#papercut records

[joanofarc]

yr version of cool, mad planets (1997, 1999).

i’m tired of wanting what i don’t have fuck you for flaunting your version of cool

[bandcampsnoop]

11/25/24.

I bought Dark Tea "Dark Tea II" during Plaid Room Records' amazing annual fall sale. This album has been out since 2021 and I wanted to post about it right away back then, but it just got lost under the avalanche of music in my life.

I'm rectifying this mistake. Listen to this album for some great summer vibe feeling pop. Dark Tea (Gary Canino - Brooklyn, New York) gets a lot of help - from Matt Barrick (Walkmen) to Paco Cathcart (Eyes of Love) to Jason Quever (Papercuts), Canino enlists the help of many a fine songsmith in their own right.

I can't help but be reminded of Fortunato Durutti Marinetti, Thee Conductor (or any number of artists on Perpetual Doom) or deine Mutti.

This was released by Fire Talk Records.

[supersonicanimates]

i got some swag today

[johnnyhotrocks]

Even more new vinyls.

[gyarakarpia]

I am, how you say, tired

[sodapopboy]

darry and sodapop being two different examples of ‘ideal masculinity’ is something ponyboy loves (to idolize / model after) and hates (to envy / resent)

for example, soda is literally such an attractive person that people genuinely thought he was a soc at a first glance. this leads me to believing he was honestly kinda popular when he was still in school, despite his status as a greaser. ponyboy admires that— admires his character and definitely tried to style his hair like he did multiple times

i have a firm belief that maybe when pony & soda were in middle school, a girl that ponyboy liked kinda got close to him just to be in any vicinity with soda. he didn’t find out until she heard her talking about it with her friends and went home and crieddd. thankfully soda set the record straight and cut her off immediately

(tbh i can kinda see this happening with steve too. but that’s for another post😛)

ponyboy definitely did envy soda a little when he was younger— but it was superficial in the end. with brothers who have reputations like soda’s and darry, it’s a lot to live up to— i believe soda can relate to that, though.

when he got to high school, his teachers were expecting a mini darrel curtis. when they got sodapop curtis, a boy who was more interested in talking or moving around rather than learning.. it was underwhelming (FOR THEM!!! HES PERFECT THE WAY HE IS.) to say the least.

anyway, ponyboy curtis definitely goes to soda for help with girls (or boys) whenever he miraculously gets asked out to the drive-in, or needs help when one of his friends has a disagreement with him.

darry isn’t as ‘soft’ as soda is. he ‘doesn’t understand anything that’s not plain, hard fact’ and focuses on getting stuff done instead of sitting in his emotions for a moment longer than he needs to. ponyboy admires that about darry, not just his physical— but mental strength, having to bear the burden of raising two children despite being a child himself, and having the roles of pseudo-mom, pseudo-dad and older brother.

however, he definitely resents darry in the way that he can never really sympathize with pony until after the events of the book. as darry grows into a more guardian-like figure for the two, he sees pony’s sensitivity and naivety as weaknesses.

there’s always been a stark difference between the two— ponyboy has always had his head in a book, his hands littered with papercuts, and darry always had a football in his vicinity, his hands red from how hard he’d grip the rubber.

darry sees ponyboy’s way of living day-to-day as taking advantage of the things his brothers work to provide for him when he comes home late, making soda and himself worry themselves something awful, or when ponyboy might get a comment in his report card that he’s a good kid, but is always in his own head during class. he isn’t afraid to voice that, either.

and in response, ponyboy resents him. he downright sees his oldest brother as incapable of empathy and portraying him as such in the beginning of his theme.

in the end, ponyboy’s envy over soda’s natural pull over literally anyone melts into fondness— something to adore, even. he doesn’t mind it when soda approaches someone who just bothered his baby brother with the sweetest smile on his face before telling them off in the most vile way possible. just like how he accepts that darry had to be hardened at a young age to make sure that three of them could survive together. it isn’t a fact that he likes, but he accepts it. it isn’t unnoticed by the gang that ponyboy is the only person besides soda that can make darry soften like room temperature butter, either.

[a-dance-for-two]

Wukong with an injured s/o

He doesn’t really care about small injuries

Papercuts, bruises after you bump into something, etc

He just kisses it better! He’ll take any excuse to kiss you

He knows it’ll heal eventually, anyway

But sometimes kisses won’t fix things

If you’re seriously wounded, he’ll spend a few minutes panicking before he tries to fix things

Sometimes he forgets that you’re not immortal, like him

He doesn’t need bandages or first aid materials, so he doesn’t have them around

He needs to get them, but he doesn’t want to leave you alone

So he’s kind of stuck

Until MK comes by, and Wukong’s got a new ‘lesson’ for him

Of course, MK gets it done in record time

After that, though, MK doesn’t have any more lessons for the week

Wukong stays by your side until you get better

No matter how long it takes

Even if kisses won’t make it better, he’ll shower you with kisses anyway

[jamneuromain]

For your Lloyd and Secretary one, what if someone who works closely with Brewer finds out about how he died and seeks out for vengeance? And how about he kidnaps and enslaves Secretary and Lloyd has to get her back? But the Secretary thinks that Lloyd would just replace her, even if she had developed some feelings for Lloyd, she still believed that he would leave her. But Lloyd finds her.

Hi nonnies! Sorry for taking so long to write :3

I love your ideas and I present to you--

Out for Blood

Lloyd Hansen x You

Warning: Mob AU, Mob!Lloyd, Secretary!Reader (Driver!Denny Carmicheal), Graphic Depiction of Blood and Violence (I guess Lloyd is a warning of his own?), Reader has hemophobia (fear of blood), a lot of cursing.

W/C: ~5k

Summary: You were captured by a rival gang. Would Lloyd come and save you?

A/N: This is a sequel to A Whiff of Blood, Thank you for all your love to Mob!Lloyd<333

For the record, your hemophobia is directed to blood coming from other people, not your own. You wouldn’t faint or puke if you had a papercut, but you would (and did) puke when Lloyd showed up at your door a few weeks ago, littered with blood and cuts.

Tasting the faint tang of rust and salt from the cut inside your cheek, your tongue inevitably touches the wound in your mouth.

Ouch, it stings.

An almost ridiculous - but somewhat fits the situation you are facing - idea comes to mind.

You hope Lloyd could pay for your dental care if your tooth gets knocked out.

In a dark humid stinky cell, you are obligated to keep yourself from fainting.

How long is it since you’ve been captured? An hour? Two?

You don’t know. Not that the concrete walls give any clues as to where you are and when is it.

Your head is dizzy, and somewhere on the back of your head is throbbing, possibly the spot where someone knocks your head with a baseball bat or a heavy club.

-who the heck still uses a club to beat the shit out of their victims to issue a kidnapping these days? Aren’t they worried about possible brain injuries?

Your hands and feet are tied to a plain wooden chair with zip ties, not something you can get out of without tools and time. Knowing that they kidnapped you and took you to this place, instead of dumping you down the pier with a large stone tied to your feet? You’ve got time, some of them at least. They want something from you, hence the reason why you are alive.

The problem is to rescue yourself before they realize nothing is coming out of your mouth.

So, the real question is, how much time do you have?

Dull thuds of footsteps approach you. After some screeching from the iron bars and the clang of the lock opened by a key, that is supposed to be the cell gate’s composition, you assume, for you are forced in another direction having been tied to the chair, another screeching sound, and the door swings open, entering two men.

They stand before you, one has his hands on his hips, the other crossing his arm.

Think. Your mind goes one hundred miles per hour. Think. Sometimes Lloyd keeps his captives alive, but only when his men are wearing masks. But these two are showing their faces in broad daylight – nightlight, to be precise, since you left the office around 7:30 pm, and later got a smack in the head after having picked up the dry cleaning for Lloyd.

You watched their faces closely. The first man who appears before you is shorter than the other, it is difficult to tell his height when you are sitting on a chair, but you assume he is approximately your height (which is definitely short for an average man), medium build – again, it is hard to tell with his jacket on, you have to conduct most of your analysis base on guesswork. Something about his face looks familiar, however, you cannot pinpoint who or what, since as a secretary, you meet a lot of people daily.

The other guy, the taller one and the more muscular one, doesn’t strike you as someone you know in the past. A hint of tattoo peeks on the back of his hand, a sharp edge with the color of tattoo ink. The beard covers half his face, and that he’s bald, in contrast to his wild facial hair.

“Well, well, well.” The first one smirks, “If it isn’t Lloyd’s pretty thing in our hands.”

Think. They haven’t killed you yet, but they are planning to. Think of something smart. To stall. Or to gather enough information so that Lloyd will know who to revenge on if you are dead.

The hair on the back of your neck practically stands when the word “dead” crosses your mind for a split second.

You cannot panic. Not now. Think.

“You can drop an invitation to my mailbox, y’know? If you wanna talk.” You look up at them. A small smile raises the corner of your lips, but you are not smiling, not really, because your sharp eyes are taking in the minor changes in their expressions.

The first one raises his eyebrows, somewhat surprised, while the second one remains stoic.

“Impressive.” The man compliments, “Thought you would thrash and kick, but I guess you have seen too much of this - ” He gestures to your tied-up position, “working for Lloyd, eh?”

You neither confirm nor deny, yet, you make an attempt at deciphering his intentions, “What is it with this time?” God, you sound like you have been kidnapped twice a week since you got the secretary job. You raise your eyebrows as he does, “Threats to cooperate? Info about his latest business? Or are you two with the FBI?”

They both glance at each other when you mention the FBI.

Good news, they are not cops.

Bad news, they are not cops, which means they are more likely to kill you.

“Hey, you.” You turn your head to the silent bulk of beard, “Didn’t I see you tattling to your badge buddy two weeks ago? Is it what this is about? That I see you tipped off the cops?”

Of course, you haven’t seen the second man tattling to the cops. You don’t know him. But considering the tension ever since you pose the possibility that they are with the police and law enforcement, it is not a bad way to start an argument between the two of them.

That is, hopefully, there are only two that initiated your kidnapping. The plan of brewing a feud among the kidnappers would be more difficult to implement if there’s another person involved.

Under the first man’s continuous stare, the second man huffs out a grunt, grabs your hair in one hand, and lands a blow into your stomach with the other.

“Cука.” He grumbles, stepping back to where he was standing.

If it weren’t for the pain in your stomach, as the blow on your stomach feels like your guts have cracked into four pieces, you would most absolutely jump up from the chair that has you tied, and clap, for he has bared his identity before you, stripping clean.

Thank fuck you know a few curse words in Russian, one of them being “cука”, which means “bitch”.

Russian mob it is.

You know about the Russian mob in LA. A few weeks ago, Lloyd teamed up with one of his business partners to sell illegal substances (a nice way of putting it) and gradually took up the Russian turf. He got shot and was nearly killed after that, when the Russians ambushed him in the clinic he used to go, killing his doctor and one of his men. Lloyd himself barely got out alive and took shelter in your apartment.

Today, around 7 pm, Lloyd took his driver Denny and two of his henchmen to a club he owned to meet the Russians to settle for a truce. As his secretary, you know that he usually conducts his mob business there, instead of in the building where you work. So, you finished up the paperwork and called it a night, while ordering some pizza since cooking would take an additional one hour and a half.

You were on your way home, stopping by on the side of the curb to pick up Lloyd’s dry cleaning when you lost consciousness after a hit in the head.

Oh crap, you would have to send those clothes to the dry cleaning again.

Focus. You take a deep breath, clearing the irrelevant thoughts from your mind. Think smart. How could you subtly prove yourself worthy to them?

“Fine.” You huff out, “You are not working with a badge buddy, I get it.” Adding some sarcasm to the mix, you twitch the muscles on your face, your tone as despising as your expression, “I’m sure what I’ve seen with my own eyes is purely some illusion-voodoo shit.”

Great. Now you sound like Lloyd fucking Hansen.

The first man clears his throat, effectively silencing the grumbling Russian guy.

“Quite a temper.” He pulls a chair from the corner of the cell, sitting in front of you, pointing at himself, then back at you, “You know, we could’ve been friends, you and I.”

“Oh yeah?” You quirk your brow, “What’s stopping ya’? Enlighten me.”

Shit. Too Lloyd.

You are somewhat surprised when he responds per your ask, “If you insist…”

Yeah well, you weren’t exactly insisting (or interested, for that matter, you couldn’t care less). Nevertheless, you nod for him to continue.

“Suza Brewer. Rings a bell?” He smiles, but the friendliness is nowhere to be seen.

Of course, the name Suza Brewer rings a bell. Unfortunately, it’s the bad kind of bell.

Brewer had threatened to have you to himself, and asked Lloyd – not in a nice way – to balance between their deal and you.

… since you are alive and breathing and your limbs are still intact, without a doubt, Lloyd chose you, his faithful employee over the dumb biker Brewer, and fed Brewer to the fishes. You had speculated that there were crocodiles underwater where he disposed of the bodies, because damn, Lloyd’s body-dumping was never found by police forces, or any other people, for that matter, and now you are equally tempted to throw this kidnapper beneath the Westside Pier too.

If only you weren’t tied up like a lamb for slaughter.

“Vaguely.” You pretend to think, tilting your head to the side, even though the back of your shirt is soaked with your cold sweat, “Is he in trouble?”

Hell, Brewer is more than “in trouble”. He’s more like “in crocodile”. His body parts could be swimming along with those hideous beasts, travelling hundreds of miles apart from each other, as you speak.

Somehow, the phrase “in crocodile” has you close to smiling. Especially in this circumstance. Fuck. You are most definitely contaminated by Lloyd Fucking Hansen. You bite the inside of your cheek from actually smiling. As a result, you accidentally bite on your wound.

It stings like a bitch.

The man in front of you speaks softly, “Suza is my brother. And your boss, Lloyd Hansen, killed him.”

This is not going to end well.

You pray to whatever deity that would answer, and hope that you could have a better ending than the Brewer guys. If not, then at least a quick, painless death.

The man observes your face for any expression that could slip away some info, but eventually, he sighs and continues, “So, I decided that I would avenge him, by taking away Lloyd’s most prized possession.”

Ah. Lloyd’s most prized possession would be his gun. He’d spend an hour every day wiping it spotless with a fine cloth, counting the bullets in his gun before popping the magazine back in place. You have heard about a few of the henchmen joking that Lloyd would be more pissed if a man touches his gun, compared to touching his dick,

You have seen the gun on many occasions. Most of the times on his belt, occasionally in his hand, and once, only once on the table when he was dismantling it. But he quickly put it back together seeing you with the pile of paperwork and shoved it back on his belt. Twice, if you are counting the time when he nearly bleeds out in your home.

“Aaaaaaand you want to ask me what his prized possession is?” You pipe up.

That’d be easy. However, you doubt what this Brewer brother had in mind could be this plain and straight.

As far as you know, Lloyd doesn’t have any siblings, parents to account for (he was adopted by a gang member around five, who died in an alley fight a decade later), women that he’d ride or die for (he picks different escorts when he’s in the mood, no one, in particular, meets his eyes), or any offsprings (then your job would be more nanny than a secretary). In fact, you wrecked your brain for the answer to this question, and the truth is, that Lloyd doesn’t care about anyone in any way – apart from the men (and women) working for him. Even so, his expression of “caring” is to drop a generous check if any of them was taken out or quit voluntarily, and never pay attention to them again.

He doesn’t have any pets, neither a dog nor a goldfish to keep him company.

You wonder whether he harbors any feelings at all, except the thrill of being a sociopath.

… maybe he loves his gun in a romantic way, who knows.

“No. I got that part.” Brewer No.2 speaks with a wild glint in his eyes, “And she’s sitting right in front of me.”

You huff out a laugh. This could be the top 1 joke of the Hansen Government Services, that Lloyd sees you as his prize? Pfft.

But the man’s determent tone tells you differently. That he believes Lloyd cherishes you the most. Which means he is going to take you away.

“Don’t believe me?” He shrugs, “My intel snapped pictures of a file, hidden in his top drawer, on top of every shit he has.” Showing the pictures he has on his phone, he added, “You were on that file, Ms. Secretary.”

It was Lloyd’s desk. Dimly-lit, but still, Lloyd’s desk. Someone could burn that desk down to ash and you’d still recognize it. And the file laid bare. With a CV and a photo…

Oh no. Oh shit. It is you.

You’d be lucky as hell if Brewer No.2 simply told you something bad about Lloyd and gave you some money to run far away, as if this is some bullshit mob romance novel. In this situation, he is more likely to skin you alive and send your fingers in a FedEx package to Lloyd’s doorstep as a Christmas present. Or pull out your fingernails before shooting you in the head. Or torture you in the most painful ways possible. Oh God.

The fucking Brewer family and both of these men could go straight to Hell strapped on rabid Cerberus with burning white-hot iron shoes that could not come off.

Think. Think! He hasn’t killed you yet. Why he hasn’t killed you yet? You could be more deader than Suza Brewer who was stuck at the bottom of the pier right now. Why is this Brewer No.2 keeping you alive? What does he want from you besides to intimidate Lloyd?

You have no choice but to ask, “I’m guessing that, since I haven’t got a bullet between my eyes, you want something else too?”

A wicked grin perks up his lips. Handing his phone to your face, he says, “I want you to call him.”

Forget dental care, you now hope Lloyd could pay for a decent funeral.

Brewer No.2 dials the number for you and puts it on speaker. Your heart thumping in your ears, praying that he’d answer. But also praying that he won’t. What if it’s a larger trap to lure him here? You’d rather he doesn’t pick up and get it over with. Plus, he’s too busy to pick up calls, he’s negotiating with the Russians-

“Who’s this?” Lloyd’s sharp voice pierces through the speaker, and seems to have gripped your throat tightly.

Brewer No.2 urges you to speak, but turns out he’s too hyped up to wait for your mumbling lips to make a sound. He drags his tone almost annoyingly, “Hello, Hansen. I’m Levi Brewer, brother of Suza Brewer. I’m here to collect a debt.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

That’s so un-Lloyd-like. He’d normally end the call until the person on the other end of the phone could learn to speak what they want directly, which you have witnessed a few dozen times. You can almost imagine Lloyd’s unamused face and his killing glare, having had to deal with Brewer No.2, Levi Brewer.

“You, Mr. Hansen, killed my brother, which is why I’m taking the love of your life away from you.” Brewer No.2 announces, pulling out his gun to flip the safe off. The crisp clicking noise is like a heavy punch to your stomach, declaring the clock of your life ticking towards its end.

Jesus. You? The love of Lloyd’s life? You could’ve sworn Lloyd has a deeper bond to that escort named Cherry than you.

“Say hello to the pretty little thing I’ve just captured.” Brewer slams his palm across your face, squeezing a yelp out of your tightened throat.

The only “pretty” thought about you is that you are pretty sure you are neither “little”, nor “thing”, but that’s a debate settled for another time.

“Say your name, beautiful. I’m sure your boss would catch up soon.” Brewer No.2 points the gun to your face, and places the phone near your lips.

No matter how reluctant you are, you know this might be the only chance where you can tip Lloyd off. And maybe, just maybe he’d revenge on Tweedle Dee by allowing Dee – Brewer No.2 share the same fate as his brother. “Evening, Mr. Hansen.” You mumble, the taste of iron roots deeply in your mouth that you cannot speak clearly, “Sorry to disturb you.”

Lloyd doesn’t reply. He must be mad. Deeply mad at you for ruining his negotiation with the Russians.

Russian? Fuck, the Russian in the room – you spare a quick glance at the silent bulk of beard in the corner – shit, they were in on it together. The Russian mobs asked Lloyd to give you up – nonono, it can’t be, Lloyd wasn’t that good at acting, and considering Levi is sharing this news that you were kidnapped just now, he could be plotting with the Russians.

Does Lloyd know? Your head is messing with your thoughts. Does he know about your abduction? Was he permitting this to happen?

No. Brewer works against Lloyd, which means Lloyd couldn’t have known.

Who should you trust? Was Lloyd generous enough to give you up? Even though he declined Suza Brewer’s deal: you for the business? And fed him to the sharks because he disrespected you?

… probably crocodiles, but who cares at this point.

“Are you hurt?” Lloyd asks.

“Not really.” The tip of your tongue presses against the wound in your mouth, eliciting pain to clear your head – desperate measures for desperate times – and you continue, “I was wondering, though. I think two teeth of mine are loose. Does the employee benefit cover dental care?”

Think, think, think! How can you pass on the message?

Before Lloyd can answer, you take a head start, “Must be one of those Alenka … Alonka Chocolate bars?”

Last Christmas, the Russian mobs sent over a basket of those chocolate bars, Lloyd ordered to have them tested (in case there was poison) and gave them to his employees after they came out clean. But that was about a year ago, and Lloyd saw the wrapping papers in the basket near your seat right before the day ended. He joked about “eating with the enemy” while you admitted the chocolate was not half bad.

There. The message. Loud and clear.

“The dental plan gives you a 10% discount,” Lloyd says calmly. Which is a big fat lie, because no dental plan would be so petty. He wants to say something about 10. But about what? Ten minutes until he’s here? He’d bring ten men along?

“But I won’t tolerate tardiness, sunshine,” Lloyd’s voice sends a shiver down your spine, “Your working hours are nine am to eight pm. Don’t you dare be late.”

Holy Mary and Joseph. First ten, now nine and eight? Lloyd is about to tear this place down in less than ten seconds.

“Enough chitchat.” Brewer No.2 takes the phone back and aims his gun at your face again, “Say your goodbyes. Lloyd Hansen, you are about to hear her final words.”

“My final words?” You lean back onto the chair, steadying yourself with your feet as much as possible, “You really talk too much.”

A loud blast erupts from where the silent Russian is standing. He is most definitely covered in a few dozen kilos of rubbles and bricks. Levi instinctively covers his head, but the blast knocks him to the ground, where he stays unconscious. You are the only one with enough preparations to lower your body, even though being tied to the chair. But you still get thrown over by the blast and the chair collapses underneath your body.

A few henchmen armed to the teeth step through the hole in the wall. After them, Lloyd.

Lloyd in a black coat.

Your ears are ringing, and you can’t tell what he’s trying to say.

Another man with a black briefcase comes to your side. Your pupils were examined, your pulse was checked, and your lungs were listened to.

“… you feel any pain?” The other man asks you.

You shake your head. It hurts a bit in your mouth but that’s just a little cut.

“She’s alright.” The man who appears to be a doctor confirms, helping you up from the ground.

You stand on wobbly legs. The past hour has been too much of a scare that your knees are shaking. You trip over your own feet, before a pair of solid arms steadies you.

“Easy tiger.” Lloyd’s voice booms by your ear, having your head snap in his direction.

He came.

Oh God he came.

Knowing this was a semi-trap, but he didn’t need to be here. He could wait until this is over and give you a proper burial.

And you could’ve died. He could’ve died. You both could’ve died.

You stumble into his embrace, fingers clenching his thick woolen coat.

You probably shouldn’t. He’s your employer, your boss. He’d probably sue you for sexual harassment. But you did.

The blood soars in your ears. You dare not breathe out loud, fearing that you are dreaming.

It feels like a dream. It all did.

“ ’s alright. It’s alright now.” Lloyd murmurs. He runs a hand down your spine, inching your head close to his shoulder.

“How-How did you find me so soon?” Among everything, this is the one you were the most curious about. Yet you dare not look at him. Even if he has just saved your life.

Lloyd narrows his eyes. If you were any other girl, you’d be crying and weeping, and wiping snot on his coat, telling him how much you wanted to be with him the moment you thought you were dying. But no. You were not any other girl.

Fuck.

Long story short, he doesn’t want to elaborate, for you have plenty of time to discuss about this later, “Noticed there was something wrong with the Russians. Then your doorman called.”

“My doorman?” You raise your head to look at him, your brows furrow in confusion, “The guy at the residence entrance? Henry?” While your fingers slowly untangling from his coat.

“He had my number – I’m the last tenant of that condo – told me your pizza came and he couldn’t reach you,” Lloyd explains as simply as possible.

Ah yes. You ended your work around 7pm and ordered pizza…

You make a mental note to thank Henry for saving your life.

A groan drifts to your ear. You turn around on instinct, as Levi Brewer regains his senses.

“Where… I… What…”

In a split second, Lloyd pulls out his gun to shoot him twice in the chest.

A scream gets stuck in your throat, when the crimson blooms in Brewer’s chest.

Your body is shaking, trembling - a natural fear towards the predator behind you.

Brewer crumbles to the ground.

Lloyd lets out a sigh. He puts his arm around you, guiding your hand towards a piece of lukewarm metal. The metal that has just shot Brewer in the chest.

“You have no idea how to shoot, do you?” He asks, but doesn’t expect you to answer. It is a miracle that you are not fainting, he had hoped for far less before arriving.

Wrapping your index finger around the trigger, Lloyd takes a deep breath before flipping off the safe.

“Eye.” He lifts your chin in the direction of Brewer on the ground.

“Arm.” One of his hands steadies your shaking arm into a stable angle.

“Mark.” He lowers the gun point to Brewer’s forehead.

His warm chest against your back, blocking every possible way of escaping. The familiar feeling of having your throat in his hands creeps up your neck, making it difficult for you to breathe.

Your heart thumping loudly, your breath as shallow as it can be, as the warm air coming out of his mouth reaches your ears.

“Aim for the head. And shoot.”

He curls his finger next to yours, and your finger hits the trigger.

The gun is well-positioned, allowing the bullet to dive into Brewer’s forehead, leaving a round of crimson around the bullet hole.

You spin on your heels immediately, fighting the hurling stomach deep down.

The hard piece of metal comes between you and Lloyd.

A gun.

Lloyd’s gun.

You just used a gun to kill someone.

You are never getting a decent job anywhere in the world.

You are going to keep this skeleton in your closet forever (and of course, working for Lloyd until the day you die).

The cold metal burns your palm. You remember about the jokes that Lloyd never allows anyone to touch his gun.

“I… This belongs to you.” You shove the gun into his hands, as if this is some beast that would bite your fingers off if you keep it for one more second.

Lloyd snorts when his prized gun is pushed into his hands. But he doesn’t say another word. He clasps the gun back on his belt before ordering his men to leave.

You follow his troop out of the building in silence. The past hour has been a series of roller-coaster events that you need some time to process.

Denny is waiting in the car when you climb in. While the rest of Lloyd’s men get in a van, Lloyd barks a few orders to them that you haven’t paid attention to. You sit in the car, your back rigid, and you put your hands on your knees like a pupil in class.

Denny offers a sympathetic smile when your eyes meet in the rear-view mirror. He isn’t the type to talk, serving as Lloyd’s driver. But he’s nice enough to hand you a bottled water from the glove compartment, which you take with a murmured “thanks” and clench it with your knuckles turning white.

The adrenaline fades from your blood system, and your heart beats in a stable rhythm, your breathing finally adjusts itself to slow inhales and exhales.

The bruises on your wrists and ankles are scorching in pain. The back of your head is hurting too. Luckily, none of your bones is broken, which could be the best news of this evening.

This feels way too familiar.

As Lloyd opens the car door, your heart jumps to your throat again.

You are worried. Worrying about he’d fire you, thinking you have leaked information to the Brewer guy. Worrying about you have touched his gun, using it to kill someone, no less, and he’d cut off your hand for using it. Worrying about Lloyd would be dead if he steps into a trap with you as bait, that Levi Brewer intended to kill him…

Why the fuck are you worrying about Lloyd? He’s perfectly fine taking care of himself. It is you who needs extra self-defense lessons.

“What… Um, what happened to the truce you went to negotiate with the Russians?” You can’t help but ask, knowing that the dead Russian who kidnapped you was dragged out of the rubbles and put into a body bag, heading in another direction on the van that had Lloyd’s men on it.

“It was a trick,” Lloyd grumbles, “to stall. We agreed upon no phones, so it took me a while to get the call from that doorman. Then I knew they were trying to stall me from getting to you.”

You were whacked when you had just picked up the drycleaning for Lloyd. “-my car, and my – your clothes -” You remember.

“-were taken care of.” He picks up where you left off, “I’m assigning you an assistant, Claire. She’s living next door. She has driven your car back to the garage, and sent the clothes to dry cleaning as well.”

“An assistant? I don’t need an assistant.” You argue, “I can work fine on my own.”

“And get knocked out on the street in the middle of the night?” Lloyd snorts impatiently, “She’s there to protect you, but ask her to pick up the coffee, take out the trash, and drive the car for you, I don’t care. Claire would be by your side when I’m not close enough to save your ass.”

Ah. So you are a liability to him.

Maybe you weren’t suitable for a mob secretary at all.

You were no prized possession, as Brewer claimed to be.

And he’s your boss. You should feel lucky to be alive instead of mulling over whether he treats you special or not.

“Yes, Mr. Hansen.” You collect your feelings. It is perfectly normal for him to assign you a bodyguard/assistant. Hell, it’s even perfectly normal that he wants to fire you for your incompetence. Hiring an assistant? He doesn’t want you to get kidnapped again, that’s all.

… or replace you when she gets the gist of your job.

You think bitterly, staring at the tinted window.

“By the way, you don’t have to come to work tomorrow.” Lloyd casually tells you, “Paid leave, and it’s Friday anyway, you deserve some time off after this …” He carefully considers the choice of words, “… incident.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hansen.” You reply automatically.

It is such a weird thing that you let out a small exhale of relief when you heard the word “paid leave”, as if he would’ve thrown you off the car and told you that you are fired right after saying you don’t have to come to work.

Lloyd isn’t so ruthless after all.

Your heart beats faster, hopeful for …

What are you hopeful for?

You kick the ridiculous thought into the corner of your mind, answering, “I’ll be back on Monday.”

Taglist (Also tagging those who might be interested): @stargazingfangirl18 @sarahdonald87 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @magnificentsaladllama @biteofcherry @petalj @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @thezombieprostitute @yiiiikesmish @warriorblu @vonalyn @notathingjustthere @lokislady82 @irishhappiness @toozmanykids @alicedopey @cakesandtom @universitypenguin @openup-yourmind @helenaeisenhower @wilsons-striped-ties @tittittoee @bean-is-reading @yearningforsappho @esposadomd @salvatoreitmeanssaviour

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[britishsquidward]

Chelley Week 2024, Day 6: Heartbeart/AU

(AU being Blue Sky but the other way around, lol - Orange Sky)

Somehow it didn't immediately occur to him that Chell wasn't covered in all those silly little colours barricading him from viewing anything at all, and took to what he was best at: speaking his mind. "Is that you?" a moment passed where said nothing in favour of rubbing his stinging eyes, "Oh, wow, you look awf-" What he saw when he looked up again was certainly a sight to behold. One that stopped him talking, actually, so assuredly some kind of miracle. Or at least a world record. Right next to where he'd left the cold, lifeless shell of a core, stood the prettiest, most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his entire existence, and probably before that, if it were even possible. What little light was left in the room from the instructional video he'd left on standby hit her just perfectly, emphasising every delightful detail and feature. Her eyes were a fairly dull colour alone, but when she stood in the light like that, he'd never seen eyes shine brighter than hers, like two burningly beautiful stars sitauted in the middle of a stunning night sky. The sort of sky that you usually wouldn't pay half a mind to unless you really, truly looked and realised just how beguiling it was. Wheatley was having trouble focusing on one thing. Her skin looked soft and smooth, as did her hands - well-kept and taken care of, a contrast to his pale and damaged ones (he often found himself getting papercuts and getting too emotional over them, or being disappointed when his knuckles got all red and dry again in the hotter months of the year). Her hair fell oh-so-perfectly across her face, looking elegant yet messy at the same time, the combination of which just radiated an over all feeling of breeziness. And her face, she was-

'Okay', Wheatley internally spoke as he took a moment to compose himself, 'calm down, Wheatley, she's just a bit of light. Like a... photo..synthesis... or something. Something like that. Dunno what that means, but I remember it from somewhere. She is sort of like a photo, though. Pretty as one. AUGH wait, no, stop this... Just keep talking!' "...Gorge- GOOD." quick to correct himself, nice save, "L-looking good, actually. Very... very nice."

[goldenlaquer]

if the shinsengumi had a talent show, the lineup:

Yamazaki: anpan eating (1 bite in before booed off stage by Sougo. BUT I HAVEN'T EVEN EATEN ONE ANPAN OKITA TAICHOU?????)

Kondo: gorilla impression (standing ovation as soon as he steps on. BUT I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING YET???)

Hijikata: sing the Mayorin Theme Song (finishes. silence. anyone who doesn't clap, will commit assisted seppuku. tense standing ovation.)

Sougo: watermelon hitting (ties blindfold. readies wooden bat. smashes a mere papercut away from hijikata's head. ooooiiii sougo!!!!! im not your watermelon!! are you trying to kill me?? tch. did you just 'tch' me...)

Teito: recorder performance (horribly. kondo is crying. sougo is covering his ears. hijikata's face is in his hand.)

[invidiia]

Can i request yan!Ranpo with an oblivious darling? Like he could look them dead in the eye and say "i like you" and they'd be like omg i like you too bestie :DD (sorry if this has been requested before-)

꒰ yandere ranpo edogawa ꒱

꒰ and an oblivious reader ! ꒱

notes ; OOHNO NO NEED TO APOLOGIZE, IT'S A FAIRLY NEW BLOG SO NO ONE HAS REQUESTED IT YET! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!

warnings ; TOXICITY BABYY, stalking, mentions of murder, manipulation, kidnapping in the end, not sure what this is called but he's just making the reader out to be some dummy who needs him to survive !! he's mean and a little delusional but aren't we all, he's such a red flag and that's really hot

⋆ he's so nice and mean to you at the same time

⋆ he has written you countless letters confessing his love to you. he's made it the most obvious it could get! and you still don't get it! everyone in the agency knows it too, everybody sees the way he looks at you, pats your head when you do something right, even buys you some candy of your own! he's never done that for anybody else in his whole life! and you still think you're JUST his best friend!

⋆ hell, he even confessed to you, giving you pretty little flowers, a box of chocolates, anything you could give to someone you love. he told you he loved you straight to your face!

⋆ and all he got was, "i love you too! you're the best friend i could ever have!" he even slightly looks down on you because of this. you are SUCH an idiot! but he still loves you, of course.

⋆ and the JEALOUSYYY THE JEALOUSY

⋆ every single time he confesses and you tell him you appreciate your friendship, it feels like a deep papercut on his hand. it's so unbearably painful! he's asked you about your love life and what you look for in someone, asked you about your favorite things, conveniently picking them up at the store, showing up late to work just to give them to you. but it's not like he gave them to you secretly, no. he wants you to KNOW he wants you

⋆ and he definitely just conveniently walked closely behind you while you went into stores and bought your favorite foods, and the next day, he's taking you out the a nice restaurant with the best of your favorite food in the whole city!

⋆ sometimes, he just does your work for you, pulling back your rolly chair and snatching your paper, finishing it in about 3 minutes max while you swing your feet around and wait. afterwards, he complained about how easy it was to finish that paper, rambling about how if it wasn't for him, you would only have about five papers done. by now, it was a little obvious he views you as some idiot- of course, some idiot that he loves

⋆ he then waves you off and gives you the last marshmallow in his bag, asking for you to go pick up some more candies and something for yourself, pushing some money in your hand that should probably be enough to cover it.

⋆ for the record, he didn't count the money.

⋆ oh, but if you eventually get the message that he likes you romantically, and decide you don't feel the same way, then he could always just, you know, kidnap you and keep you at his place until you feel the same!

[pumpkinsy0]

Okay kinda related to that one anon about papercut doing theater.... what if I said Pony in choir and hcs on this pretty please like how curly reacts to finding out how the GANG reacts and hcs on them coming to his choir concert *blinks cutely*

fun fact: i actually did do choir a few times so im basic pony off me here cause i feel like we wouldve felt the same exact way

•y did pony do choir u may ask??? the curtis parents put all their kids into extra curricular activities, and choir was just one of the things they pushed pony to do

•pony did choir 2 times in his life, once bc of his parents, the other bc of school!! the curtis knew pony did choir waayyyyy before curly did, they just never told him, so curly found out about pony in choir bc of this school performance but ill get to that later

•darry and soda were literally the only ones defending pony when they found out he was doing choir, everyone else was laughing at him, even johnny, what a snake💔💔

•YES pony had that robe at some point but he hattteeddd it bc his always stank and never fit him

•he didnt last long in that choir tho he hated it so bad and only actually did like one ACTUAL show w that choir, the curtis parents recorded it all and u can see pony just glancing at the camera here n there and wanting to die, hes so real for that

•u could also hear the rest of the gang giggling in it, and them being told to b quiet

•THANKFULLY pony doesnt exactly remember that day, bc after the show when it was time for him to go home they were DOGGING on him BAD, now that recording is basically lost somewhere in that house

•BUT NOOWWWW YEARS LATERRRRR he has to do choir bc his school offers music class or choir and he got pushed into the choir while curly did music

•curly knew that and when pony was in that class u could see curly at the door window grinning at pony and pony trying to not look at him

•considering two, johnny, n steve still go to school w pony, i think they found out and for sommeee reason they forgot pony did choir but finding out he was BACK in it made em remember and pony skips it now cause he’ll b DAMNED if he sang in front of em

•curly called pony princess after hearing him sing n it caught on w half the gang, its worse bc he cant transfer out the class, poor fella

•now the gang n curly couldnt rlly see pony perform the other shows he did, BUT there was one time the music teacher was making a show w BOTH the music and choir classes and it was a project grade so they all had to attend and dress nicely

•first it was the music class and THEN the choir and for the choir class they were doing popular songs so pony was even MORE embarrassed and trying to kid behind the other ppl but it didnt work much

•u couldnt hear pony but u could def hear steve and curly laughing together (thats how bad this is, theyre getting along) and two but acting like hes the maestro

•after the show at some point curly stole one of those roses they sold there and gave it to pony, talking about pony serenading him

•johnny and dally didnt go, neither did darry or soda, but they told em to tell them how it goes and THAT they will do

[tsamporadhoe]

you’re in his unanswered emails I’m getting my papercuts kissed & listening to him profess his love for me on the recorded company line

office siren tomie .. am a huge fan of how tomie’s wardrobe is very minimal classy

[myvinylplaylist]

Linkin Park: Papercuts (2024)

Limited Edition On Clear, Black & Red Splatter Vinyl

Warner Records

[jawbone-xylophone]

Still not entirely happy with my characterization, but I do like the slightly experimental choices I made here. I just think Hypnos and Thanatos are extremely divorced, and it's partially because they both think Hypnos should be exactly like Thanatos. Neither of them is sure when it all fell apart, though.

Flavored with an eldritch being having body dysmorphia, and also copious flowery language surrounding People Dying.

~🥀🦋🥀~

It's an old and rotten unraveling, this thing between them.

Before earth and air, before moon and water, there was a suggestion of what could be. And it writ upon itself Night, and it writ upon itself Love, and the darkness filled itself with a thousand shadows, a thousand stars.

And they learned to sleep. And they learned to dream. And they learned to die.

They learned many other things, of course, and Hypnos learned at the knee of Mother Night what gave men delight and terror. He liked to be gentle with them. He liked to weave dreams of river mist and poppy stems and stardust, let mortals taste a little of immortality away from bloody work and bursting callouses. Everyone, everywhere, deserved something nice in their lives.

He'd really thought Thanatos agreed.

Sleep is the midwife of the gentle dead, after all. He lowered their eyelids, fluffed their pillows, reminded them they were loved, drowsy souls all wrapped up in a neat little bow for his brother to take below. They'd danced this dance for aeons, before Time fully knew its own name. A matched set, hand in hand, waltzing the thin blurry line of oblivion and eternity.

They were twins. They should have had an understanding.

Up the hallway Hades loomed over his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle a gold flush of rage in the wake of Prince Zagreus's latest antics. Mother Nyx hovered outside the prince's door like she'd just happened to be there since the dawn of time for no particular reason, and something about it- her hands, her jaw, the smoke-pale skin they'd all consciously matched to mark out family, was just... a lot. A lot to handle. Honestly, just a little bit hilarious.

He'd been using a human-shaped body for so long it had involuntary responses now, wasn't that funny? Thanatos had come by... some timeless amount of time ago, maybe a decade, maybe a year, to tell him to get better at record keeping. Registering new shades. It wasn't a bad job. It wasn't an ideal job. It could sure prove he wasn't incompetent and clingy and dependent.

All he had to do was stay awake and friendly and not do anything creative, with zero help from anyone, and try not to accidentally slice his hand on his quill every time Thanatos dismissed him. He bled poppy sap, after all, not ichor like the Olympians.

It was kind of funny. Very funny, actually. He really had no reason to bleed anything- he might as well bleed ichor, if he could. Something to work on after his shift maybe. If he dreamed hard enough, he might change enough to improve something. He'd only really remembered in the last millennia to keep the number of his fingers stable. Sometimes he'd wake up with more or less. Maybe that was a problem.

It wasn't, once upon a time. It'd just been him and Thanatos on the banks of the Lethe, dancing the way flowers and butterflies do, drawing souls gently down into that final sleep to end all heartache and pain. Something gentle. Something good.

Hypnos let his papercuts scar like a human, trying to keep track of the last time his brother gave a damn, and got back to work.

[seat-safety-switch]

The world is changing now. Soon, it will leave me and all the knowledge I accumulated during my life behind. It's not too late for me to get into the permanent record, though, with this information about a long-lost art of car ownership. I speak, of course, of the car stereo installation.

Nowadays, car stereos are largely an extension of your phone. And why shouldn't they be? Your phone can access any music you desire, conjure up pornographic visions from the ether itself, and tell you how to get out of the corn maze that you and your borderline-sentient 1979 Firebird Formula have gotten stuck in during your latest secret-agent shenanigans. Car manufacturers make terrible stock stereos, and so it just makes sense for them to step aside and turn them into "big screen that phone makes go."

It is for this same reason that, before the ubiquitous smartphone era, we wanted to swap the stereos in our shit-box Hondas. In the late 90s and early 00s, new standards were coming out practically every weekend. You didn't want to be the dope with an AM/FM/Tape combo when it was possible to be the brave technologist who accidentally bought a stereo on sale that only understood uncompressed Mini-Discs and the Diamond Rio 600. You could go to the store and buy a "head unit" (car stereo dweeb speak for "car stereo") and jam it into the dashboard, yourself. Sure, there were semi-professional installers out there, usually working at that very same store. Those installers cost money, though, and surely you can connect between 15 and 200 wires together in a way that doesn't burn your car down, right?

Wiring a stereo wasn't really that hard. It was just one of those death-by-a-thousand-papercuts deals. You pull out the old stereo, a task which ranges between "annoying" and "holy shit I don't think my car will ever go together again." Then, you unplug it from the wiring harness. They call it a wiring harness, because you get whipped by it and still somehow enjoy the experience.

It's at this point that the driveway-installing amateurs are separated from the driveway-installing pros. A smart person gets a little plug-in wiring adapter that translates from the car's wiring to the stereo's wiring. Someone who forgot to buy the little wiring adapter from the stereo store, and doesn't want to go back there because their car is torn into a million pieces, decides to hack and slash, twisting and soldering the car into the stereo permanently. This works too, but it will be a problem in about two weeks, when the MP3-CD player you just spent your paycheque on becomes obsolete, and is replaced by a Tokyo-24-HotSauce-WMV-DVD player.

Now comes the harrowing. You have just made your car's stereo harness much, much longer, and also likely much fatter. You gotta cram that shit back in the hole it came out of, ideally without getting in the way of anything else inside the dashboard. This is the point at which you must decide whether you will spend eight more hours routing wires, potentially re-doing the wiring work you just completed, or explain to your significant other that the heater controls only go two-thirds of the way to "cool" now. You will pass through this crucible and emerge a stronger, angrier person. You will have opinions on electrical tape for the first time in your life. Your neighbours will call the cops to have you killed after you swear loudly enough to wake their babies. The cops will laugh as you nearly pass out from heat exhaustion underneath your dashboard.

And in the end, you will be able to play an MP3 file from a burned CD. Congratulations. It was all worth it, until you go over a slight bump and the damn thing skips a bunch. I hear the new ones on the shelves now have a bigger anti-skip buffer. And those stock speakers, well, they sound like shit, now that you have this fancy new stereo blaring 64kbps Napster rips through it. Maybe pick up a new amplifier while you're at it, and an upgraded alternator to handle all that new current demand, and...