#so for the record I don’t expect much traction

[ohnonotthehorrors]

May I suggest:

An overhaul of the ‘winners as celestial objects,’ at least if we’re gonna keep using them this way.

Instead of the sun and stars- how about Mercury and Venus for Grian and Scott?

Mercury, the first planet. Small but beyond deadly on the surface, the closest to the sun, turning the planet into a desert. Named for the Roman god that was once Hermes- god of messengers, escorting the dead, thieves and more. (Fits pesky bird Grian well)

Venus, the second planet. Just as deadly but slower, more steady. Its rotation taking more time than it takes to circle the sun. Named after the Roman Goddess that was one Aphrodite: goddess of beauty, of love. Fitting for the man who refused to betray his allies, for the man so attached to flowers and beauty in a death game. (Wasn’t it always about love for Scott?)

The moon, still, for Pearl. Present but lonely. Cold, ever changing, waning and waxing. The wolves and their loyalty call to her. (And when the moon is red like blood, or blocks the sun in the sky- well the lonely is deadly too).

Mars, the red planet, the fourth. Named for the god of war, of blood shed and slaughter. Fitting for a game with so much death. Its surface is sand, like that in an hour glass, red too. Martyn derives from its name. (A million little watchers, rovers and robots, crawl about its surface)

The earth to break the pattern. Still alive amongst its uninhabitable kin. It tries to be gentle, really it does, but it is deadly in its own right. A friend to the moon, they are a comfort to each other in their strangeness. (Yes fine. I’ve been convinced that Scar is the Earth)

And finally; Pluto. Named for the god of death and riches, so far from the others in the strangeness of their game. Small and discrete, unclear of its status. But loved and adored all the same. (Cleo would like being Pluto, I think. Would give her some peace and quiet)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Be Alive In Summer

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Betrayal had never been in your cards, and you definitely didn't see yourself being the one responsible for the act. When having to go undercover, first comes the problem of staging your death.

WORDCOUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, betrayal, intense gore, violence, death, allusions to intimacy, weapons, vulgar language, recovery, torture, happy ending, etc.

A/N: The final request is finished, hope you enjoy it @l-inkage! Onto the AUs next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You didn’t want to do it, but in this job, comfort was always an option and never a guarantee. It needed to be done. And that meant sacrifices had to be made to the dark altar of your contract with One-Four-One.

But this one just might break you in the process. 

“Are you sure that,” you pause and think over the instructions that Price had just given you—straight from the top of the line. “Are you sure that this is the best way, Sir?” 

The man’s lips are flat, eyes narrowed, he doesn’t like this either—especially if you don’t. John’s a Captain, he tallies out orders and expects people to listen without hesitation; doesn’t express his worry about their safety because that isn’t what this is about at the end of the day. It’s about keeping the good people outside of bases like these alive and breathing.

And right now that hinged on you being dead.

“Berto needs mercenaries,” Price grunts, “and any record of you needs to be wiped before we send you in.”

Vito Berto—head of a crime family that had been picking up traction in recent years, so much so that One-Four-One had to be put on it for covert reconnaissance before any more people ended up dead.

You would be sent in under the cover of an experienced mercenary; one among the ranks that Berto would need for a hostile takeover planned in three months on the Palace of Westminster in London. The House of Parliament. 

Vito was one cocky son of a bitch if he expected no one to get word of this.

Your job was to uncover the exact date, time, and the mission plan before getting out as quickly as possible. In order to do that, the soldier holding your name needed to be dead so nothing could be traced back to you, your task force, or your loved ones. 

And people needed to believe it.

“Can’t the records just be forged, Sir?” You ask, the meeting room dark and pulsing with the cold air from the vents. “What about Gaz and Soap?” Your throat closes for a moment and you speak slightly lower. “Simon?”

Price sighs and crosses his arms, fixing the stance of his feet.

“They’ll deal with it.” Inside of your pockets, your hands twitch. 

He won't. Not inwardly.  

“I…” your jaw clenched. 

Your relationship with Ghost was…strange. You’d both had your fun, of course, and you had a casual air about that sort of thing—it had happened, but nothing more could ever come of it. There was a modicum of soft care with you two; an acknowledgment of partnership in the field and out of it. 

You didn’t have to explain to people that Ghost was closer to you than others. You’d seen his face; that says enough. 

“It needs to look real,” Price explains, tilting his head down to you. “Not only for Laswell's state of mind but yours. I won’t be putting you in without giving you the best chance.” 

“You can’t tell them?”

“Negative. Security measure.” You frown, biting at your lip.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. A second later a hand is set on your shoulder and the man leans in slightly to reassure you like a relative. You look up into your Captain’s gruff face, seeing the small amount of care he levels into his cerulean irises for you. 

He squeezes your flesh, watching hard.

“We need you for this, Trick.” The nickname was exactly why you were the only one who could do this. 

You were the first choice. No one was better at undercover work.

“How long would I be gone, Price?” Shifting out of the hold, you cross your arms and level him with a dead stare. “How long do they have to live with this lie?”

John grunts. “Less than three months, yeah? But all of it’s up to how long it takes to gather intel. Full black.” 

“Exfil point?” 

“Town five miles from Berto’s estate. Cafe with a red door near the bookstore. Woman inside’ll be your handler.” You turn away to glare at the far wall, hesitant even when you know you shouldn't be. This was your job. 

Brown eyes keep flashing behind your eyes—a skeletal mask that stares with stained glistening blood, blood you yourself feel reflected on your own visage. A shared damning of two people who would never see those great halls of the afterlife. Neither of you are good.

Simon had to understand. 

The Captain sees the shift in your expression.

“You in?” He asks you with a blank look. 

You take a deep breath, chest heavy and heart hurting. “I don’t like it,” your voice is low, monotone. “But, yeah, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good,” the man nods, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “It’ll happen in three days. Be ready.”

You watch him walk out of the room, patting you on the shoulder one last time before the door shuts behind him with a click of finality that pierces your lungs. You clear your throat and swallow down saliva, turning your face away as if ashamed. 

It’s the quiet that gets to you in that moment—the encompassing nothingness. So often you would have moments like these with Simon. Just sitting; not taking. But this silence was so different. 

This was betrayal. 

After you steady the slight tremor in your hands, you scoff and shake your head backing up a step before leaving the room; turning off the lights. 

You walk down the long hallway, feet heavy as your mind runs, and overhead the lights buzz like flies. Eyes stuck to the floor, your shoulders are hunched in with thought and your lids half-closed in a display of obvious inner turmoil. 

The shadow that waits for you, leaning against the wall, you walk past entirely—missing it and not hearing the confused call of your name behind you because of it.

“Trick!” Your hand comes up to itch at your chin, fingers pushing into your flesh. The aggressive Manchester accent slides off of you until large fingers curl into the back collar of your vest rig. 

You breathe in sharply, blinking in surprise as your feet get pulled back a step or two, pace halting as Ghost curls around your body, staring down at you. His brows are narrowed, that mask still on and the bottom fabric twisted in the obvious downward press of his lips.

“Bloody hell is wrong with you, then?” 

Sighing, you scowl and shake him off of you, moving back to allow yourself some air. Did he really have to show up now? Why was he even here, you had to ask yourself. Was he…waiting for you?

“Nothing,” you don’t look at him, speaking low. “Distracted, is all.” 

Ghost crosses his arms slowly, his brows flinching briefly as he makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Meeting go well?” 

“Fine.” He can tell something’s wrong; you know he can—he’s the best at interrogations for a reason. Ghost knows when someone is lying to him. 

You glance at his chest before you begin to open your mouth. 

What could telling him hurt? Just a hint. He’d get it—I know he would. Berto had the nickname ‘The Tanner,’ given to him by his men. When he found out anyone had double-crossed him, he’d take a large breaking knife and separate the thin layers of skin from his victims. Intel suggests he keeps them awake for all of it, stopping when they pass out only to start again when they wake back up. 

If there was any leak in this base…any at all…you wouldn’t be coming back. 

You wouldn’t be coming back to him. 

Simon’s thighs shift.

“Talk to me.” He always speaks like he doesn’t care about the answer, but you’d be a fool this far into your… relationship? To believe that he didn’t. You’d seen Simon panic over your injured body before—it told you enough. 

The easy moments and the side-eyed looks when he thought you didn’t notice or weren’t doing the same to him. 

Your fingers twitch, forcing a smirk that didn’t convince even you. Your heart was telling you to explain it to him, but your brain was firmly set behind iron doors; tongue held back by iron tongs. 

“Personal matters, Simon. Nothing you need to worry about, Big Guy.” He doesn’t look away from your eyes. Brows set in a line and that mask jeering at you; almost mocking. 

The Lieutenant doesn’t answer and your heart is visible from under your gear.

“J-just,” you stutter, face getting hot as you look away. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s…” 

Trailing off, you rub at the back of your head in a self-soothing motion. 

Simon blinks slowly and you hear a large chest-rattling sigh. He shrugs in that way only he can—a fast jerk of shoulders that looks more like he’s trying to push off a bug than simply trying to move past what you’re saying to him. 

“Doesn’t make a difference,” it does. “Garrick and MacTavish are waitin’ down at the firing range. Best get down there ‘fore one comes looking like a kicked dog.” You can still feel him digging into you. Knives and the suspicion in his tone. 

You don’t want to do this to him. Not after all that you’ve gone through together. 

“Right.” Your feet are moving before he is, planted into the floor and pushing off through the small pinches of electricity in the nerves. Pushing out a hard laugh, you try to send him a light smile. “Did you tell them to be ready to get their arses beat?” 

Simon looks down at you as he walks beside your form in large steps; arms swinging. “Haven’t seen ‘em yet. Waiting for you.” 

If it were possible to shrivel up from guilt, you’d be nothing but bones.

“O-oh,” you huff, but it sounds like all of the air has been expelled from your lungs. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

Simon grunts, accent grating as he stares ahead. “Wanted to.” 

“Good. That’s nice.” You feel like screaming. “Thank you.”

It’s nearly instantaneous how fast his eyes go dark with concern. “You sure that head of yours is on straight, Trick?”

You push open the doors outside and wonder if you even have the ability to answer him; out of everyone, you can’t lie to Simon.

“No,” your lips admit quietly, self-degrading in its own right. 

A hand grabs you by the wrist and before you can slip out, you’re being pulled back into the building and pushed into a side room. 

“Hey!” You shout, eyes flashing as the door is shut behind you. You’re released and the light is immediately turned on. “Simon, what the hell are you doing?” 

“Enough,” he levels, and your arms are clasped so you’re facing his chest, looking up into his serious and hard gaze. “Fuckin’ speak to me.” 

You’re surprised at how insistent he is about this. 

“I’m not telling you anything,” you speak through stutters and he growls in his throat. His hands are like motel lava even under his gloves and above your skin—burning like a brand.

“What happened in that meeting room, Trick?”

“It’s classified,” you say, harder than intended, spitting the words with a hint of desperation. If not for your own safety, then for his, but you know that if he keeps asking then you’ll tell him the truth. 

They were going to stage your death, and they won’t be making it pretty. 

“Fuck classified,” he leans in closer, curling over you. “You’re acting like someone’s bloody taking you hostage.”

“Simon! It’s not—”

“Cut the bullshit!” You growl and try to shove away from him, struggling with glaring eyes that go sharp with the onset of tears. “Somethings got you worried and I wanna know what it is.”

Simon wasn’t the greatest at articulation, but neither were you. 

You knew he was trying to tell you he was concerned. The man was holding you tight, but not hurting you; his face close and his shoulders wide. Along your face his eyes were darting, as if he could peel back your skin and make you explain what Price had told you. 

The Captain had given the Lieutenant a look as he’d seen him waiting for you but had said nothing. That alone had tipped Ghost off to something being wrong. 

But you weren’t having it.

Yanking out of Simon’s hands, you shake your head and put on your worst glare—meeting muddy brown and huffing. 

“Mind your own business, Riley. It’s for your own good.” The man blinks in mute shock, fingers in the air twitching before they fall to his sides.

You speed-walk out of the room before he can speak, lips slightly parted at your strange behavior. 

For his own good? What in the hell did that mean? 

Simon’s jaw clenches, a grunt in his chest as he aggressively rolls his wrist. He turns to follow after. The both of you don’t talk for the rest of the day.

—

Your body shakes along with the helo as it takes off, carrying you away from the scene of gunfire down below. In your earpiece, you hear the loud calls and yelling from your friends. Gaz is calling out to Price to give him permission to move up; the Captain too busy grappling Soap to the ground. 

Ghost is taking cover behind a wall, but he’s not quiet. 

“Trick’s in the damn building!” 

No, I’m not, you want to flick on the line and tell him. Over the three days before this operation you'd barely spoken—in fact, you’d been avoiding all of them fervently by the mass amount of guilt in your stomach. 

In the nights, you hadn’t even slept, and now you’re sure it’ll take even longer too.

Their forms become tinier, and you grasp the roof’s handle as the helo rises farther and farther. 

“Price!” Simon barks. “We have to get her—”

“There’s no time!” John responds, grunting and forcing Johnny down as he spits curses and tries to call your name over the comms. You flinch violently, looking away for a moment. “We’re surrounded!”

“I can get through!” Bullets wiz through the comms, and you can nearly imagine you are down there—trapped in the house down the way after being shot and injured by hosties. But you’d never been in that house. Never been alone down the way for recon. 

You’d been at the second exfil point. Price knew it. Laswell knew it. 

But Simon had not. 

“Negative, Ghost! Keep where you are, we can get to her later. We need to—” The building you were supposed to be in explodes in a fiery wreck; a great bloom cloud going into the air as the helo shakes from the after-blast. 

You have to turn your face away, shielding your eyes. The pilot calls to see if you’re alright, but you don’t answer. All you can hear is the screams.

“Trick!”

“Simon, get back into bloody cover!” 

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!” It gets too much—the bareness of his panic for you. The panting breath; the running stomp of feet.

You rip the connection from the radio on your vest and place a hand over your mouth, breathing as if you had really been in an inferno like a piece of fodder. 

Simon had already been through so much in his life, and doing this to him as well as the task force was the definition of betrayal of the loyalty you’d cultivated.

Of the love.

Because you did love him—even if you’d never say it to each other. If he found out about what you did, which he would eventually, in one way or another, he’d hate you for the rest of his life. So perhaps you were mourning, as you stare below as the helicopter takes you higher and higher up. Farther away from him. You were mourning what you had, because you knew it would never be the same. 

Simon Riley would never trust you again, and all you had to blame was yourself. 

The tiny tears dribble out of you and fall all the way down to the ground, where the man still screams for you to answer him; John barks orders with a sheen of panic in his eyes from the bare-bones ferality of the Lieutenant. Brown eyes blazed and cities burned in his pupils. 

John had underestimated the bond that the two of you shared. 

And he just might pay the price for it.

—

Getting through selection was far easier than getting through SAS training, Vito Berto seemed to only want mercenaries that had the faintest hint of the ability to hold a smuggled weapon. It made sense because if the people he was planning to send in were well-trained, it would be easier to trace to him—ability equaled a higher level of intelligence. Planning. Resources. 

To fit in, you made sure to miss a few of your shots, even if it made your instinctual perfectionism rise. John would have torn you a new one if you’d missed this many during your selection all those years back. Probably would have asked how a Muppet like you had gotten this far with shite aim like that.

But Berto ate it up like Sunday dinner. Gave you the nickname Cross, actually. Like the crosshair of a scope.

It was safe to say you despised him. 

But the days grew longer and the nights short with all of your running around. You’d found out that your Captain’s timeline was incorrect—the attack wasn’t in three months, it was in two. And while Berto was cocky, he wasn’t reckless. 

He somehow knew there was a breach in the ranks; you could see it by how he looked over the squads in the underground bunker, all of you hidden under rock and stone like prisoners. The man would sneer, eyes filtering back and forth from the perch. 

Sometimes you had to stop yourself from simply taking the shot presented in front of you and deal with the consequences afterward.

Price had been clear: all of the people gathered here needed to be taken care of quickly and quietly—if you snapped, the rest would disappear like roaches. Alive and biding time.

During those two months, the thoughts of Simon wouldn’t leave you. 

Moments that seeped in behind closed eyelids after you’d slunk back into bed, the USBs full of vital intel stashed into the lining of your uniform in a small hidden pocket. His twitching smile and those deep scars along his face; the ones that would never go away. 

In those moments you wondered what it would be like if you had told him how much you cared for his quiet company or his dark humor. The way he would level a hand on the small of your back off duty at the bars as a way to silently shield you from the stares from patrons. 

You’d never be able to tell him now. 

Vito “The Tanner” Berto knew of a leak, and when you came back to the bunker after sending out the multiple USB sticks, the physical files, and the first-hand accounts of what was going on—eager for just a little more to make this betrayal worth it…he was waiting. 

You could only fight off so many others, no matter how subpar the training on their part, before sheer mass overtook ability. Like a house of cards with a bowling ball, you were shoved to the ground surrounded by multiple dead bodies of those you’d taken down with you—writhing and hissing as if a feral animal. 

Restraints were leveled with your wrists; your head pulled back so your nose faced the ceiling. You only stopped struggling when the chilled barrel of a pistol was set under your chin.

Breath stilling, it was hard to understand how, even then, all that was in the front of your mind was Simon. Simon and his brown eyes. Simon and his screams when that building went up in fire and smoke.

“Trick!”

You could still hear the exact pitch and rhythm like it was yesterday.

“Cross,” Berto mutters, gun heavy as it digs into your flesh. Men pant and grapple to keep you back as you sneer and jerk your arms. “I should have known it would be you.” 

“Well,” you growl, teeth bared, “obviously you didn’t.”

A slow smirk runs on his lips. 

“No, but I’ll have to rectify this. I can’t have you getting in the way.” You can only hope that the intel gets out before the end of the second month—if not, then all of this was for nothing. 

Why couldn’t you have left when you had the chance?

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!”

He was why. 

Simon—the source of all of your problems and the only person who could fix them besides yourself. It’s a sick joke really. 

Vito grabs your chin and you huff out a swift breath, heart skipping beats as he burrows his digits tightly into your skin; hard enough to leave marks. He sighs and clicks his tongue and you have to keep back a whimper as his nails create crescents along your jaw. 

“You won’t tell me anything, will you, then?”

“Negative,” you spit, heated. 

He scoffs. “Of course.” 

Berto throws your head back as you try to snap out and bite at his hand, rabid, but the man’s already gone and the mercenaries behind you yank you back like a dog on a leash. Your knees slide along the floor and you rage trying to turn around before the others are forced to shove your face into the ground. There is a distinctive snapping in your nose bridge as the concrete comes up to meet you; the tears come instinctually after—unable to be stopped as you yell in pain. 

Blood floods your nostrils and mouth, making you cough as Vito’s voice echoes in your ringing ears. 

“Let me get my knives.” 

—

They had you chained in some damp back room, the corners riddled with mold spores and the air heavy with condensation. You were tied to the ceiling—feet dangling uselessly below you and the tips of your boots dragging across the floor with a quiet scrape and a creak of metal. 

Above you, on the hook, the chains were tied so ruthlessly that you’d lost circulation to your arms entirely, nothing but an electric buzzing far inside of your bones. Akin to the static of a TV screen in between connections. Your clothes had been shredded by blades—long sections of your flesh underneath, cut away. 

Blood stains most, if not all, of the floor. It drips from your nose; it falls like rain to pool at your feet in rippling crimson. 

Simon had been your partner during required interrogation training and he was far better at it than you. The man could go for hours through the mental strain that was leveled out by other soldiers on him; stoic and silent. It was the way his eyes would blank that told you he could live through far worse—that he already had. You’d had your fair share as well, but never before had you felt as hopeless as this. 

There was a slim chance that anyone would come for you here. Laswell and Price would carry the guilt of it, but you didn’t want them to. 

The blood slips over your lips, and the taste of copper makes you gag; spitting out saliva from your lips. 

It was half your choice, after all. 

You try to slip into a happy memory as the lights fade in and out, the footsteps and mutterings outside the door of little interest anymore.

ironic, that the man with the mask of a dead person brought you comfort when so little could. 

You never got to tell him how much you loved him. A thin smile comes across your lips. 

“Shouldn’t be out here this late,” the man utters as you lay out in the field, arms and legs splayed and twitching when the long grass brushes against them. “Past curfew.”

“Like you aren't out here with me?” You raise an eyebrow, looking up at the stars now that the large base lights have been dimmed. The air is cold, and the breeze makes you shudder through a chill. But you don’t wipe that smile from your lips. “Bit hypocritical, Simon.”

You hear a low grunt. 

“Out ‘ere because you weren’t answering your damn door.” A shadow slips to your side, and the man settles down with a huff on his lips. Simon retired his combat mask for a simple balaclava instead, and he sighed long as he settled his arm on the bent form of his right leg. 

You blink over at him, raising a brow. 

“Looking for me, Ghosty?” 

“Bloody hell, Trick.” You chuckle, shifting your arms to rest on your chest as you look back at the stars far above. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Big Guy.” The man shakes his head. “I won’t tell anyone you’re going soft for me.” 

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“Trick, I’m tellin’ you to—”

“Shh!” You wave a hand in his direction, silencing him and making him blink at you in deep annoyance and confusion. Ghost’s eyes were narrowed, the black of his face paint gone and smelling like standard issue body wash. 

He must have gotten out of the shower and come to see if you were still awake before making his way outside when you never answered the door. Funny how he knew where you would be.

“Fucking what, then?” He growls, shoulders wide.

You place a finger to your ear, shifting so you’re sitting up on one elbow and facing Simon. On your face, a wide smile lingers, but on his, the dark brows narrow with knowledge of a deceitful event incoming. “Listen.” 

A silence falls, Simon’s ears twitching for something in the long grass or across the field. Nothing. Nothing but the breeze and the way your face glowed as you watched him, eyes glinting with amusement. 

After a long minute or two, he looks at you with utter bewilderment. You lean in closer, poking a finger into his bicep.

“Can you hear it, Simon?” You’re one of the few he lets call him that, though never in public.

He glares. “No.”

You flutter your digits in the air, giggles trapped in your mouth. A whisper hits the Lieutenant’s ears. “Silence.”

“Bugger off,” he hisses as you reel back and belt out laughter, holding your sides and lightly curling into yourself. “You’re worse than Johnny. Jesus.”

“Aww, c’mon!” You let your laughter die down to chuckles, sanctity of night broken, but not so between the two individuals who look at each other with brimming affection none will name. 

“You’re the one that came to find me, remember?” Your tease makes Ghost roll his eyes, looking away across the open area with its wave-like grasses.

“You’re right, then, I did,” Simon grunts, his hand coming up to rub his neck. “Mistake on my part.”

“Jerk,” a soft slap is leveled to his arm and he chuckles deeply. “But you can’t fool me, Ghosty. I know you’ll always come lookin’ for me—I’m too important to you to lose.”

“Keep kiddin’ yourself, Trickster.” He doesn’t say how he would agree with the statement, it was true after all. “I won’t be dragged into your bloody messes.”

He wouldn’t leave you behind to drown in them, even if it was as simple as you sneaking out of your bunk to watch the stars. 

You’d both known each other too long for that.

You smile over at him as he sighs before slipping off his mask, itching at his stubble with hard fingers. The air settles. No comment about it entering in on the see-through waves—there didn’t need to be one. 

“Mhm,” you hum, beaming. “You keep thinking that, Big Guy.”

“Trick!” Your memory shifts, and you sit up immediately. You’d thought you’d just heard…

Eyes dart out over the field, jumping back and forth rapidly. You look to the side, but Simon is gone entirely.

“Simon?” Heart beating, you stand fully up and turn in a fast circle, confusion and fear infecting your mind.

“Trick!” Pain sparks in your body, and you hiss and grab at your clothes. You blink so fast that you half-believe the world is ending.

“S-Simon?!” What was happening? What was hurting so bad? Where did Simon go?

“Trick, fucking wake up!”

Your eyes snap open and you instantaneously feel the burning pain inside of your ribs. 

The ground is underneath you, hard and wet from your own blood as you yowl and cough, air entering your lungs in quick bursts. 

Hands encase your cheeks, shaking your head—keeping you present. 

A skeletal mask littered with droplets of human fluid stares down at you, and behind it, panicked brown eyes slash through your psyche in the small moment between agony and confusion. 

Simon?

“Holy hell.” It’s that same Manchester accent. The same scrape of vocal cords. “Alright, Sweetheart. Keep those eyes open—keep ‘em on me, yeah?” 

What was going on? You try to open your mouth to say something but all of it is lead. Were your ribs broken? How? And why was Simon’s bottom covering pushed up to his nose; his lips stained with blood? 

The man frantically goes to press into his radio.

“This is Bravo 0-7,” he breathes, and you whimper as your throat gets clogged with congealed saliva and blood. You cough violently, gagging, and Ghost quickly turns you on your side to help you expel it. His hand is hard on your shoulder. 

“I say again, this is Bravo 0-7!” Those browns never leave you, shocked and serious. “Price, I’ve got ‘er. It’s not good; had to revive but I don’t know how long she’s got.”

Revive? You’re spacing in and out, limp, and trying to breathe. 

Simon tears open his medical pouch and begins wrapping tourniquets—packing the wounds with gauze until you can get proper medical treatment on the helo back to base. 

“Bloody…” he trails, Price barking an order over the connection to bring you out; the firefight was moving to the East to give him an opening to sneak back out. “C’mon, Trick.”

Everything swims; you want to go back to that field—those stars. 

Simon was here? Truly? The thought was hard to understand in your state. 

“S-Sim—” Your voice gurgles, and you can’t feel your legs. You had to tell him. Tell him the good and the bad; all of it.

“Don’t talk,” he growls, moving you as your body seizes in a state of static shock. “I’m getting you out of ‘ere.” You’re lifted up in one grand movement, Simon grunting as he shifts you carefully into a bridal hold. “Then you’re going to explain this to me when you’re squared. Won’t take no for an answer.” 

You could feel the anger sizzling off of him even half-conscious. The mixing emotions that convulsed into a mess of adrenaline and desperation. Forcing your eyes to stay open, you blink up at him as he glances down at you at the same time, just before he exits the door he had broken down. 

The visible skin of his lips and chin tighten; going down with the twitch of with a serious frown. Something flutters behind his eyes as he stares before glancing away and clearing his throat. 

“Eyes on me, Trickster. Don’t you dare close ‘em.” You grimace as he begins jogging, heavy boots echoing along the empty corridor as the sounds of gunfire and pandemonium sound off from the other side of the bunker. 

It was hard to push back the black at the sides of your vision; already it was seeping back in. Ghost holds you tight, unwilling to even let you slip an inch from his grip as the lights above swirl, brightening and dimming. 

“Oi!” You’re jostled, and you snap back to it, tensing as your wounds flex and pull. Simon glares. “What’d I just say?”

Your weakly poisoned grimace makes his lips twitch up. 

“Good.” 

There’s the sudden flick of a safety being clicked off, and the Lieutenant halts in a jerking of feet and a ruffle of canvas.

“I’ve heard about a Ghost making his rounds, hm?” Berto stands at the end of the hall, pistol held in front of him. “I saw an apparition disappearing to find one of its own. No worries. She’ll be a ghost, too, soon enough. Perhaps I’ll have to put you both to rest together.” 

The voice makes you go panicked, remembering the tear of flesh and the sharp blades slicing your skin away, chunks that peeled, and the long stripes of flexible tendons. Your lungs fight for breath, your head weakly slapping into Simon’s neck after an attempt to move your body. Limbs shake and battle nerves; the fabric of your brain.

Your blood stains the man’s gear all the way down the front. It’s dripping to the floor, down his arms and off his elbows. You’re bathing him in it—a full-body baptism of betrayal. 

“Berto,” Ghost says, accent casual despite the gun leveled at him. The name is drawn out. “Apologies, but I’m taking back what’s mine.” He tilts his head. “Scratch that, I’m not apologizing for getting back on a Bastard like you, eh? Pity I can’t hang you up like a hog, I’m proper good with a blade too, but as you can see, I’m on a crunch.” 

Vito’s face goes confused, skin scrunching. “What—”

The bang of a bullet being discharged echoes down the way. The clatter of a great expulsion of air from lungs. Stumbling. Gargles. 

The slam of a body to the ground. 

Smoke spreads up from under the clutch of your knees, where Ghost holds the abyssal body of an M19 forward, his finger lightly on the trigger before he shifts it back in well-practiced discipline. 

“Slag,” he spits. 

Simon hikes you farther into him, lending over his available body heat as you shiver. He presses his face into the top of your head, sighing in relief before starting his pace again. The man’s lips brush your flesh as your lids flutter. 

“Still with me?” You whine into his neck, fingers twitching. “I know it hurts, Love. I know. Easy with it.” 

It didn’t just hurt, it burned. Buried like the nine layers of Hell. 

He keeps whispering to you, slinking around corners and stepping into shadows. By the time he makes it outside with you, the chill of the air on the bottom of his face he didn’t even bother to re-cover, you’re tapering on the edge of oblivion again. 

Teetering like a porcelain doll on the end of the high shelf. 

“Bravo 0-6, leaving the bunker now, I need that MedEvac prepped and ready to go,” Simon speaks quickly, not wasting a single instant. 

John’s voice wafts through. “Copy, 0-7. Helo is comin’ in, be ready it’s going to get hot!” 

“Affirm. Keep it frosty down ‘ere.” There’s a low chuckle and the swift wizz of bullets. 

“Get our Trickster back in one piece, Ghost.” Simon hears the buzzing of helicopter blades in the night, a slick form descending from the dark clouds not moments later. He turns away from the flurry of air, walking hurriedly backward so the air doesn’t aggravate you. 

“Trick,” Ghost calls to you above the noise, hearing the hurried feet of medics coming out to take you from him. Your face is scrunched and you burrow into him. “I’m handing you over!” 

You try to open your eyes enough to convey your unease at that. You have to tell him. You have to explain why you had to do it. The guilt is eating you; gnawing with red teeth and gripping with devil’s claws. You have to explain that you love him even if he hates you now. 

Medics grapple you away, and you are in pain, lips peeling back to gasp sharply, thrashing. 

No!

“Fuck,” Ghost growls, pulling you away from the men as they ask him what in the bloody hell he’s doing. He doesn’t even know—all he knows is that he’s pissed at you for what you did, but never in a million years did that mean he wanted to see you in pain. 

Simon can’t lie, when he was told you were alive, the universe had held its breath. A miracle. A ruse. But alive. Alive and trapped. 

“Stop it!” He yells, caging you into him. “I’m here! I’m right here, Trickster!” 

You’re already too gone for it, not recognizing the metal of the helo as you’re settled on your back, the loud slam of the door. Fingers pull and prob as you hiss and snap, suffocating. 

Ghost holds down your shoulders, his eyes right above yours—but you’re not looking. The helo takes off

“Bloody hell,” Simon yells. “Look at me!” 

You don’t know what compels you to do so, but your eyes open just the slightest bit wider. Brown melts into your pupils, taking you in and reminding you of chilled summer nights. Simon. You pant but stop struggling. 

The medics jump into action, ripping away the remains of your shirt and pants so they can get to the wounds; assess the damage done. 

“That’s it,” Simon sighs long, swallowing. “That’s a girl. There we go, Sunshine.” 

You blink, face peeled as everything swirls far more aggressively this time. 

“Listen to me, Trick. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, you understand. You said I’d always find you, yeah?” Hands grab your cheeks. “Well, I fucking did, eh? I found you. We’re gonna fix you up, Sweetheart. It’ll all be gone by morning.” You stutter down a breath, ragged throat stretching.

“Let ‘em fix you up—”

“I love you.” 

It all fades to black, but all you remember is the sweep of horror that spreads behind the man’s eyes.

—

“You went back,” Price’s arms are crossed, and he stares at you as your fingers play with the sheets of the hospital bed. “Why?”

You sigh and rub at your face.

“Trick.”

“I felt like I needed to,” you give away, twitching your fingers out in an expression of nonchalantness. “I felt…” Your voice trailed off into a growl. “Bad.”

“Feelings aren’t a part of this, Trickster, you bloody know that,” John hisses, leaning his head closer as you glare silently. “If you’d left when you could, none of this would have fucking happened.” 

“I feel bad, Price!” You break, snapping. “I fucking know! But I-I thought if I just got a bit more intel, then this would have been worth it.” Taking a deep breath you shake your head and rub at your face, all of the bandages and stitches pulling tight. “It’s eating at me. I can’t…I can’t just act like what I lied about can be forgotten.” 

You shrug as the man listens silently, monitors beeping and the small buzz of the overhead lights. 

“Soap barely looks at me—Gaz gave me that fucking pity smile and it makes me want to scream.”

“They’ll get over it.” The Captain repeats what he said months prior firmly. “They know the Op was top priority, they’ll grow up and be back to fucking around in days.”

You scoff, muttering in a dejected tone. “He won’t.”

John is still, fixing his feet from under him as he rolls his nose and looks away slowly. 

Simon hadn’t come to visit once in the time you’d been here in the ward—four days. That fact alone makes you restless. You don’t remember what you said to him, if you said anything. But you knew that he wasn’t going to be going out of his way to be near you anymore. 

You’d taken a grenade to the relationship you’d built. Toy building blocks are scattered. 

“Simon’s…Simon,” Price ends on. You groan and itch at the IV in your hand. “He cares about you more than anyone, yeah? He just needs time. Wasn’t himself after the set-up.”

“I’ve been told,” Gaz had informed you about the Lieutenant's self-isolation after your ‘death’. The snappy orders—deathly glares. He’d gone back to the ruthless man he was in the field and instead of being directed at his enemies, it was directed at them.

Kyle explained how he’d argued with Price about how he could have gotten to you, before abruptly falling silent and stalking away as if a flip had been switched. Snake eyes and clenched fists. 

They’d heard him in the gym late at night, reaming on the punching bags. They didn’t think he slept more than three hours per day if the red lines in his eyes were anything to go by.

And then they were told that you were alive but captured, and he’d gotten worse.

You’d nearly started sobbing when the Sergeant had told you all of that.

“I betrayed his trust, Price,” you level. “I…I never wanted to do that to him. Ever. Not Simon.”

A shadow passes by the door just as the Captain grunts. “That’s the job.”

“That’s not the job I signed up for when I got into this. We don’t lie to our own.”

“‘We get dirty, the world—’” You cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘stays clean’.” Your eyes level with his. “I can do the dirty work, John, you know that. Infiltration and undercover work is what I’m good at.” The man nods slightly. “But if you ask me to betray One-Four-One’s trust again, I’m out.”

Blue eyes blink in shock, but you don’t let him speak.

“Find someone else to get fake blown up in a building. I can’t get his fucking screams out of my head.” John watches you silently, eyes narrowed. 

You meet that gaze head-on, not backing down from this.

The Captain shakes his head a minute later. “Bloody made for each other,” he mutters under his breath, grunting. Another shadow slips past going the opposite direction, probably a nurse.

Without another word John turns and exits the room, tossing a hand behind his head casually in a way to say goodbye.

You huff and roll your eyes, heat on your cheeks. 

The day wains, and you let the nurses come in to do their checkups and replace the IV. As the curtains are pulled back into place, supper sits heavy in your stomach. 

You wanted to see Simon. 

You knew it wouldn’t go well, and wouldn’t be the goody-goody outcome you prayed for…but you felt wrong without apologizing in person. It went against your morals, and already those were incredibly skewed. Maybe he’d yell, or even ignore you as if you weren’t there.

Simon wasn’t above not speaking to people he didn’t like.

You had to try.

When all was dark, you shuffled out of the hospital bed and fought the weakness of your legs. Shaking like a leaf, you walked around with only your tied gown, unapologetic of the slit down the back showing flashes of your bra and underwear. 

It wouldn’t be anything the Lieutenant hadn’t seen before.

Walking through the silence, you sigh and stand outside of his door; dread in your heart and seeping from the pulled stitches of your wounds. Your bare feet on the tile make you shiver. 

Lifting up a fist, you hesitate. 

Your hand hovers over the wood, sliding forward before you pull it back to you. Closing your eyes tight, you clench your jaw once and take a deep breath.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock.

The sequence was your call sign. If you knocked like that, he would know it was you—whereas Simon's own was just a single slam of the side of his fist.

The only real problem now was that he wasn’t answering.

You stare dumbly at the barrier, blinking like a fool. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to understand the realization that he wasn’t ignoring you—he just wasn’t in his room. 

Taking a step back, you rub the back of your neck in exasperation and hurry to the nearest exit.

“Of course,” you breathe. You know exactly where he is at a time like this.

The field holds a standing shadow, a ghost of issued fatigues with a thick jacket against the chill that leaves you shivering. Simon stares out over the training grounds with his hands in his pockets, balaclava pulled all the way down to hide him from you. 

You come to a slow halt behind him and stare. 

It’s not long before the man gunts, turning his head back from over his shoulder to look at you blankly. He knew you were there.

The eye contact stays for a long, long while—until you’re hypnotized in the shades of brown and amber and the large build that seems to broaden because of your appearance.

“I’m here to apologize.” You say it breathlessly. “I’m not asking you to hear me out, but I have to let you know I regret doing it. Price said that it was time-sensitive and I—”

Stopping yourself, you look away. It sounded too much like an excuse, you hissed to yourself. At the end of the day, it was still your acceptance that pushed the pawn forward. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you breathe. “I betrayed your trust.”

His eyes are piercing you, but you still can’t look at him. The man slightly turns your way. His voice was monotone and grunting out like a dog.

“You think I couldn’t handle it?” Your heart starts, and you’re shaking your head instantly.

“No.” You explain quickly—honestly. “It’s that…I didn’t want you to.” 

You hear his lips take in a quiet breath. Simon rolls his shoulders before looking away from you. Nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“You said you loved me.” Your body freezes, jaw going slack as your face drops. You don’t speak, mute as if the air in your lungs has been stolen.

You had done…what?

All of your tricks couldn’t get you out of this one.

“I,” you force a fake laugh, hands beginning to shake. “I, what? No, I’m sure that’s not what I said. A-are you sure it wasn’t, like, an ‘I appreciate you’ or maybe a���a,” your voice catches. “A whole ‘I’m fond of you’ sort of thing…? Hm?”

Simon takes a step forward and you take one back. This was worse than torture, you decided. The pain in your pulling stitches and re-set nose was welcome here.

“Trick,” Ghost utters, and you stare hard at his neck, humming. “Stop talking.”

“Copy,” you whisper quickly, shoulders falling. 

He’s so close you can feel his body heat melting into you, and you want nothing more than to touch him. Simon’s hand comes up to your chin, and he angles it up as you stop breathing, lips parted.

“I heard you in the med ward talkin’ to Price. Was outside the door the ‘ole time.” The shadow. 

He tilts your head to the side to stare at the medical tape over the slashes in your skin. The scars won’t bother you—you had plenty of others to show as well. But Simon was…studying you. Assessing. 

His eyes blink slowly with those long pale lashes, and they slide up to you as he leans in close to your ear. Still, you stand comatose.

“You put me through a fucking heap ‘o hurt, Love.” You stare over his shoulder, not speaking, not moving. 

Simon leans back and lets go of your chin, brushing a finger over your nose and the puffy skin there.

“Never do that again.” It’s final, how he says it. But the layers of depth are plain to hear. Simon speaks low and even—gaze trapping yours like a curse. 

You know he won’t talk about the things you’ve heard. The aggression or the late-night gym trips. You’ve known him for years, and know his brain like the back of your hand.

Shivering, you nod once, content with not answering verbally to break the sanctity of the moment. Seeing Simon like this made you ease your fears. You clear your throat to push back the stuffiness.

“Thought you held grudges, Big Guy?” Nearly not heard, you mutter and pick at where the IV needle is supposed to be. 

A hand catches yours and stops you from making it bleed.

“Do,” Ghost grumbles, turning your hand over and moving his face closer until you feel his breath. “Just not with my Bird.” 

His balaclava is suddenly up to his nose, and those lips that had been covered in your blood previously situated themselves perfectly to yours. 

You gasp, arm outstretched beside you in shock. 

You’d kissed him before, but this felt different. More intimate. Simon’s arms slip around your waist, and you retaliate by locking your shaking arms behind his back, feeling the gentle passes of his lips. 

Mouth to mouth, you breathe each other in as if grasping for the other’s soul in desperation. A desperation that tells you how much the beast of a man around you was terrified of your death and the body he had to carry into the helo—of the lengths he would go to stave death from touching your tender flesh. 

No, only he was allowed to do that, and he was a reaper in his own right.

A small death that infected you at every breath puffing into your mouth, every whine and whimper he could draw like water to swallow down as ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods, and it was right there in his arms. Back. Alive. 

To be alive in the summer field of this old military base was to accept that death, and into it, hope that the few moments you had together truly made a difference. 

Simon would hold you there—and when that was done, wrap you in his jacket and carry your battered body back inside; watching your swollen lips and the wide eyes as they gaze back at him. 

Because he could hate you all he wanted for this, for the lies, for the way you made him care…but the both of you would still be alive to do so.

He guessed that was all that mattered.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[asterias-record-shop]

hi. I’m sorry for being so inactive right now because I started school full time, but I need everyone’s help. Thank you so much @maeveey for letting me know, but someone is literally stealing my stories and putting them on Wattpad. I write my stories on Google Docs to always have a record of what I’ve written and edited, and I always put my watermarks. I need people to report this writer on Wattpad ASAP.

This bitch didn’t even have the fucking audacity to change the names. All she changed was the fucking names of the characters and shit. I’m so fucking pissed off right now, I share my shit because it makes me fucking happy and make others happy, but for people to fucking steal it?

Literally the exact same fucking shit that I write.

Please please PLEASE if you have Wattpad, report their account. I have no intentions to stop sharing my work unless this keeps happening becsuse it makes me feel good to know people enjoy it.

REPORT THIS COPYRIGHTING BITCH

Update, they’ve taken down the chapters, but I don’t think that’s enough. They have literally stolen works that I’ve put so much into (I’m not sure if they’ve stolen other people’s works either) but I’m beyond livid. I’m still so pissed off and this is not enough. I personally don’t use Wattpad anymore, but I posted some stuff from one of my old accounts. Please please PLEASE go report them, and I’m sorry *not* for seeming petty, but you can’t just steal someone’s work and not expect to be backlashed. Please, just report and say that the work is stolen- don’t be mean (petty, yes, but mean- no)

using my taglists to get more traction:

𓆩[@ennycutie]𓆪   𓆩[@yoongiwife23]𓆪𓆩[@urlocalbum12-blog]𓆪 𓆩[@theonetheonly-mee]𓆪 𓆩[@lem0ns77]𓆪 𓆩[@cecepop15]𓆪 𓆩[@memeorydotcom]𓆪   𓆩[@your-favorite-god]𓆪   𓆩[@xyzstar]𓆪  𓆩[@just-my-shit]𓆪   𓆩[@your-mom21]𓆪   𓆩[@c78r]𓆪   𓆩[@dizscreams]𓆪   𓆩[@asrt5]𓆪   𓆩[@xoxomoonlightbabe]𓆪   𓆩[@wenvierismycomfort]𓆪   𓆩[@copypastedaphne]𓆪   𓆩[@f-aggotry]𓆪   𓆩[@ineedmentalhelp123]𓆪   𓆩[@aerangi]𓆪

[bonearenaofmyskull]

Hey sooo sorry that this is irrelevant to Hannibal. Its about this youtube guy you said in one of your old old posts that you enjoyed. He is a bearded ginger guy that sits in front of the wooden wall of a warehouse with shelf talking about politics? Usually wears a hat. Usually his view is around 15-30k i think and he uploads daily.

for some reason I don’t know why i kept remembering him as Shia Labeouf??? And his youtube channel name is 4 words.

thanks to you i discovered his channel but i got uninterested so I unsubscribed, but now in my wee 5.30-6 am sleepless hour i suddenly missed him and was tryna search so hard but you know how that goes looking at my description

thank yew

It's Beau of the Fifth Column, and for the record I NEVER would have associated him with Shia Labeouf. I recommend his channel and the partner channel The Roads with Beau for anyone who wants non-sensationalized, realistic reporting, with a leftist bent, of foreign affairs, domestic affairs, climate change, science news, and occasional pop culture news insofar as it overlaps with one of the other categories. They also do occasional personal advice and are a good internet mom and dad for especially queer kids who need that. And they do charity work, give survival advice and tips whenever there is an ongoing weather event that is potentially life-threatening, and weekly q-and-a.

I'm referring to them as a partnership because Beau has left his position running the channels in the last week and turned it over to his wife because he is a workaholic, and it was affecting his health, charity work, and family. Other than them dropping one of their daily videos from the agenda and his wife (going by "Belle"--"Beau" was also a pseudonym) still being in that stage of finding her voice and comfortability in front of the camera, I haven't seen too much of a change in the quality of their commentary, though the jury is still out on that IMO--she seems a bit spicier than Beau but is still working control the nerves and be natural, and I'm not sure she's quite there with the way he would lay out his reasoning and show it coming around to his conclusions, though I don't think the conclusions themselves have changed in any significant way. It'll be really tested when they cover more foreign affairs because that was where Beau really shined, and it's my understanding he is really NOT involved in the channel at all anymore in any way, at least for the time being. Coverage has been very US election-focused since Belle took over.

My strongest general recommendation would to go back and watch every single video, in order, that Beau made about Gaza in order to understand why things have gone the way they've gone and why the US has made the moves they've made, and why other countries that are nominally pro-Palestine have done some of the things that they've done as well. That includes this dumb-it-down whiteboard video from last year. Most people will find him reporting things that they don't like for one reason or other--hell, he reports things HE doesn't like about the way the foreign policy system works and will occasionally remind audiences of that as well--but it will explain where and why morality fails to gain traction when there is a question of power, and how that limits steps that are taken, how it informs public positions taken on the world stage versus what is happening behind the scenes with actions taken, etc.

Beau's organizational and labeling system for finding topics of interest is an absolute nightmare--even worse than mine--so I'd just recommend browsing in chronological order for likely topics if you're going back through historical stuff.

They're southerners and they drawl and if you're into hyperspeed internet videos you'll have to adapt your brain to want to watch their stuff. Over time you should get used to the pacing, and I eventually found it soothing. Beau is one of those rare individuals that I could regularly expect to have insights and perspectives and thoughts that I wouldn't have had, and he could change the way I view something. There aren't that many people that I run into in life that have that ability, so this was a rare gift for me.

[markberries]

television romance ﹒ km [preview]

synopsis﹕ being a self made singer was not simple, nor was it handed to you on a silver platter. a decision between your management and those at pledis ent. to have you date kim mingyu was not making your life any easier.

genre + ﹕ fluff, angst, idol au, fem reader, bit of wonu x reader in the FUTURE (what do u expect i'm a wonwoorideul.) y/n is a girl boss 🤞🏻

wc ﹕ 691

warnings ﹕ none

note ﹕ a lil something ive been working on! enjoy!

“you have got to be kidding me.”

you look between your personal manager and the ceo of the company you were signed at, dream records. they purse their lips, your manager looking down awkwardly.

“i don’t need to have a fake boyfriend for more traction, my last album did well without it,” you try your best to reason with them.

“yes, that is true, but more sales is always good!” your manager, junho explains with emphasis on the sales aspect.

ever since you were a mere teenager, you craved being onstage. you wanted to sing in front of crowds, change people’s lives, and hopefully make a difference.

you got signed to the dream record label when you were eighteen, fresh out of high school. before that, you were making cover videos on youtube in your tiny bedroom. your record label wasn’t huge, the only reason you joined was to assist one of your friends who was a producer.

you were fairly popular now, mostly in the west when it came to your pop punk sound of music. you worked hard to get where you are, and you thought that it was enough for the company you were under.

“i was doing okay without any pr stunts, i’m sure i’ll be alright without one now,” you huff, sinking into the black leather chair.

“i’ll talk to her,” junho states apologetically to the ceo. he pushes you by your shoulders outside of the office into the brightly lit hallway, and as soon as you’re out of earshot of the ceo, you turn to junho with a glare on your face.

“i don’t want to fake date anyone,” you grumble, placing your hands on your hips, “you’re one of my closest friends but i wouldn’t do this for anybody.”

“y/n, just think about it! yes, you’re doing great, no one is discrediting you for that, but you could always do better,” junho reasons with you. you roll your eyes, walking away but he follows you.

you weren’t a difficult or mean person, but what they were asking of you was just unbelievable. you’ve been working here for years, and you were their main money maker. you’ve given up so much for the sake of this company, and now they were asking you to give up the freedom of choosing your own relationships.

“i’m just frustrated, and the fact that you didn’t consult me before talking to the other party in this business deal irritates me too, this guy could be a complete weirdo!” you exclaim, pacing towards your studio.

“he’s not, i promise, he’s actually quite nice.”

you look at junho with an unimpressed expression, “how do you know that?”

“i.. met him..”

“you’ve even met him before me! junho, you know i trust you with my life. i’d do anything for you but listen to what you’re asking me to do,” you open the black door to your studio, flipping the light switch on your left. you’re greeted by your soft lights and awards sitting on your shelves.

“then trust me when i tell you this is good for you,” junho plops down on your black leather couch, the short man leaning back into the cushions. “his name is mingyu, and when we met he seemed very kind. he already signed the contract.”

your face contorts into a grimace while taking a seat in your comfortable office chair, still not even a bit convinced to go along with this agreement. you aimlessly begin spinning the chair, tapping your fingers against the arm rest.

“would you like to meet him?”

your head snaps towards your manager’s direction, eyes squinting with suspicion.

“why are you asking me this?”

junho shrugs his shoulders, “maybe if you two got along you wouldn’t mind it as much. you’ve probably heard of him anyway, he’s in the kpop industry.”

you weren’t unfamiliar when it came to kpop groups, you had quite a lot of songs in your playlists. you just weren’t an avid fan of it, probably only listening to title tracks and you didn’t know that many groups.

“hm, what group?” you ask out of curiosity.

“seventeen.”

[deada55]

A Night In

for kloktober day 6: comedy or tragedy

synopsis: Dethklok, the #8 economic power in the world and the most decorated all-female death metal band the world could imagine, has a night in.

fun stuff: some slight nickles, less ambiguous skwisface.

tws: lots of puke.

When Pickles sawed off the top half off of the chip bag,  she left the greasy silver ring on the countertop. 

“Hey, you know those, those uh,”

Hopefully, the res on her fingers wouldn’t have a taste, but she interrupted herself to lick barbeque chip cheetle off of them like she wished it would. She bit underneath her nub-nails to get every last sticky-salty bit.

“Those neck traction things you and Stina keep talkin’ about?”

“The what?” Natalie could barely hear over her own chewing, arms full of freshly-washed celery. Munchies and being on a fitness kick didn’t mix, but it was working out pretty well. Her teeth were like a whale’s, like a striped cornfield of celery strings trapping themselves in her teeth. 

“The neck traction sling. Around your head? With the… the door?- Hey, wanna take a shot with me?” Pickles poured two shots of Everclear without waiting for an answer, leaving cloudy streaks on the outside of the bottle. Natalie was always good for it, and Pickles poured without expecting an answer.

“Neck traction thing?” She sucked celery juice back into her mouth through her teeth. Real cute, Nat.

“Yeah. What if we got two of ‘em and you used ‘em like a bra?”

…

“Pickles, that’s fucking brutal. That’s fucking great.”

“Yeah! Like for an album cover?”

“Yeah- Oh my god, I love celery-”

Natalie’s eyes were agate pink and she was put away celery like she worked at Walmart. “Even if it makes my tongue numb.”

“Dude, your what?”

“My tongue hurts when I eat it but it’s so good. Allergy or something.”

“Nat…”

“What?”

Pickles shook her head. Natalie wasn’t the type of person you oughta talk your feelings to, even if they were good. She took things a little far, she was selfish, she was haughty, and Pickles loved being her friend. Even without saying it, Pickles liked to believe Natalie thought the same way. She couldn’t ask, but she could watch them scarf celery in the same sweaty clothes she’d worn at the bar, with stringy hair and mascara raccoon-eyes. 

“Here.” She put the glass into Natalie’s hand. “Ready? Three, two, one-” Dink it and sink it, without even a choke. 

“Aw, shit, we shoulda tried the arm thing. Where you… you link arms?”

In the other room, Murderface shouted above the sound of The Bachelorette, “Jesus fucking Christ! Trana!” Like it was a recording, there was a response in perfect time, hysterical, mucus-y and loaded with “more” yet to come:

“Stops yellings at m-me!” 

“Trana, Trana… sits up, come ons, sits up,” The lilt in Stina’s voice was martini-high and impatient but way better than Wilma’s furious monologue of grievances to no one in particular, describing how Trana was fine one minute and covered in puke the next. Trana leaned over and deposited some more on the floor in front of her. It wasn’t uncommon. The running theory was that Trana just couldn’t hold on to that much liquid at once. Compared to the rest of the band, Trana had a tendency to be messy, but her tolerance was fine compared to any other girl her size.

Pickles and Natalie did some eyebrow lifting until Natalie cracked up. Natalie closed the distance and got all up in Pickles business, speaking low through giggles: “Hey, Pickles. Pickles. What if we go watch The Little Mermaid in your room?”

Natalie swallowed the lingering plant mass in her numb mouth and dropped her shoulders when Trana started to cry and Murderface started telling her to “clean this bullshit up!” 

“Shit, we gotta check on her, don’t we?” She’d already stepped towards the sound.

In the living room, Stina was trying to tie up what dry hair Trana had while she was trying to move forward and slump to the floor. “Shh, Trana, stays right here where you are, don’ts move, stops-” 

Through sobs and belches, Trana started to mumble, “Ok, I cleans it up, I can dos it, I need…” still spitting up mouthfuls. 

Natalie grabbed her from behind by the armpits to scoot her back onto the couch. Luckily, Trana didn’t fight this time. Pickles put a stray trash can in Trana’s hands and rested a hand on her wet forearm, which was a horrible mistake, but taking her hand away wouldn’t make it smell less like Trana-puke. It didn’t scare her: when Natalie moved Trana back, Stina moved back to sit fully on the couch, providing space for Pickles to perch on the coffee table right in front of Trana with her boots sitting in the puddle of pink, wet flakes.

“Hey, don’t worry about it dude, relax... Wilma’s full of shit.”

“I’m what?! Are you seriousch?”

Pickles whipped her head to the side to talk to Wilma directly. “Yeah, I sure am fuckin serious! Dooya really think she can do that right now? Jesus Chriest!” 

“Look at this schit!”

“Dood, we pay people to clean it up!”

“Oh, yeah… Wait, not until the morning!”

“And?! Get a fuckin’ towel to cover it like we always do and keep your fuckin’ shoes on!”

“Stops,” said the metal trash can sitting on Trana’s knees. Pickles turned her attention back for a moment to shush her, putting one hand on the trash can to keep it from spilling on her if Trana suddenly stopped holding herself up. Wilma sucked her teeth.

“Sure, sure, I’ll keep my damn shoesthchs on when you shtop talking about my ‘crusty cliffhangersh’-”

“AYE. DOHN’T. DOO. THAT! Get it right! Fuck! Fucking listen to who talks to you, are you deaf?-”

 Stina uncrossed her legs and let her hand fall from Trana’s shoulder to her the small of her back, and looked over her shoulder at Wilma, interrupting Pickles.“Look, Murderface, I’m stop talking about yous fucking toes when theys am look normal-”

Trana moaned and heaved up a short splatter. “Aw, sees what they dos to Trana, look at hers!” Stina started to rub her back again until Trana leaned towards her… 

Natalie came back into the room like the smell of toast at the start of an aneurysm, and there was an awkward silence save for Trana sighing and coughing until Natalie cleared her throat.

“ ‘Sup?”

She froze up looking at the coffee table with eyes so thickly glazed they may as well have been strawberry-flavored donettes.

“Whats, Natalies?” 

“What’s whats? Which whats?”

“I said whats Natalie! You am not makings any sense, ‘ ‘sup, fuckings’...”

“Hey…” Trana interrupted, taking her head out of the trash can. The wet front sections of her hair were stuck to the inside of its metal walls, and she grew fidgety. “I’m… I think I wansts go to bed, please.”

Pickles reached forward towards Trana. “Ahlright, Wilma, can you-”

“Oh fuck no! You can’t just dump her on me this time.”

Pickles could have smacked her, if it wouldn’t send her ice skating in sick. “Jesus fuck, Murderface! Shit! I just wanted to ask you to take the damn trayshcan, that’s all.”

“I’ll help her get inside of hers room. I need to change clothes anyway.” Stina got up and Natalie took her place beside Trana, pulling all of her brown hair back, committing herself to dirty hands. With the trash can placed gently on the ground, Natalie held Trana up with an arm around her back, which seemed to be the only dry part of her. Trana was better on her feet than Natalie expected, and they walked up the stairs together.

To avoid breathing too deeply through her nose, Natalie scratched around in her mind for some small talk. Trana reeked of chunky, pink pineapple juice and cheese. Something wet and bready squished under Natalie’s fingers as she led Trana around by her waist. “Trana, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“You have to stop drinking like this. At least give us a fucking warning, ok? We-”

“Natalies, I fucked up with the wines, ok? I knows what I’m doins-”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah seriouslies! Only serious, total confidensk, I’m, I’m so smart Natalies, you have nos ideas how much. You…”

“Trana, you are smart, ok?”

“Yeah, I ams! I’ve.. am so smart!”

“Pick up your feet.”

…

Stina didn’t want to hang around Trana’s mess and went off to her room, followed by Murderface. Higher than the motherfucking night sky, Pickles kept watching the Bachelorette from the floor in front of the coffee table. 

“Stina, is it really that bad?”

“What’s really that bads?” She always looked phenomenal, laid up in an old bra and a pair of plaid cotton pajama shorts. She changed just in case any lingering traces of Trana were stuck to her. Wilma struggled to keep her eyes up in Stina’s hair. They kept falling into the gap of Stina’s cup and thinking about how warm her breasts might be…

It made the topic at-hand more embarrassing, but she’d think about it for weeks if she didn’t bring it up. Fuck, she’d probably obsess about whatever Stina said anyway. Trana was always kissing Stina’s feet, but Wilma definitely was a victim to the appeal.

“Uh, my toes.”

Stina moved the guitar off her lap and looked off towards the corner of her throw.

“No, it amns’t horrible. You just need diffterent sandals.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what’s ams cliffhangers. When your toes am over the fronts.”

“You’re just jealous since you rolled your ankle-”

“Ams no one jealous of fuckings… platform flip flops. Eugh.”

Wilma laid on the foot of the bed on her back, flipping through the contacts on her dethphone while Stina practiced until she noticed the sound getting less crisp and less regular… Stina’s head drifted back before her fingers stopped moving, and she fell asleep with her mouth open.

Wilma slid off the bed slowly, but not softly enough to keep Stina from snapping back to life and twitching her fingers over the strings again. “Where yous going?”

“To bed.” Wilma’s chest got as tight as a shrunk grow-a-dino sponge with a sudden awareness of the size and shape of her shadow across Stina’s bedroom floor.

“-If you wants to. You can stays here, too.”

Wilma laid down where Stina patted the bed, closer than she expected. She slept alongside her, fluttering with validation and buzzing with fantasy.

[ourpickwickclub]

“Don't you feel like he is just trying to get some traction in his life and figure things out?”

I am sure that’s part of it but I also think if they had a song they loved they would have released it by now. A single release is not that much additional work for him.

Also, I absolutely still expect him to solely work with Scott so I doubt him leaving changes things all that much.

I agree, I don’t think he’s hit on a single that is a slam dunk, easy choice for him. I’m sure he’s recorded a lot of songs that he likes, but maybe nothing that he’s really passionate about yet.

— M

[blast0rama]

When the hobby becomes a hustle. Or: Goddamnit why do I need to be on another app?

Vox:

The internet has made it so that no matter who you are or what you do — from nine-to-five middle managers to astronauts to house cleaners — you cannot escape the tyranny of the personal brand. For some, it looks like updating your LinkedIn connections whenever you get promoted; for others, it’s asking customers to give you five stars on Google Reviews; for still more, it’s crafting an engaging-but-authentic persona on Instagram. And for people who hope to publish a bestseller or release a hit record, it’s “building a platform” so that execs can use your existing audience to justify the costs of signing a new artist.

We like to think of it as the work of singular geniuses whose motivations are purely creative and untainted by the market — this, despite the fact that music, publishing, and film have always been for-profit industries where formulaic, churned-out work is what often sells best. These days, the jig is up.

Corporate consolidation and streaming services have depleted artists’ traditional sources of revenue and decimated cultural industries. While Big Tech sites like Spotify claim they’re “democratizing” culture, they instead demand artists engage in double the labor to make a fraction of what they would have made under the old model. That labor amounts to constant self-promotion in the form of cheap trend-following, ever-changing posting strategies, and the nagging feeling that what you are really doing with your time is marketing, not art. Under the tyranny of algorithmic media distribution, artists, authors — anyone whose work concerns itself with what it means to be human — now have to be entrepreneurs, too.

I am so, so happy that someone wrote this piece.

As a maintainer of a blog (hello.), promoter of a live event (hi there.), and host of a podcast (hey.), it’s quite sad and frustrating how much one needs to be capital-o Online to gain any focus or traction.

Sure, there are tools and processes to make things more decentralized, or focus on your most direct audience (this is why you get asked to sign up for a newsletter, for example), but it’s absolutely disheartening how much we are all expected to hustle just to make a blip on a radar.

I don’t know a fix. Rebecca Jennings, the author of this great article, provides some great suggestions like unionization and universal health care, which make just existing easier, but I don’t think it solves the disease — just the symptoms.

The genie is out of the bottle. And I don’t see a way back in.

[nickgerlich]

To The Max

When was the last time you watched something on linear TV? In case you’re wondering what I’m talking about, linear TV is programming that is scheduled for specific times, like NCIS on CBS tonight at 8pm. It’s how people of my age had to watch TV, because we had no choice when I was young, and if you really liked a show, you just made sure you did not make any other plans, or else you would miss it.

To answer the question, my last time was August a year ago, and only because I was completely sucked in to the last season of Better Call Saul. New episodes aired at 9pm on Mondays on AMC, and I wanted to be in the moment, as well as not have to worry about spoilers being posted to social media fan pages.

By definition, linear television is traditional broadcast TV, and includes cable, satellite, and over-the air. Today, for the first time ever, linear TV has dipped below 50% of all television content consumed.

So what happened? Well, we have to go back to the 1980s when we had programmable VCRs that allowed us to record our show, and effectively time-shift when we viewed them. These were followed by DVRs. And now we have cloud storage and streaming content, fueled by an explosion in cord-cutting by households. Being anchored to a TV at set times is now just a quaint, fading preoccupation.

All these things taken together mean it is incumbent upon all media outlets to find their way into streaming, because this is the future. Actually, the future is now. And CNN is very much aware of this, this last week announcing a partnership with Max (formerly known as HBO Max). The new service will be a combination of older content along with live shows, amid the many varied movies and TV shows already in the Max catalog.

The move comes a year after the news giant launched and then abruptly shuttered its standalone CNN+ network, which could not find traction. I get it. At a time when households are facing streaming saturation (I have nine, if I remember correctly), it makes perfectly good sense for CNN to piggyback on someone else that already has an established presence. CNN can then reach more people with the same ads we would see if we were viewing its news content on cable or satellite.

I expect to see more partnerships as well as consolidations like this in the future, because the space is becoming crowded. Never mind the fact that we still only have 24 hours in the day, and we can’t watch movies and show endlessly. Well, maybe if we get a blizzard this winter I might, but otherwise, I have a job to go to, groceries to buy, miles to walk and bike.

At this point, you might be wondering, “Why is CNN pushing linear television in a non-linear arena?” Excellent question, because it is somewhat of a hybrid. And when Hulu releases new episodes of Only Murders In The Building on Tuesdays, and Max dropped new episodes of The Righteous Gemstones on Sundays at 9pm, you have a mash-up of old and new. Sure, we can watch them whenever we want, but they have stirred in a degree of linearity.

The bottom line, though, is that consumers have spoken, and we want to be in control of our viewing. We want to watch our desired content whenever we want to. I might also add the “where" aspect as well, because when I travel, I always have an HDMI cable with me to hook into the hotel TV. Portability is a big part of the equation now. All we need is a strong wifi or cellular signal.

Things sure are a lot different from when I grew up, when we had an aerial antenna on our roof, and a limited number of stations. Back then, everyone had extreme cases of FOMO, because you had one shot to watch something. Today, the only FOMO going around is when you don’t have a particular streaming service.

And that’s the kind of news that CNN is definitely listening to.

Dr “I’ll Be Watching” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[ninadove]

Time for some French Political Facts! 🇫🇷✨

First of all, a quick reminder: during the législatives, French people vote to elect their representatives at the Assemblée Nationale (our Parliament). There are 577 seats, each representing a small administrative division of the country called a circonscription, and the people who fill those seats get to vote on laws and governmental actions. In fact, the leader of the party with the most votes becomes our Prime Minister, which is the second-highest political rank after President.

Législatives take place over two rounds, and we just had our first on Sunday. A first round of voting can have three different outcomes:

A candidate gets >50% of the votes (more precisely, of the maximum number of votes, taking into consideration abstention and so on) right away: in which case, they are elected auromatically. No need for a second round.

Two candidates, and only two, get less than 50% of the votes, but enough to qualify for a 2nd round. I believe the threshold is 12.5%, but don’t quote me on that.

Three candidates get less than 50% of the votes, but enough to qualify for a 2nd round. This is what is called a triangulaire, and this is the situation that interests us in this case.

Now for our main players. There are many political parties in France, but three are centre-stage in these elections:

Rassemblement National (RN) is a far-right and anti-European party, aka The Bad Guys. RN has been gaining a lot of traction in recent years and notably scored extremely well in the latest European elections, which led to Macron calling snap législatives in the first place.

Ensemble is a coalition of parties supporting our current President Emmanuel Macron. They famously don’t want to be described as pertaining to either side of the political spectrum, but they are very economically liberal, which also sucks for a whole bunch of different reasons. Cannot emphasise enough how much the average French person despises those guys, which obviously contributed to RN’s success.

Nouveau Front Populaire (NFP) is a coalition of left-wing parties created especially for this election in an effort to counter both Ensemble and RN. While they also have some unsavoury characters amongst their ranks, they represent a “soul-saving third way” for a great proportion of voters.

All three of these parties hate each other’s guts: for instance, Macron has already claimed he would not govern with Mélenchon, one of the leaders of NFP, if they won the législatives. Which is a bold move, considering that A. he brought this entire debacle on himself and B. this is not optional mah dude. The Constitution says you have to.

Now here’s the kicker: as much as Ensemble and NFP hate each other’s guts, they hate RN even more. After the first round on Sunday, 306 circonscriptions were facing the perspective of a triangulaire: since then, over 200 candidates from either NFP or Ensemble have withdrawn from the race and asked their voters to cast their ballot in favour of the other side. This joined effort basically guarantees that RN candidates won’t get elected in these circonscriptions.

Now before we rejoice, let us remember that this strategy is nothing new: opposing political forces have banded together to block RN from power many, many times over the past few years, yet they’re still gaining ground. For instance, they’re expected to win around 200 seats on Sunday, VS 89 previously, AND THAT WAS ALREADY A RECORD. Paradoxically, this strategy only reinforces the RN scores year after year, because their voters feel like underdogs on a mission to topple the system.

So. Not a win by any means.

Hey, UK! You're next.

Message to JFK Jr and Cornel West. Take a note and think of the country over your ego.

[middleearthpixie]

The River

Happy summer, @lathalea!! Here is the your story that I wrote as part of the @gatesofsummerexchange Tolkien Summer Exchange! I hope you enjoy it! 💜 💜 💜

Summary: Pre-Quest for Erebor

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Dwarf Reader

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield 

Warnings: Some fluff, some angst

Rating: T

Words: 2,983

***

“Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse?” 

~ The River, Bruce Springsteen, The River, Columbia Records, 1980

The river held a special place in your heart and always would, even if sometimes, when you looked back upon it, the memory of it could and did hurt like a thousand small blades cutting into your skin at once. You sat there, just listening to the rush of the water, so harsh when it slapped against the rocks, when it washed over the downed tree limbs, and whisked along all of the other debris that found its way into the waves, but then it calmed once more and carried everything its swift currents as it wound around the bend and out of sight. 

“There you are.”

You looked up as the shadow fell over you and you smiled as Thorin sank onto the ground alongside you. He looked more disheveled than usual, with bits of leaves and twigs in his hair, his dark gray henley spattered with dirt, with more dirt smudged across his face as well. “Did you meet up with a pack of orcs between here and the village?”

He responded with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. I was thrown from my pony, actually.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“Something spooked him and before you ask, I’ve no idea. He threw me, then bolted and I can only hope the fool finds his way home before much longer.”

“Are you all right?”

“I had the wind knocked from me and my shoulder took the brunt of my fall, but I’ll be fine. Just a bit sore.”

“Do I dare hope that means you’ve changed your mind?”

“About heading to the Iron Hills?” He shook his head. “No. I’ve not changed my mind about that at all. I thought you understood that.”

“I don’t understand any of it,” you told him, looking back out at the water. The late afternoon sunlight sparkled across the surface, made it look as if the waters themselves were precious diamonds rolling off into the distance. A hint of summer hung in the air, carrying on it the soft sweetness of the honeysuckle and jasmine that grew throughout the forest.

He’d told you of his plans to leave Ered Luin and travel to sit down with his cousin in the east and from there, to head toward the Shire, where he was to meet up with a wizard and a hobbit, of all creatures. He had a plan, he’d said, to reclaim his ancestral home of Erebor from the northern firedrake who’d stolen it so many years ago. You tried not to think about it, but as the time for his departure loomed imminently now, it was the only thing you could think about. 

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“No,” you said without thinking, “but you expect me to wait for you.”

He offered up a long look, but said nothing. Instead, he rose abruptly, striding away from you, away from the village, following the river as it wound like a diamond-studded black ribbon across the earth. 

“Thorin, wait!” You scrambled to your feet to give chase, and caught up with him just where the river rounded the bend. Grabbing his arm, you tried to stop him, digging your boot heels into the ground for traction. 

He stopped. “What?”

“Can you fault me for being upset?” You reached up to finger the small sapphire he’d woven into your hair only three nights earlier. No one knew it was there, and that was how it would stay for now. No one knew you and Thorin had moved beyond friendship, that he passed the last seven nights in your bed, loving you beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond anything you ever thought possible. 

“I thought you understood.”

“I do,” you nodded, meeting his pale blue eyes to hold his gaze, “but I don’t at the same time. I told you, whether you are king or blacksmith, I don’t care. I want you, regardless of what title you hold. And I thought you wanted me the same way.”

“I do.” He caught your hands in his and your heart leapt at the first touch. His hands were huge, with thick fingers. Hands trained to kill, but hands that knew how to be gentle, how to touch you in ways that made you feel as if you were the most delicate thing he’d ever stroked. “But, there is little future here for us, and if I can give us something better, something brighter, I have to try.”

“Thorin…” Your heart beat so hard against your ribs, you’d swear he could hear it as well, ���our future here would be fine. It’s you who won’t be content, not me.”

He eased one hand free to curve it against your cheek, his thumb moving lightly along your chin, causing the beads in your beard to clack softly. “I have to do this. You know I’d not leave you otherwise.”

Your eyelids grew so heavy with each pass of his thumb against your skin. Until the previous week, you could only imagine what it would be like to be loved by him. And now you knew, and now you had to let go of him. He’d be gone at least a year, possibly longer. And it was entirely possible he would not return—a thought to horrid to contemplate and yet to real to ignore. 

Your eyes stung, and the last thing you wanted was to let him see you cry, so you gave into the urge to close your eyes. As you did, he caught your face in both hands and tilted your head to meet his kiss.

His lips were sinfully soft and moved with exquisite slowness against yours. At the gentle probe of his tongue, you parted your lips, welcomed the sensual invasion, your toes curling in your boots as his tongue glided along yours. He kissed the way he did everything else, wholeheartedly and with enthusiasm, and you let your hands curved about his wrists as he drew your tongue into his mouth now to taste, to savor, to stroke. 

You slid your hands along his forearms, up over the bulges of his biceps. Your fingers slid through the tangle of his dark hair, and when your fingertips brushed his nape, he shivered softly against you.

He drew back and smiled down at you. “Come with me.”

“Come with you where?”

He didn't answer, but led you down a narrow trail, back to the river, south of where it bent and vanished beyond Ered Luin’s borders. His blue eyes danced with the devil as he murmured, “No one will trouble us here.”

Another sweep of his lips against yours and he stepped back to strip his henley over his head. The late afternoon sunlight brought a golden aura to his skin, highlighted the swells of muscle along his shoulders and wrapped down his arms, across his broad chest. It glinted off the dark hair that curled away from his firm skin from just below his collarbones to his navel, and from there, it narrowed into a trail that vanished beneath the waist of his trousers. He held your gaze as he kicked off his boots, loosened his belt, shed his trousers and your mouth went dry at the sight of your powerful dwarf naked and aroused before you. 

He was beautiful. Just so very beautiful, indeed.

But he gave you no time to admire him. Instead, he laughed, brushed your lips with his, and whispered, “Join me,” before turning to the water. Three long strides and he dove in, cutting into the water like a scythe, causing barely a ripple along the river’s surface. 

He was a third of the way across the river when he surfaced, droplets clinging like molten silver to his skin, his hair, his beard, beaded across his barrel chest. His laugh rang out as he called, “Are you shy, amrâlimê? It’s nothing I’ve not already seen, remember.”

“You are an ass, you know.”

Another booming laugh echoed, loud enough to startle birds from where they nested in the trees. You kicked off your own boots, shed trousers and tunic, and walked with a purposeful stride toward the water, a sense of headiness surging through you at his growled, “Mahal, you are stunning. And all mine.”

The water was cold, especially against your already-heated skin, but you bit down on your bottom lip and threw yourself into it, letting the icy chill devour you all at once. When you surfaced and swept your streaming hair from your eyes, he was there with you, and snaked one arm out to catch you about the waist.

His lips found yours, beaded with water, hot and cold at the same time. You wound your arms about his neck, your legs about his waist, and caught his soft moan in your mouth. His arms tightened about you, pulled you hard against him, and as his body met yours, you shivered against him this time. 

You drew back as he swept a kiss down over your chin and along your neck, your head lolling back as he flicked the tip of his tongue into the hollow of your throat. He lifted you easily, to kiss his way down your breastbone, along the inner curve of your right breast. Down along the supple swelling, and up to capture your nipple with his lips.

The tip of his tongue flicked across it, fluttered back and forth until it tightened into an aching pebble. You twisted your fingers in his hair, rocked gently against him, unable to hold back your sigh as the friction of coarse hair against your sensitive flesh created a delicious sensation rippling through you. 

You slid one hand free, let it graze down through that damp hair, along his belly, into the swirling depths of the river. You found him, hard and proud and when you curled your fingers about him, he let out a sigh against your breast, tightened his arms about your waist.

He shivered and you knew the river water had nothing to do with it. It was your touch, your caress, that had him moaned softly into your wet skin and trembling against you. With gentle teeth, he nipped your breast, whispering, “Amrâlimê, have you any idea what you do to me?”

“I’m fairly certain the answer is yes,” you murmured back, smiling as he pulled back, his eyes smoky with desire and heavy-lidded with need. You loved when he looked at you as he did right then. He made your knees weak even when you weren’t standing, and made your bones feel as if they’d gone to jelly. 

You bent to meet his kiss and with the hand wrapped around him, guided him into you and with a low moan, he thrust to fill you. You joined him in that soft moan, linking your fingers at his nape as you moved with him. Water sloshed around you with each slow, teasing thrust he offered, and when you met his gaze, you melted from the inside out.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I will be back for you. I promise you this.”

“You had better,” you whispered back, a slow tremble taking root deep inside you. The end bore down upon you, you felt it in the tension winding through Thorin’s body, in the knots that twisted so sweetly within your core. You were nearly at the summit and once you reached that… there was no going back.

He thrust harder now and you couldn't hold back your smile as you said, “And I do love you back, Thorin. Nalish.” 

You tightened your legs about him, rocked hard to meet him, and when his lips found yours again, you shivered in his arms, arched hard against his body, and sighed deep into his mouth as your release came upon you. The muscles in his arms bulged as he moved harder against you, as he lifted and lowered you against him, and then…

“Amrâlimê… oh, yes…” He moaned, shuddering and arching hard against you as he surrendered to his own release. 

You sank against him, nuzzling him as you whispered, “Promise me you will be careful, Thorin. It’s such a dangerous thing you will be doing.”

He trembled in your arms, pressing a tender kiss into your shoulder before murmuring, “I will be fine, mesmel. And when I return, you will be my queen.”

You lifted your head, which still spun from his attentions, and stared. “What?”

A slight smile played at his lips. “If you will have me, that is.”

“Thorin…?”

“Say you will marry me, and let me carry that with me on my journey.”

Your heart beat faster against your ribs, your eyes searching his even as you managed to reply, “Do you mean that?”

“I do, yes. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when you were nothing more than a wee pest following me about with my sister, always underfoot and wanting my attention.”

“It worked, though,” you replied with a smile, “for I now have your undivided attention.”

He tightened his arms about you. “You’ve not answered me, you know.”

“Do you think I will say anything other than yes?” You caught a long black curl to tuck behind his left ear. “Of course I’ll have you.”

His smile stretched into his pale eyes, brightening them as he drew you in for another soft, lingering kiss. 

You lay entwined on the river bank, in the soft grass, your head on his chest, his heart beating softly beneath your ear. His fingers coursed lightly along your hair, and the only sounds were those of the forest getting ready to settle down for the night. As the sunlight died, twilight crept in, stars spangling the purple-streaked sky, and a soft breeze danced over your bare skin. Without thinking, you trailed your fingers through the soft hair curling away from his broad chest, and as you lay there, you thought you could spend the rest of your days just like this, lying in his arms, in tranquil peace.

“I wish this night would never end,” you whispered. 

“As do I,” he said. Grass rustled softly as he shifted onto his side to gaze down on you with sleepy eyes. “But unfortunately, time halts for no one, not even lovers.”

“I don’t want you to go, Thorin. I know you feel you must, but I wish you wouldn’t. I have such a terrible feeling about this, that something terrible will befall you.”

“You need not worry.” He came over you, forearms braced in the grass on either side of your head, his broad body blotting out the remnants of sunlight that still streaked through the sky, tinging the indigo with pale coral and soft pink. His eyes glittered softly as they held yours and his lips were gentle when they caressed yours. Your eyes closed at the soft scruff of his beard against yours, and they stung when he murmured, “I will be back for you, amrâlimê. Trust me.”

“I do trust you, so you had better come back or else.” 

“Good.” He reluctantly pulled away and stood, gilded by the dying sunlight and more beautiful than you’d ever seen him look. “Now, as much as I hate to see this wonderful day end, we both need return to the village before gossips run wild.”

You both dressed slowly, neither one of you in any hurry to return to reality. But it was unavoidable, as he was right. Time would not halt for either of you no matter how much you wanted it to.

As you made your way back toward the village, at the edge of the woods, Thorin turned to you, his massive hands coming up to cradle your face as he murmured, “I will miss you.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you managed to hold them back. Come the morning, when he departed for the Iron Hills, you would be allowed to do no more than wish him well and offer up a smile that only he would understand. You’d see his emotion in his eyes, but wouldn’t be able to bring any attention to it.

But now? Now you were able to anything you wished, and so you slid your arms about his waist, and closed the space between you to let your head come to rest against is chest. “I will miss you as well, you know. And I will worry endlessly.”

His arms came tight about you, he pressed a kiss into your head, and then his cheek came to rest upon it. “Do not worry for me. I am taking my best men and will be fine when all is said and done. You need only worry about planning the celebration to end all celebrations when Erebor is ours and we announce our betrothal.”

You looked up at him. “Hurry back.”

“I will.”

He bent to you then, his kiss long and lingering and unlike any other kiss he’d ever offered. Passion. Desire. Love. Lust. All were rolled into his kiss, and when you parted, an icy finger seemed to trail down along your spine. You couldn't put into words the fear that swirled thorough you, and it was just as well, for you knew he’d just reassure you that all would be well if you were able to voice that fear.

You parted then and as he disappeared over the crest of a hill toward his house, you stopped and turned to look at the river once more. It would always hold a special place in your heart, even if sometimes the memory of it could and did hurt like a thousand small blades cutting into your skin at once.

***

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @ggfamert @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

[randomfanner]

hello hello~~~~ may i please request NSFW headcanons of Floyd, Cater, and Epel with a busty/chubby reader? thank you.. 👉👈

OOHH THIS IS GONNA BE FUN

Floyd Leech

Aww!!! you are so cute, squishy and pudgy.... and durable~

He does sometimes tease you for it, because it’s Floyd.(which does get him smacked in the back of the head by Azul)

Will just come up behind you and grab your love-handles, ass and or tits. Like, all the time.

Loves to cuddle with you because you are warmer than others, it is like a heat rock!  But squishy!

If you are ever feeling bad about your weight it will confuse Floyd so much. But you have so many benefits! More to grab and harder to break! Plus soft and warm. But of course he will help you lose some weight, or more accurately, he will have Azul help you lose weight.

If someone picks on you for your weight, squeezed. No question

Cater Diamond

You think he wouldn’t like it due to how much time he spends of Magicam but no.

he finds it so cute and different! Plus he could just pinch your little cheeks all day they are just so cute~

Takes so many pictures of you and posts them because more people need to see it. Accept the not photo shopped people dammit.

Likes to use your tits as pillows.

If he sees you feeling bad about your weight he will be a shoulder to cry on and always be there to give advice, and if you go to eat with him he doesn’t eat very many sweets! he can get you a healthy diet plan and all of that!

Someone mocks you they will be mocked on Magicam, a whole anti-them page will appear and it will gain traction. Fast.

Epel Felmier

YES

HE LOVES IT, HE LOVES EVERY PART OF YOU BEING A BIT CHUBBY

You are soft and warm and just like a massive teddy bear to cuddle with. Not to mention he feels even more like a prince if and when he gets to carry you bride style.

Also ngl, he loves being at that perfect level to put his face in your tits.

If you ever feel bad about it get ready for praising Epel who will make you feel better through all sorts of ways, whether it be apple cravings or just words. Though, he does have some ideas for helping you build muscle as well!

If someone picks on you they will be punched.

Edit: WHOOPS I MISSED THE NSFW WORK PART SO YOU GET BOTH FLUFF AND SMUT HONEY

Floyd Leech

OH BOY HE LOVE YOUR LOVE HANDLES

ALL THE WAY THERE IS GONNA BE BRUISES ALL UP AND DOWN YOUR BODY

Also bite marks everywhere, all over your chest.  he finds your tits so much fun to play with and nip at!!!!

Might accidentally take a chunk out one day which is chaotic for everyone but you know.

Loves to motorboat. Just, please.

Also just grab your tits in public. You could be giving a speech and he might go up on stage and start fondling you.

Cater Diamond

Pictures, all the pictures and videos.

Tit jobs all the way, loves getting cum in your face and recording it, it makes him so hard for later. They are his personal treasures of course.

Thicc thighs save lives. He lives by that saying.

He don’t like sweet things but he would love to find away to spice up nipple play and get your lactating, if you are ok with that of course.

Might do a tiny, tiny bit of degradation... Nothing to below the belt of course! He will make up for it with just as much praise.

Loves to use your tits as pillows after sex.

Epel Felmier

THIS COUNTRY BOY LOVES YOUR BIG TITS

HIS FAVORITE THING TO BITE AND NIPPLE ON BY FAIR, just loves to play with your nipples all the time

If you are into praise he has plenty to give let me tell you what.

if he sees you walking around without a bra and your tits are just allowed to wiggle around he will instantly pop a boner

Prepare for more spanking than you’d expect from him. He loves watching your ass jiggle.

He is an equal tits and ass man.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO “The Best Outcome.”

Just wrapping up a few loose ends from the past few months stories. I hope you all like it. And feel free to give me some ideas on what you want to see, or who you want to see more of. I will try to do my best :) 

Breaking News tonight from the Apollo 11 memorial landing site as Admiral Adam Vr and Captains Warren Richarards and Mary Chavez were rescued  from the Pacific Ocean following a journey that was supposed to be historical, turned harrowing. Amy Grey comes to us this morning with the story.

Thank you Julie, it was only a week ago here on the historic Cape Canaveral launch site, that the reconstructed Saturn V rocket was launched by the UNSC International Space and Aeronautics Division on the two thousand and fifty first anniversary of the original Apollo 11 mission. On board The reconstructed rocket were astronauts Fleet Admiral Adam Vir head of the UNSC deep space exploration division, Captain Warren Richards five year veteran and historical aeronautics expert, and Mary Chavez six year shuttle pilot veteran, and communications specialist. 

The reconstructed Saturn V rocket took off thirty minutes behind schedule at 10:03 GMTJuly 16 after delays attributed to engineering standbys. However, reports by UNSC investigation early this morning indicate that the delays were called for by engineering head Jade Clein who noticed something strange during her final checks of the Saturn V recreated rocket. In an interview early today, flight director, Aaliyah Seif of the Apollo re-creation mission informed outlets that there was evidence of attempted tampering on the hull of the Saturn V rocket. The tampering case in the shape of these small silver tape strips covering loosened bolts along one of the Saturn V side panels. Engineers stated that the tape was not heat resistant and would have burned off in time to rattle the bolts loose and, likely, cause a devastating spin that would destroy the rocket.

While this attempted tampering was thwarted, the mission would only become more dire. A sudden and shocking report by Mericanda News 5 showed an uncut image of an unknown alien hybrid woman claiming that the UN President had ordered th attempted assassination of Admiral Vir, in conjuncton with an audio recording by Admiral Colter Massie, Head of the Galactic intelligence division an known isolationist, that admitted to the attempted assasination of Admiral Vir, and the acquisition of twenty thunderhawks which were used to harry the Satern V on it’s way to the moon. Admiral Kelly, long time friend of Admiral Vir, corroborated the story, saying she caught General Massie just after he ordered the deployment of the twenty thunderhawks. During their conversion he attempted to kill her before being detained by two members of Admiral Vir’s crew, and was later seen being escorted into custody by Military Police.

Indeed footage has been captured from the hull of the Saturn V showing approximately twenty thunderhawks attempting to destroy the rocket while Rundi remote piloted drones and an unknown group of what appear to be racing jets, fought back to delay the attack while word was sent to the UNSC to deploy F-90 darkfire pilots to assist. This all after communications between Houston and the rocket were sabotaged shortly after leaving orbit. The  F-90 darkfire pilots were able to arrive on time to rescue the rocket, though a hole was reportedly torn in the hull sucking Admiral Vir out into space, though he was later recovered and returned to his ship without any injuries. Patch teams were then able to repair the torn hull and the astronauts completed their mission landing to crowds on the moon and returning to earth on time on time landing in the Pacific ocean only nine miles away from the waiting ship.

All three astronauts were recovered and are reported to be in good health. 

The investigation into the UN president’s involvement is still ongoing at this time, however preliminary reports from the Global Bureau of Investigation suggest evidence is both staggering and damning to the current UN president, who earlier today, attempted to cut all ties to the sabotage efforts saying she was framed. Political experts report that, even assuming her innocence, she will likely not last to the end of her term.

International News Network was able to interview Admiral Vir shortly after his landing while still on board the rescuing ship UNSS Victory.

Here is what the Admiral had to say.

“I find it…. Really very disheartening that someone we all trusted, and someone that we all should have looked up to could do something like this. It really is a heinous demonstration of what political corruption can lead people to do.”

“And how do you feel, personally about all of this.”

“Personally, I…. well to be honest I am hurt and appalled. Not to mention that I fear for the safety of my family and my friends. Every day I wonder if my involvement with them is going to get someone I love killed…. The thought haunts me, but I hope after all of this is over I… and all of us can breathe a little easier.”

“Were you scared?”

“I don’t think that even needs to be a question. Of course I was scared, getting sucked out of your spaceship isn’t ideal.”

“What do you hope will happen now?”

“I hope that justice can be upheld  to those who deserve it.”

“What do you have to say to the UN president.”

…

“I have nothing to say. Wouldn’t want to waste the air.

****

What followed would be one of the largest scandals in recent political history. At some point an unknown number of classified government documents was leaked onto the internet, and after that it was all over for the Presidency. Thousands of enterprising humans, and aliens alike, viewed the documents to discover all the underhanded and dirty things which had been going on in the UN governmental body over the past few years. Forensic accounting experts (mostly Tesrtaki) uncovered plenty of fiscal tampering  which shed light on plenty of isolationist related projects and bank accounts. There was even evidence that they had something to do with the original assassination attempt against Admiral Vir so many months ago. The drama had even managed to capture the attention of Rundi political experts and Vrul computer science geniuses, and together they unearthed a world of unfathomable, but not unexpected corruption. The process to remove the UN president from office was probably one of the fastest movements of human government ever seen by UN congressional leaders, who were likely trying their very best tro distance themselves from association with the president, who despite not being the only one involved, had become the political scapegoat for everyone else that had a supposed link with isolationism.

Even the VP fell under suspicion and was watched closely for the rest of his term.

Admiral Massie and the UN President were placed under arrest and set up for court dates in the nearing future, though everyone saw a long and arduous litigation process ahead. Even Ramirez’s family had filed for damages against the government after the news came to light confirming that their son had been shot as collateral in one of the UN presidents plans to assassinate Admiral Vir. They settled out of court to the tune of an unknown, but impressive sum of money.

No one really knew how much, but a couple months later Ramirez’s younger sister was seen training at one of the most prestigious olympic academies on earth.

Ramirez himself was suddenly able to afford housing on the moon in a condo just next door to his best friend, though no one else inquired further.

The Rundi chairwoman came forward with her own investigation admitting to being suspicious for a long time though she feared accusations without proper proof. Admiral Vir was seen having lunch with her not so many months after the events took place, suggesting that the trust between the two of them had not been completely dissolved. With much of the isolationist element gone from government, public policy began to lean heavily towards integration with the alliance. The occasional isolationist demonstration or protest was held, but none of them managed to gain traction.

Admiral Vir was finding himself more important than ever, though it was to his chagrin that his ship was grounded for the intervening months while the investigation continued.

No one was entirely sure what the future held.

***

Admiral Vir stepped into Admiral Kelly’s office. The last time he had actually visited her here had been over a few years ago before his promotion to captain of the Harbinger. It seemed so distant now, and he never expected to walk into her office with a star on his shoulder. She stood as he entered, and the two of them shook hands, ignoring all the stuffy formalities that usually come with the meeting of two military officers.

The wall behind her was decorated with a myriad of metals and awards she had received over her career, and he couldn't help but note the slight tinge of grey he could see forming in her hair. He knew that feeling, he was going prematurely white much to his chagrin. She stood and the two of them shook hands.

“Vir.”

“Kelly.”

She motioned him to sit and he sat sighing lightly as he had been on his feet all day consulting with political figures and other members of the UNSC.

“A strange couple months wouldn’t you say.”

“Tell me about it.”{

Kelly reached under her desk and withdrew an amber bottle which she placed between them, “I always forget; Do you drink?”

“On occasion.”

“Well consider this an occasion.” She said popping off the top and pouring two glasses for them. She handed his across the desk and he leaned back in his seat cupping the cool glass in both hands.

She swirled the amber liquid around in her glass, “So what are your plans after all this.”

He took a sip of water warmed by the burning liquid, “Hoping things will go back to normal and I can go back to traveling the galaxy.”

Kelly grunted, “A simple man with simple motivations.”

He laughed , “Sometimes I think a stupid man with simple motivations.”

She chuckled then grew serious, “A lot of people make the mistake of assuming simple people don’[t have the intelligence to match. Some people assume that trusting means gullible means dumb. Just because we are trusting and expect others to do the right thing is not necessarily a fault. I believe there is a kind of beauty in assuming the fundamental goodness of humanity.”

\Admiral Vir shook his head, “How can you after seeing what we have seen.”

“How can you not?” She shrugged, “We always knew that politicians were corrupt, but think about everything else we have seen.”

Admiral Vir nodded slowly, “The enthusiasm for the Apollo 11 recreation mission, the people who flew up to help us. All of those people who went digging through years of information just to uncover the truth.”

SHe raised her glass, “Precisely. Goodness in humanity is all around us, but we tend to overlook the good in favor of the bad.” She placed her hat on the desk and sighed, “It is up to good people to keep their goodness going even when it might seem easier to give into the bad. I I have and will always believe in the fundamental good of humanity. Some may call it naeve, or even stupid. Others have said I have a romanticized view of a species that is fundamentally broken.” She turned her head to look out the window a contemplative expression on her face before turning back to look at Adam.

“You understand me, I think.”

He nodded slowly.

“People need to be believed in. You tell someone for long enough that they are fundamentally bad at their core and they will begin to believe you. For thousands of years pessimists have gotten it into our heads that we are no better than animals, worse even since animals don’t fight in wars. But I believe that is wrong, I have seen people, I have met people, and I have interacted with people who prove to me that humanity cannot just be fundamentally bad or else these people wouldn’t exist.” She tapped her nails against the glass, “I think it is easier to corrupt purity than wash away a stain,”

He listened quietly as she continued.

“Humans are born good, Adam, and life stains us. We aren’t born stained while some of us are wiped clean. “ She shook her head, “Doesn't make sense to me.” She caught him with a look pinning him to the spot with her intense stare, “People like you convince me of this every day.”

“Me….”

She held up a hand. “Adam Vir, I am convinced that the best outcome this universe ever had, was when a happy go lucky science fiction freak was lucky enough to be the first man to meet aliens. Any other way things would have gone horribly wrong.” She leaned across her desk, “The universe needs men and women like you, and not only that but the universe needs people who are going to support men and women like you.” She sat back, “Which is why I have made a decision.”

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity not entirely sure where this could be going.

She smiled, “I have decided to run for President.”

He nearly spit his mouthful of expensive scotch onto the table but managed to choke it mostly down.

Eyes wide he set his glass down, “Are you serious.”

She smiled, “Seriously serious.”

“Well shit, you have my vote for sure.” He raised his glass to her, “I couldn’t think of a better outcome.”

[boldlyanxious]

Dare

Part of Meet cute Mondays

All fic masterlist

She could still here Adrien yelling at her from the ground. He was definitely recording this. Her thin little flats did not have good traction and it might be her downfall. Literally.

Had they been in Paris she thought she might have been able to climb anything in the city without her transformation but this was Gotham. It was dark and dreary and everything felt like it was slightly damp all the time. She didn't know if it was condensation from the cooler air or being so close to the water. Possibly it was a mix of the two.

She was pretty far up now. Maybe she shouldn't have looked down to see him laughing at her. There was even a bit of a crowd now, watching. Probably what the asshole wanted for her humiliation. But no one would know who she was with this mask on. The cape wasn't really helping. It whipped around as she got higher.

She reached the platform with her hands and planted her feet against the poles that lifted it this high. She used that to pull herself up to the statue. Based on how well they could see the statue before she guessed that Adrien had a pretty great angle for the video.

The gargoyle was a lot larger up close. She could hear Adrien laughing again and she groaned. She never should have agreed to make a bet with him. She knew he had die hard fans in France as a teen but had not expected him to make the top 20 eligible bachelors in the world at 23. Probably partially her own fault for keeping him relevant as he backed her debut line and modeled some of the clothes. They were on their way to a very expensive Gotham restaurant where she would be paying for her slight against him when he came up with this dare to get out of it.

From the platform she climbed up to the sculpted rock the gargoyle posed on. She decided to go all out since she was already up here. She straightened her Batman mask and checked that the symbol was on her chest straight and made sure the cape was flowing in the wind. She posed for the crowd and camera.

"I am Batman and I love you," she shouted in a gravely voice. She pulled out her other prop and faced the large gargoyle. She dropped to one knee and held out the ring pop to the statue. "Please say you will marry me."

The reaction of the crowd was perfect. Adrien gave her a thumbs up to show she had done what was required. But Marinette was into the act by this point. She jumped up and hugged the statue. Her arms barely closed around it's neck. She heard someone call from below to kiss so she leaned close and made a smacking kiss sound. She leaned back against the creatures clawed hand as if she was being dipped.

The next sound she heard was much closer than the ground. She saw him upside down first before she righted herself. She hadn't planned for being caught up here. She thought she might have to run away quickly if someone showed up. She eyes the vigilante before her. She thought he might be Red Hood, although technically it was more of a helmet not a hood that he wore.

None of his face was visible so she was completely blind sided when he grabbed her around the middle and used a cord to swing away on.

"Don't worry, Batman. We will save you from whatever shrunk you." He spoke into a radio next, "I have Batman. Some foul magic shrunk him."

She could hear the response from his ear piece. "I am right here. You know that isn't me."

"Imposter!" He said. They landed on a building and he flipped a switch. She suspected he shut off his radio.

"Take me back," Marinette said.

"I may not even look for how to get you back to normal. You look way better this way."

Marinette walked to the door on the roof but it was locked. She left all her things, her phone included, with Adrien to make the climb easier.

"It's locked," she said. "Can you get me down?"

He walked up to her and took the ring pop from her.

"So are you engaged to the gargoyle or do I have a shot?"

Marinette didn't know what to say. He lifted his helmet high enough to grin at her before he put the ring pop in his mouth. He pushed the helmet back and lifted her back up. Then they swung back over to near where she had been.

"Uh thanks," Marinette said.

"Hope I see you around." He says before he swung back up to a nearby rooftop.

Tags

@technicallyburninggarden | @emjrabbitwolf | @certainmuffinbagelcalzone | @theymakeupfairies

[deada55]

A Night In with Dethklok (Ladyklok)

synopsis: Trana (Toki) becomes "a sloppys mess."

content warnings: puke :(

[Pickles' kept her name, then we have Natalie, Stina (Skwisgaar), and Wilma (William Murderface.)]

for kloktober day 25, Ladies' Night!

I originally wrote this as a character warm-up and multiple-character dialogue practice for a bigger Ladyklok WIP. Wilma's got a crush and Nickles is implied (I like them as besties BUT! do what you will 💕.)

When Pickles cut the top of the chip bag off, she left the greasy silver ring on the countertop. 

“Hey, you know those, those uh,”

Hopefully, the bud resin on her fingers wouldn’t have a taste, but she interrupted herself to lick barbeque chip cheetle off of them like she wished it would. She bit underneath her nub-nails to get every last sticky-salty bit.

“Those neck traction things you and Stina keep talkin’ about?”

“The what?” Natalie could barely hear over her own chewing, arms full of freshly-washed celery. Munchies and being on a fitness kick didn’t mix, but it was working out pretty well save for the green strings stuck in her teeth. 

“The neck traction sling. Around your head? With the… the door?- Hey, wanna take a shot with me?” Pickles poured two shots of Everclear without waiting for an answer, leaving cloudy streaks on the outside of the bottle. Natalie was always good for it, and Pickles poured without expecting an answer.

“Neck traction thing?” She sucked celery juice back into her mouth through her teeth. Real cute, Nat.

“Yeah. What if we got two of ‘em and you used ‘em like a bra?”

...

“Pickles, that’s fucking brutal. That’s fucking great.”

“Yeah! Like for an album cover?”

“Yeah- Oh my god, I love celery-”

Natalie’s eyes were red as dog dick, and she was putting away celery like she worked at Walmart. “Even if it makes my tongue numb.”

“Dude, your what?”

“My tongue hurts when I eat it but it’s so good. Allergy or something.”

“Nat…”

“What?”

Pickles shook her head. Natalie wasn’t the type of person you oughta talk your feelings to, even if they were good. She took things a little far, she was selfish, she was haughty, and Pickles loved being her friend. Even without saying it, Pickles liked to believe Natalie thought the same way. She couldn’t ask, but she could watch them scarf celery in the same sweaty clothes she’d worn at the bar, with stringy hair and mascara raccoon-eyes. 

“Here.” She put the glass into Natalie’s hand. “Ready? Three, two, one-” Dink it and sink it, without even a choke. 

“Aw, shit, we shoulda tried the arm thing. Where you… you link arms?”

In the other room, Murderface shouted above the sound of The Bachelorette, “Jesus fucking Christ! Trana!” Like it was a recording, there was a response in perfect time, hysterical, mucus-y and loaded with “more” yet to come:

“Stops yellings at m-me!” 

“Trana, Trana… sits up, come ons, sits up,” The lilt in Stina’s voice was rum-soaked and impatient but way better than Wilma’s furious monologue of grievances to no one in particular, describing how Trana was fine one minute and covered in puke the next, before she leaned over and deposited some more on the floor in front of her. It wasn’t uncommon. The running theory was that Trana, not particularly a lightweight when compared to the general population, couldn’t hold on to that much liquid at once. Compared to the rest of the band, Trana had a tendency to be messy.

Pickles and Natalie did some eyebrow lifting before Natalie started to crack up. Natalie closed the distance and got all up in Pickles business (standard fare for when they were faded, not like Pickles minded after putting the five-bowl piece to good use.) “Hey, Pickles. Pickles. What if we go watch The Little Mermaid in your room?”

Natalie swallowed the lingering plant mass in her numb mouth and dropped her shoulders when Trana started to cry and Murderface started telling her to “clean this bullshit up!” 

Natalie rolled her eyes, but she was already turning towards the sound. “Shit, we gotta check on her, don’t we?”

In the living room, Stina was trying to tie up what dry hair Trana had while she was trying to move forward and slump to the floor. “Shh, Trana, stays right here where you are, don’ts move, stops-” 

Through sobs and belches, Trana started to mumble, “Ok, I cleans it up, I can dos it, I needs…” still spitting up mouthfuls of swill. 

Natalie grabbed her from behind by the armpits to scoot her back onto the couch. Luckily, Trana didn’t fight this time. Pickles put a stray trash can in Trana’s hands and rested a hand on her wet forearm, which was a horrible mistake, but taking her hand away wouldn’t make it smell less like Trana-puke. It didn’t scare her: when Natalie moved Trana back, Stina moved back to sit fully on the couch, providing space for Pickles to perch on the coffee table right in front of Trana with her boots sitting in the puddle of pink, wet flakes.

“Hey, don’t worry about it dude, relax... Wilma’s full of shit.”

“I’m what?! Are you seriousch?”

Pickles whipped her head to the side to talk to Wilma directly. “Yeah, I sure am fuckin serious! Dooya really think she can do that right now? Jesus Chriest!” 

“Look at this shit!”

“Dude, we pay people to clean it up!”

“Oh, yeah… Wait, not until the morning!”

“And?! Get a fuckin’ towel to cover it like we always do and keep your fuckin’ shoes on!”

“Stops,” said the metal trash can sitting on Trana’s knees. Pickles turned her attention back for a moment to shush her, putting one hand on the trash can to keep it from spilling on her if Trana suddenly stopped holding herself up. Wilma sucked her teeth.

“Sure, sure, I’ll keep my damn shoesthchs on when you shtop talking about my ‘crusty cliffhangersh’-”

“AYE. DOHN’T. DOO. THAT! Get it right! Fuck! Fucking listen to who talks to you, are you deaf?-”

 Stina uncrossed her legs and let her hand fall from Trana’s shoulder to her the small of her back, and looked over her shoulder at Wilma, interrupting Pickles.“Look, Murderface, I’ll stop talkings about your fucking toes when theys looks normal-”

Trana moaned and heaved up a short splatter. “Aw, sees what they dos to Trana, look at hers!” Stina started to rub her back again until Trana leaned towards her…

Natalie came back into the room like the smell of toast at the start of an aneurysm, and there was an awkward silence save for Trana sighing and coughing until Natalie cleared her throat.

“ ‘Sup?”

She froze up looking at the coffee table with eyes so thickly glazed they may as well have been strawberry-flavored donettes.

“Whats, Natalies?” 

“What’s whats? Which whats?”

“I said whats Natalie! You am not makings any sense, ‘ ‘sup, fuckings’...”

“Hey…” Trana interrupted, taking her head out of the trash can. The wet front sections of her hair were stuck to the inside its metal walls, and she grew fidgety. “I’m… I think I wansts go to bed, please.”

Pickles reached forward towards Trana. “Ahlright, Murderface, can you-”

“Oh fuck no! You can’t just dump her on me this time.”

Pickles could have smacked her, if it wouldn’t send her ice skating in sick. “Jesus fuck, Wilma! Shit! I just wanted to ask you to take the damn trayshcan, that’s all.”

“I’ll help her get up to her room. I gotta change clothes anyway.” Stina got up and Natalie took her place beside Trana, pulling all of her brown hair back, committing herself to dirty hands. With the trash can placed gently on the ground, Natalie held Trana up with an arm around her back, which seemed to be the only dry part of her. Trana was better on her feet than Natalie expected, and they walked up the stairs together.

To avoid breathing too deeply through her nose, Natalie scratched around in her mind for some small talk. Trana reeked of chunky, pink pineapple juice and cheese. Something wet and bready squished under Natalie’s fingers as she led Trana around by her waist. “Trana, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Bitch, you have to stop drinkin’ like this. At least give us a fucking warning, ok? We-”

“Natalies, I fucked up with the wines, ok? I knows what I’m doins-”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah seriouslies! Only serious, total confidensk, I’m, I’m so smart Natalies, you have nos ideas how much. You…”

“Trana, you are smart, ok?”

“Yeah, I ams! I’ve.. am so smart!”

“Pick up your feet.”

_________________________________________________

    Stina didn’t want to hang around Trana’s mess and went off to her room, followed by Murderface. Higher than the motherfucking night sky, Pickes kept watching the Bachelorette from the floor in front of the coffee table. 

    “Stina, is it really that bad?”

    “What’s really that bads?” She always looked phenomenal, laid up in an old bra and a pair of plaid cotton pajama shorts. She changed just in case any lingering traces of Trana were stuck to her. Wilma struggled to keep her eyes up in Stina’s hair. They kept falling into the gap of Stina’s cup and thinking about how warm iher breasts might be…

    It made the topic at-hand more embarrassing, but she’d think about it for weeks if she didn’t bring it up. Fuck, she’d probably obsess about whatever Stina said anyway. Trana was always kissing Stina’s feet, but Wilma definitely was a victim to the appeal.

    “Uh, my toes.”

    Stina moved the guitar off her lap and looked off towards the corner of her throw.

    “No, it’s not bad. You just needs different sandals.”

    “Huh?”

    “That’s what’s ams cliffhangers. When your toes am over the fronts of the shoe.”

    “You’re just jealous since you rolled your ankle-”

    “Ams no one jealous of fuckings… platform flip flops. Eugh.”

    Wilma laid on the foot of the bed on her back, flipping through the contacts on her dethphone while Stina practiced until she noticed the sound getting less crisp and less regular… Stina’s head drifted back before her fingers stopped moving, and she fell asleep with her mouth open.

    Wilma slid off the bed slowly, but not softly enough to keep Stina from snapping back to life and twitching her fingers over the strings again. “Where yous going?”

    “To bed.” Wilma’s chest got as tight as a shrunk grow-a-dino sponge with a sudden awareness of the size and shape of her shadow across Stina’s bedroom floor.

    “-If you wants to. You can stays, too.”

    Wilma laid down where Stina patted the bed, closer than she expected. She slept alongside her, fluttering with validation and buzzing with fantasy.

[tbhsoft]

life bar

idol!haechan x idol!y/n

summary: after the legendary interview was released, you and haechan began dating and have been getting an overwhelming sense of support.

genre: fluff

length: 2.1k

a/n: ah! i didn’t think the first post would gain any traction but it did! thank you so much for returning for a part two :)

this is modeled after the korean variety show, life bar. it’s a great show where celebrities aren’t subject to formal interview settings. please check it out! (mark did appear on the show with xiumin and changmin)

i’m not entirely sure of the hosts’ (other than heechul & yura) popularity outside of korea so excuse me for just labelling them as hosts.

if you missed part one, click here!

originally dnghycks’ gif

[the atmosphere is lively and filled with joy] host: how long have you been dating again?

heechul: oh, haechan! you’re dating someone?

haechan: ah, hyung! let’s not act like no one knows.

[heechul, dejected, grumbles to himself]

johnny (laughing): haechan didn’t fall for your bait.

[haechan winks at heechul, making heechul go into mock rage]

host: so, it’s been about 4 years?

[haechan plays with the glass in his hands, smiling to himself]

haechan (shyly): ya, just about.

heechul: are you guys still in your honeymoon phase?

host: do you still get butterflies when you see them?

haechan (nodding): of course! it hasn’t been that long.

heechul: it’s difficult to have a successful relationship as an idol. how did you guys handle it after that interview went viral?

haechan: it was very different to what i expected, you know?

haechan: first of all, we were preparing for the award shows and i was super focused.

haechan: i think it was during our water break that notifications were blowing up all of our phones.

johnny: we were so confused and thought it was from our managers.

haechan: i didn’t react immediately but i could hear the other members reacting, saying things like “no way” or “holy crap”.

haechan: everyone turned and looked at me. i felt like an imposter.

haechan: i was like “what? do i have something on my face? did someone send a meme of me?”

haechan: that’s when mark hyung showed me the news articles.

haechan: i blanked out for the rest of the day if i’m honest, barely remember anything from that day.

haechan: the only thing i remember was the pit in my stomach growing every time i stopped practicing. so, i kept pushing myself so i didn’t have time to think.

johnny: haechan actually fainted that day. he worked himself so hard that we had to rush him to the hospital.

haechan: luckily, it was just exhaustion and i could still perform. but, when i woke up, they told me to rest as much as possible.

haechan: the managers made sure i didn’t leave the house and told me to rest up.

haechan: it forced me to process what the news articles were saying.

haechan: once i did, all i was worried about was how y/n might be handling it.

haechan: was jyp going to give them a hard time?

host: did you text them?

haechan: because we were both focused on the award shows, i thought it best to avoid contact with them until it was all over.

johnny: even when it was all over, he still couldn’t text them.

johnny: i remember haechan pacing our room, trying to decide whether or not to call them.

haechan: i wanted to offer comfort but i wasn’t sure if it would aggravate the situation.

haechan: i think it was a few days after the last award show that i had an official meeting with lee sooman and the press team.

haechan: my eyes were wide the entire meeting.

haechan: lee sooman started the meeting by saying “congratulations!” and i was confused.

haechan: he went on to explain that he liked y/n for me and would support this relationship publicly as long as it didn’t affect my work.

haechan: i couldn’t really articulate my feelings so i think i just nodded.

haechan: he continued asking me about y/n after it, asking if we had made it official yet.

haechan: when i said no, he said that he would issue a buffer statement so i had time to ask them out.

haechan: the meeting concluded and, on my way home, y/n texted me.

heechul: what did they say?

haechan: “can we talk?”

heechul (dramatically rubbing his arms): oh no! the chills!

[haechan chuckles and takes a sip of his beer]

haechan: i told them we should meet in person to talk about it as professionals and adults.

johnny: when he tells it like that, it makes him seem tough. he was tearing up while he was getting ready to go out.

[haechan throws dried squid at johnny]

johnny: yo, thank you! i was hungry!

haechan (rolling his eyes): i wasn’t tearing up—

johnny: you’re right! you were sobbing. my bad!

johnny: you were so scared that you were gonna lose y/n.

[haechan balls up his fist in playful anger]

haechan: if only…

haechan: anyways, i was scared that i was going to be entering the new year without my best friend.

haechan: i asked johnny to drive me to our meeting spot so our manager wouldn’t know.

haechan: once we got there, y/n was already waiting on the bench for me so i told johnny to just chill in the car.

johnny: this is when i snuck my phone in his parka so i could wiretap the conversation.

[haechan pinches his nose bridge]

haechan: ah, hyung! privacy! no wonder your guesses were so accurate.

haechan: anyways, we sat down and talked like we always do. then, we got together!

johnny: in the end, y/n asked him out because he kept stumbling over his words.

johnny: y/n was giggling the whole time. it was very wholesome.

[haechan facepalms while the hosts laugh]

heechul (facing the camera): y/n, please take care of haechan! i know he lacks courage sometimes but—

haechan: really, now? after 4 years?

[johnny laughs while patting haechan’s head]

host: do you hold any resentment towards your interviewers?

[haechan takes a swig of his beer]

haechan: i did at the beginning? i don’t think y/n or i were ready to confess our feelings to each other’s faces just yet.

haechan: but, it’s not entirely their fault either.

haechan: i think, because we kept it a secret for so long, we wanted to tell someone and it was the first time we were prompted to talk about it under the veil of false security.

johnny (understandingly): and it’s easier to tell strangers than your closest friends, right?

haechan: for sure. i think a small part of me did hope they would see the entire interview at some point and that’s why i was so transparent.

heechul: and, because of that, you’re in a beautiful relationship now!

haechan (grinning): thank goodness for that!

host: what did they say when you told them you were coming to our show?

[haechan throws his head back in laughter]

johnny (chuckling): they told him that his taste in alcohol sucks and that they felt sorry for the hosts.

heechul: but, all the drinks you recommended are so good!

haechan (wiping away tears): that’s because they’re their recommendations. i don’t really drink for taste, only the social aspect.

johnny: y/n doesn’t like alcohol. so, if they think something tastes good, then it tastes amazing.

heechul: let’s raise our glasses to our hero, y/n!

[everyone happily raises their glass and cheers to you]

host: did you take them on a date immediately after the statements were released?

haechan: well, i wanted to… but, busy schedules and the fact that we hung out so much beforehand made it near impossible to have a good first date.

johnny: he was looking up “good date ideas” online and kept complaining that he already did those.

haechan: it wasn’t intentional. i guess y/n and i just liked to do couple things unironically.

heechul: i can’t believe you guys never got caught.

haechan: i think it’s because we were dressed so plainly without any disguises.

haechan: only a few people ever recognized our bare faces.

haechan: so, i decided to take them to jeju to see my mom after she called me.

johnny (laughing): i remember that call! she was like “now, bring my future in-law or else i’ll beat you up!”

haechan: when we got there, my mom totally ignored me and went straight for them.

haechan: she told them “i knew donghyuck liked you! he’s such a loser for not asking you out sooner.”

[haechan massages his temple and sighs]

johnny: on the record, haechan’s mom definitely loves y/n more than him.

[haechan nods in agreement]

haechan: so, after my mom babied y/n enough, i took them where you could see the stars perfectly.

haechan: i was really nervous and i didn’t really know what to do until y/n grabbed my hand.

haechan: they looked at me and said “as long as you’re with me, every passing moment is perfect. so, stop trying so hard.”

heechul: woah, y/n is so cool.

haechan: they really are. so, we spent our first real date stargazing and just enjoyed each other’s company.

[the host introduces the next dish and haechan helps set the table] heechul: why don’t we call y/n?

haechan (hesitant): i don’t know if they’re awake. they’re always taking naps at this time.

heechul: i’ll call them.

[heechul rings you up]

you (groggily): hello?

heechul: y/n! it’s heechul with the life bar crew. if you could introduce yourself.

[shuffling is heard through the phone]

you (clearer): all in us! hello, i’m y/n from itzy!

heechul: we were just talking about your relationship and wanted to hear your perspective.

[heechul motions haechan to say something]

haechan (sweetly): hi, darling. i’m sorry we interrupted your nap.

you: no, it’s okay! my alarm was about to go off anyways.

haechan: i was telling them about what happened after the interview and our first date.

you: ah, those were interesting.

heechul: oh? interesting, how?

you (giggling): if you know haechan, you know he doesn’t really cry, much less sob. but, when he showed up to talk, his eyes were puffy from crying so much and he had tear streaks on his face.

haechan (pouting): let’s not expose too much, y/n!

you (teasingly): what are you gonna do? cry on me?

[haechan sits back in his chair, frowning]

you: anyways! i vividly remember feeling bolder after the interview, not that i wasn’t nervous about public opinion.

you: however, i was actually talking to jyp when everything blew up.

you: he reassured me that he didn’t mind and he would support any decision i made.

you: just like that, he removed a whole weight off of my shoulders.

you: so, i was able to perform with confidence and complete reassurance.

you: but, whenever i saw hyuck at the award shows, he looked like he was about to implode so i thought it was better to wait for him to text me.

you: i’m sure johnny told you how frustrated the whole group was. i was the exact same.

[haechan blushes and buries his face in his hands]

you: i just wanted to be able to call him mine but he wouldn’t text me.

[everyone laughs and quietly teases haechan]

you (laughing): honestly, i was really impatient but i didn’t want to push him. so, i waited for a whole week after the last award show.

you: but, he was avoiding me really well! i even had to text johnny to make sure he was still alive.

you: so, i decided to just reach out to him first.

you: during the meeting, i tried to act like normal and tease him about his puffy face but he was having none of it.

you: “y/n, this is serious. this is our careers we’re talking about.”

you: i was scared for a moment until he was stumbling his confession out.

you: “the interview! i meant it. everything. i do. i would really like it if— i mean if you feel the same way— of course you do! you said it in the video. you do feel the same way, right?”

haechan (whining): you’re making me sound lame!

you: no, you were cute! but, also, slightly lame.

[you cackle through the phone]

you: so, i just asked him.

heechul: how about the first date?

you: he was so worried about being romantic and having that perfect first date that he forgot that i’m just a simple person.

you: when we went to see the stars, he was so nervous and was getting frustrated with himself.

you: to me, the effort he went through in itself was romantic to me.

you: i didn’t need the most spectacular first date because him being by my side was more than perfect.

you: so, i just let him know my thoughts and, when he finally relaxed, it became the most memorable first date ever.

heechul: what happened after he relaxed?

haechan: i listed all the little things that made me fall in love with them time and time again.

[everyone awes]

you: he made me feel like the most beautiful being in the universe.

heechul: okay! before this turns to sappy, y/n! thank you so much for joining us today!

you (laughing): it was my pleasure! invite me next time so i can expose haechan!

haechan: ya!

heechul: will do, bye!

[heechul hangs up the call]

host: you can definitely feel the love between you two.

haechan (in mock anger): i’m going to jump them the next time i see them.

heechul (grinning): well, i wish you guys nothing but happiness. host (raising his glass): to haechan and y/n’s beautiful relationship! [glasses clink as a bright grin appears on haechan’s face]

a/n: if i’m completely honest, idk how relationships work so idk if the way i wrote about this situation was done in a healthy way :P

pls feel free to give me feedback because i’m always looking to improve!

thank you so much for reading once again!

also, idk really know how taglists work so... @wownajaemin​, hello!