside himself with worry. Again, that was something you deeply admired about Reno. When you told him not to get attached, you didn’t mean for him to stop caring. What you were trying to say is, in this line of work, you can get hurt in more ways than one. Emotional pain can kill a man as good as any Kaiju. You were trying to warn him that there is a price on emotions. 

“Reno, I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he turned to you upon hearing you call him by his name, this time he looked at you softer, more composed, “will you allow me to explain myself?” He only nodded. 

You’d originally called him in to your office to ask him how he was doing and to gush at his new injuries, something you did often to tease hi. You knew he’d blamed himself for the last Kaiju escaping, you wanted to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. 

After the mess that happened during the last kaiju attack, you’d been led to believe many members of your platoon had passed, Reno included. You weren’t on the mission, it had been classed as low risk, so you’d been watching from the surveillance room. After the drones got destroyed and the communication had been cut off, there was no way of knowing exactly what had happened. It quickly became a blur, an incomprehensible mess. The guilt made you feel sick. You were safe and sound while you believed your platoon was being massacred. It all felt like some big joke. Like the universe was playing a trick on you. These things happen, you told yourself, it’s an occupational hazard.

“It wasn’t just you I was worried for,” you forced eye contact with him, he needed to know you meant every word. “I care about all of you. Every last one of you out in the field are my responsibility. You’re all like family to me, something I never had. This place, the Defence Force, it’s my home, and all of you bring me such joy. Being able to serve alongside you, it’s a privilege I’m thankful for every single day”. 

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, it was hard to tell if he was even breathing. He just stared on as you talked, watching as you occasionally gesticulated to emphasise yourself. 

“And you!” He raised a brow at you, as if to say ‘me?’ “I’ve grown to care for you, Reno Ichikawa. More than I should ever admit.” You both frowned slightly, knowing these are words better left unsaid. “And I thought…I thought I’d lost you out there.”

The two of you had grown close over the many months that he’d been enlisted into your division. He often came to you for advice, you were wise beyond your years. You’d seen too much and lost too many to not have learned from your mistakes, Reno saw that and wanted to learn too. He’d found a friend in you, and you’d found hope in him.

“May I speak freely again, captain?” His voice wavered slightly, nervous again. 

“Y/N,” you breathed, “and you may.”

“Why me, Y/N?” he turned his body too you, looking deep into your eyes, searching for a sign, something, anything that would tell him he was understanding you wrong. 

You couldn’t answer. Truth is, you didn’t know why you cared so deeply about him. Your care led to babying him often. Treating his wounds yourself, being sure his suit was on properly, checking if his guns worked. He’d asked you to stop, politely, of course, and you did. For the most part. You could never stop caring about him, and the urge to do things for him never went away, but you respected his space and need to grow freely. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t watch him like a hawk. 

He had always felt the same to you, but scorched his emotions after you’d told him not to get attached. He’d thought you were referring to yourself. He took as a premature rejection. 

You stammered out what could loosely be called words, “I…erm…well…”

Before you could collect your thoughts, he took a step towards you. You froze at the close proximity, your mind and heart racing. “Tell me,” he whispered, “you’re always so good with words, what’s stopping you now?” He was barely arms lengths from you, you could feel his warmth. 

“I’ve never been good with emotions, Reno,” you didn’t know why you were so flustered. You’ve seen this man shirtless on multiple occasions as you dressed his wounds and kept a better composure then, than you are now. 

“You told me not to get too attached. Why won’t you listen to your own advice? You know that we…” he trailed off, but you knew what he was going to say. 

“Back then, what I meant was your emotions come with a price. I’ve seen grief kill just about as many as kaiju have. I was warning you that you must be prepared to pay if you care so much.” You peered up at him, his eyes softened, pieces falling into place for him. He reached for your arms, cupping your elbows, pulling you closer to him.

The curve of his arm brought his new scars into the light. You looked down to his worn hands and silently gasped. “Reno, when did you get these?” your fingers trailed over the freshly healed scars.

He pulled his arms from yours, “don’t do that,” he half-joked.

“Do what?”  

“Gush over me.”

You gave him a ‘really?’ look, “after everything we’ve just talked about, you think I’m not going to gush over them?” He sighed after you.

You gazed up at him through your lashes, a candied smile teasing your lips. “I don’t like them,” he admitted, crossing his arms in an attempt to hide them.

You fought the urge to ask why, but you were smarter than that, you knew why. To Reno, the scar were reminders of where he’d failed. “It wasn’t your fault, you know?” you started, keeping your voice soft and sweet, “you didn’t let that kaiju escape.” 

He gave you an upside-down smile, he wanted to appreciate your attempts at comforting him, but he couldn’t help but feel like you were just saying it to make him feel better.  He dropped his head slightly, taking in the sight of his arms. 

A pang shot through your heart. It saddened you to see him like this. You knew that eventually, this insecurity is what will drive him to be better and to keep improving, but to see him now, with this dullness in his eyes, it pained you.

“Oh, Ichikawa,” you reach out your equally worn hands and smoothed your fingers along one of his scars. “These aren’t because you’re bad,” his eyes found your own, his body shivering at your touch. “They serve as reminders that we are alive. Like the rings of a tree, they show how far you’ve come. And when you’re old and grey, we can count them, and think back to the memories we’ve made and all the lives we’ve saved.”

You took his hands in your own, observing the callouses and bumps. “We?” he asked.

“We,” you said, “for us, I’m willing to pay the price.”