#the mortar gang

[chronicallytirednixon]

this took too much editing

[anglophile-rin]

when you get this you have to post 5 songs you actually listen to then send this ask to 10 of your favourite followers 🌃

Ahhhh @residentdormouse ilu 😍😍🥺🥺

Okay, let's see.....

- 'Hell and You' by Amigo the Devil

- 'Terrible Things' by Brick + Mortar (thank you @gatoplanet for intro-ing me to this absolute bop)

- 'The Funeral' by YUNGBLUD

- 'Achilles Come Down' by Gang of Youths

aaaaaaaaand

- 'Ghost Stories' by The Narcissist Cookbook (even though it's more spoken word, but there's music in the background so it def counts)

I recommend every single one of these songs. Go forth! Listen to them!

[maccadeau]

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 18 - Did I find you, or you find me?

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: None!

Hey, I’m back 😊 Had a lovely vacation and I’m home. Forgive the short chapter…I’m just setting up the ending…

The second you got home you peeled off the dress you’d been wearing for so many hours, flinging it into the laundry basket. You plugged your dead phone into your charger before stepping straight into a scalding shower. You exhaled with relief as the hot water washed away the grubbiness, cleansing you of the night before, of Peter’s touch, of every unpleasant detail.

As you lathered up your body wash, your mind drifted to Bucky, as it had the whole journey home. You couldn’t stop thinking about him staying there out on the road all night for you. And he didn’t want a big fanfare or pat on the back for it, he just…did it.

For you.

Your head spun as you replayed it over and over. The affection in his eyes as he looked at you. They were always so blue…you were amazed you hadn’t drowned in them. Even weary and fatigued from his staggering lack of sleep, they had still sparkled in a way that made your breath hitch.

You considered his astute observation about Granny’s house and your procrastination. He was right, of course. Part of you wasn’t ready to leave this place, it was the final physical tether you had to her – giving it up was the last step in saying goodbye. Once the house was gone, so was she.

But Bucky was right. Giving up this house wasn’t giving her up…not really. This was just bricks and mortar. It wasn’t your memories of her, your photographs. This house wasn’t her wisdom, it wasn’t her smile. It had felt like she was still everywhere in here, but in truth, she was no longer here at all. We aren’t our possessions; we aren’t our stuff – even if it feels like it sometimes. We can’t take any of it with us.

She wouldn’t want you clinging to her, not allowing yourself to move on and live your life. She had given you the house for precisely the opposite reason – she wanted you to be free. She wanted to give you either the stability of a home and roots, or the financial freedom to choose what made you happy.

But not this. Not living somewhere inbetween.

Your whole life you had ambled, too frightened to make any real decisions in case you made the wrong one. You’d found jobs and homes when friends had recommended them to you, or by knowing someone who knew someone else, or by chatting with patrons at your various bar jobs. A lot of your experiences had been ‘right place, right time’ (or ‘wrong place, wrong time’) rather than you actively seeking them out. Despite your stubbornness and self-assurance, you were often unanchored in life – lost at sea.

And of course, there was the other reason you hadn’t allowed yourself to move on.

He had broken your heart, and you were so sure that his chapter in your book had ended, but here you were – still thinking of him. Nobody had ever done anything like that for you before. Nobody had ever cared so deeply, fighting to stay despite you shutting them out of your life. Normally they left at even the slightest difficulty, and in a way, that was easier. Better they show you who they really are early on, rather than you getting too deep and being unable to reach the surface when disaster inevitably struck. You were at least self-aware enough to know you often pushed people away…because better it be on your terms, right?

That was partly why what Bucky had done hurt you so badly. Your walls had started to crumble with him, but his betrayal had built them back up even higher. He had just affirmed what you had always thought of people, it made you feel foolish. Weak.

But now…

He had left you alone like you’d asked. He had shown up for you in your time of need, he had stayed for you then despite your insistence he leave. He had saved you, but with no strings or expectations attached. He had only done it for you, not for himself. He wasn’t trying to score points, or get the upper hand, he was just trying to make you happy. Make you feel safe.

And he had made you happy, once. He’d brought you a pocket of peace you hadn’t felt before. He had shown you a glimpse of life where you could truly be yourself.

Weighed down by your thoughts, you stepped out of the shower. You dried yourself off and changed in your PJs before flopping into bed. It was late morning now, but you needed the sleep desperately. You also needed some time away from your own brain.

As your head hit the pillow you were out almost instantly. You slept until the early afternoon, emerging groggily as you sat up and groaned. Annoyingly, a magic fix to all your problems somehow hadn’t materialised while you were out.

But one thing was clear. Absolutely crystal. Everything else was a mess, but this was clear and bright and unmistakable.

You needed to speak to Bucky.

You reached over and grabbed your phone from your bedside table, yanking it off the charger cable as you unlocked it. You scoffed as Peter’s name flooded the screen, a flurry of missed calls and ‘I’m sorry’ notifications. You swiped them away as if you were irritatedly swatting at a wasp. He deserved no more of your time.

There was also a stoic text from Steve wishing you well after he heard about your ‘trouble’, and one from Wanda asking how your date with Peter had been. You nearly laughed out loud at how much you had to fill her in on.

Your heart sank a little to find there was nothing from Bucky, but that was to be expected. You had asked him to leave you be, and he was respecting that.

Your finger hovered over his name in your contacts as you stumbled at this next hurdle. Would a text be better? You could tell him everything you wanted and be sure you were articulate and clear about what you wanted to say, but maybe a phone call was more sincere? Could you go halfway and record a voice note? Or was that weird? Should you ask to meet somewhere and then talk? What if he said no? What if he wanted to move on, and you would just be creating drama for him? What if he had only done all of that stuff on the road out of guilt?

You chewed on your lip as you considered your options. It had all seemed so obvious just moments before, but now you were second guessing yourself and unable to move forward. Just like always.

Just as you were internally cursing yourself and the paralysis of indecision, you were pulled from your thoughts by a noise out in the yard. It was…a banging? Was someone knocking on your door? Maybe a delivery driver…but wouldn’t they just use the doorbell like everyone else?

Frowning, you got to your feet as you headed downstairs – curiosity winning out over the embarrassment of going to the front door in an old sports t-shirt and a pair of Bucky’s boxers you had quietly been wearing as pyjama bottoms since he left them at the house however many months ago.

You opened the door and peered out, but nobody was there. Strangely, the knocking continued somewhere out of sight, so you kicked on some sneakers and trepidatiously stepped out into the front yard. What was this now, a trespasser? The last thing you needed at this moment, but the universe always seems to have fun with its timing. You should’ve brought your phone with you in case you needed to call the police.

You followed the sound around to the side of the house, yelping when you discovered the source of the banging.

Just a few feet in front of you in the yard was Bucky, kneeling, his back to you. His was kutte neatly folded in a pile by his feet on the grass. In one hand he held a hammer, in the other, a plank of wooden fence panel raised onto the once broken enclosure. Next to that was an affixed plank. And another. And another.

He was fixing the fence.

The damn fence.

“Bucky…”, you whispered, your voice croaky with sleep and surprise.

He turned, getting to his feet as he dropped the hammer to the ground, “hey”, he said softly. “I just thought you could use a hand…so you wouldn’t have it hanging over you anymore. But if I’m overstepping, just say…”

You didn’t speak. You just ran towards him.

*

Sorry for the cliffhanger! I’ll put you out of your misery soon I promise…

[francixoxoxo]

Hi franci! im not sure if youve written something like this before but id love to read ur interpretation about how billy would be like if reader was taken by a rival gang

No, I haven’t written about this before and I love the idea!!! ��

˚✧ ₊˚ No More Trouble

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐗 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐀 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐲.

𝐓𝐖: 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞, 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

Billy had never been a man to go into a rage. He never hurt somebody who didn’t deserve it, and never because he enjoyed it. He was level-headed when it came to these things, usually.

But this wasn’t the usual.

Fury bubbled in Billy’s veins so hot he felt his insides toiling and cooking over. Fear was a distant memory, insistent and consuming rage overtaking any sense he might’ve had. You wouldn’t have gone of your own accord, without a note or so much of a trace besides flipped and strewn-about furniture, a smashed window. No, this wasn’t you running away. This was you being taken away. Stolen from him.

The moment he knew you were gone, he grabbed a few of his boys and rode out. He thought, at first, it could have been Jesse and them. He’d even approached his old friend, shouting and practically spitting at him with words that would’ve never crossed a calm man’s mind. But it hadn’t been them.

Every minute wasted was another minute they could hurt you. Another minute they could lay their grimy hands on you, and that thought just sent Billy into a spiral. If even one hair on your pretty little head was harmed, well, the gunfire would give him hearing damage.

Somewhere underneath all that anger, as Billy and his small posse searched another abandoned hideout to no avail, was guilt. it was Billy’s fault that rival gang would’ve taken you at all. There wasn’t any other reason— you had no business in this type of stuff, except by being his girl. Billy knew he was no good for you, and this only confirmed it. Maybe he should have ended it, let you loose to keep you out of danger, but…

Call him selfish, but after this, there wasn’t a way in hell he’d let you out of his sight.

The room they were keeping you in was rank.

You recalled very little of the actual kidnapping. You were walking to the small well on your property to fill your watering can for your garden. You were stopped over, placing the can down and reaching for the lever to run the water, when you felt a firm presence behind you and cool metal against your nape.

A rough voice barked your name, but something in his tone was questioning. You swallowed hard, attempting to slowly look over your shoulder at the man, but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced your face against the mortar base of the well. Your nose was in the concrete as you stammered, “T-that’s me.”

Suddenly, he was pulling your head back by your hair, eliciting a pained yelp from your lips, before slamming your head back into the well.

When you woke, you were in a room without windows. Light only filtered through the crack under the door, at the top of some stairs against the wall opposite you. By the dank stench, you were in a cellar. Your head pounded as your eyes adjusted to the dark, you realized your arms were held above your head. A rough jerk of your hands was enough to tell you your hands were chained.

Pain pulsed throughout your body, in your shoulders and arms, your legs, and more terrifyingly, twixt your legs. Your legs were sprawled out in front of you, lazily spread, you scrambled weakly to close them and fold them under you. Perhaps it was a good thing you couldn’t remember.

There wasn’t much you could do, besides bow your head and cry. You wiped your tears on your shoulder, exposed by your thin house dress. You struggled to keep your shaky breaths silent, but you didn’t want to think about what would happen if you drew the attention of the men upstairs.

Perhaps a few hours passed, perhaps a whole night, but your ears were perked as gunshots rang out. It was too muffled to be within the building. After the first one, a moments silence until the next few. That’s when the yelling commotion began. You heard what could’ve been a heavy door opening, the gunfire suddenly louder than bombs.

Your mind was too hazy to feel anything except fear. Even then, it was muted. Hope was unthinkable, frankly, you wanted nothing more than to lay your head upon your raised shoulder and let your eyelids fall closed. At least the fighting was muffled in one ear by your arm. The door to the cellar was thrown open, bathing the miserable space in dim light.

A familiar voice called your name as if it were holy. You opened your eyes too wide at first, squinting against the oppressive light after so long in darkness. “Billy?” You would’ve been embarrassed by how small your voice was, if you weren’t so relieved to see him.

When your eyes adjusted, you were able to make out Billy’s expression. His eyes were blown wide and buggy, eyebrows lifted. “Oh, baby…” He couldn’t resist, clutching your face in his hands and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Those fuckin’ bastards. What’d they do? They lay their hands on you?” He pulled away, to your despair. But he was just working at picking the locks on your chains.

You nodded your head lamely, staring up at him through bleary eyes. Billy swallowed hard, meeting your gaze and pressing his lips. He wasn’t one to cry. But he was devastated.

“Let’s get you outta here, baby. C’mon.” Billy mumbled, easily scooping you into his arms bridal-style and rising to his feet. You buried your face into his broad shoulder. He took a glance around the cellar, his nostrils flaring in rage. How could they keep you in such a shithole?

As Billy made his way up the stairs, a putrid and metallic smell reaching your nostrils, his hand under your back came to lay over your eyes. “Keep those pretty lil’ eyes closed f’me. Y’don’t wanna see this.” He cooed, reaching the ground floor of the chapel.

“What is it?” You opened your eyes a crack, only to be met with more darkness from your lovers calloused palm. He shushed you gently, stepping over a man’s body in the middle of the church aisle.

Billy hesitated to tell you, but he figured you wouldn’t quit badgering if he didn’t. “Bloodbath.” He glanced to his right, a man was face down behind a church pew. You’d been through enough without seeing the way Billy and his guys had painted the holy building crimson.

Billy carefully hoisted you up onto his horse, slipping into the saddle behind you. He wrapped an arm securely around your middle, pressed a loving kiss below your ear as reward for the way you laid back against him. “I’m glad you..”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Billy cut you off. He jogged him quarter horse into motion with a tap of his heel to her hind leg. “I’ll come n’ find you no matter how far away, darlin’.” You hummed, gratified, exhausted.

He let you sleep on the way home, the best you could on a trotting horse. He let the other Regulators go ahead. He didn’t wanna wake you by galloping fast.

When you finally did get home, he took care in washing you up and icing your bruises. You hadn’t realized how bad your face was until he showed you a mirror. He quickly took it away when he saw how it distressed you. Billy couldn’t seem to say sorry enough, for everything.

Billy didn’t go to work for a while. Only when money became a bit of a problem did he leave your side. Otherwise? He was attached to your hip. He cooked you meals and fed you himself on the days you wouldn’t eat on your own. He held you tight enough at night to dispel the memories, he listened to you when they were too strong to ignore.

He wouldn’t let anything like this happen again. You were too precious and after this? Too delicate. God help the force that tried to get twixt Billy and you.

At night, when you’d stir with tears pricking at your eyes, Billy would only tighten his strong arms around your meek frame. He’d let you wipe your tears on his neck, as he murmured with lips ghosting the shell of your ear, “Ain’t no more trouble, baby girl. S’all okay. M’here.”

Being there was all you needed from Billy.

Thank you for the ask!!!

[lefaystrent]

One random day, Patton declares he is going on vacation. He will be leaving the mindscape for awhile, and it's up to the rest of the gang to hold down the fort while he's gone.

"You're Thomas's sense of Morality; you can't just go on vacation," Logan points out.

Patton's grin goes a little too wide, his eyes a little too intense. "Watch me."

Remus bobs his head up and down to check him out. "Since when do you do the ominous thing? I thought that was my thing. Are we playing around with each other's thingies?"

"No–thing wrong with switching things up now and then," Patton says cheerfully.

Virgil squints. "Are you Deceit in disguise?"

"I am sitting right next to you, Virgil," Janus points out. "Also, I wouldn't be caught dead in a floral print."

"Are you going to Hawaii? Without me?!" Roman demands, eyeing Patton's– well, Hawaiian shirt he's donned on rather than his usual polo.

"Now, now Roman, this is nothing personal kiddo. I'm just taking some much needed me-time. So I'll need to take this journey alone."

"Oh thank God," Janus mutters while Logan blinks rapidly, flabbergasted. Logan spits out, "We are all personified pieces of one man's personality. By the nature of our existence, you can't be alone."

"That's quitter talk," Remus butts in. He literally turns and shows them his butt for some reason, though thankfully with pants still on. "Want me to yeet you out the door, Daddy-o? See how far you can go? Or maybe load you into a ballista and send you hurtling to a beautiful bludgeoning death?"

"No thanks, bud," Patton says far too good-naturedly. "Our dear lord in Heaven gave me two perfectly good legs to walk with. I think I'll be fine."

"You're serious? Just– what, gonna walk out the door?" Virgil questions sharply. Skeptical he may be, he seems somewhat interested in seeing how far Patton will take this bit.

"Absolutely! There's a whole big wide world out there! So much to do! So much to see!"

"So what's wrong with taking the back steets," both Remus and Roman sing at the same time.

"You guys will be fine for a while without me. But just in case you miss me, I have provided each of you with your very own Patton Pal."

They each look down into their hands where a small, stuffed version of Patton materializes. It has stitched in glasses, a removable Cardigan, and its mouth is in the shape of a heart.

"What," they all respond collectively.

"If you feel lonely or need a hug, you just give your Patton Pal there a good ole squeeze! That should tide you over until I get back. Anyways, I'm gonna skeddadle now. Bye! Love you!"

And Patton walks out the front door.

Dad has left the building.

Roman ponders with pursed lips, "Sooo, did we just get abandoned?"

"Nah, I'm sure he's just gone out to pick up some milk."

"Thank you, Remus."

Virgil rises up from the couch and strides over to the door in a huff. "Alright Pat, you can come out now."

The door swings open. A brick wall is revealed where there once was not one.

"Uhhh, guys?" Virgil asks the group, stepping back. Unconsciously, he grips his Patton Pal a little tighter.

"What in the Chris Angel Mindfreak?" Remus questions and taps at the brick. His nail makes a scraping sound along the mortar. Curious, he examines his finger and licks it.

"Did he trap us in the Mindscape?" Roman asks, squeezing in between his brother to test the solidity of the wall. It is indeed a wall.

"Is this his villain origin story?"

Janus rolls his eyes at the twins. "Patton's just serious for a change, that's all. He doesn't want to be followed, and obviously he must be out hanging with Thomas. Really now, have some sense."

"You do know who you're talking to, right?" Virgil asks him waving at the twins, to which Janus gives a saucy, "Touche."

Logan sighs and begins ascending the stairs.

"What, you're just gonna leave too?" Virgil calls after him.

"I have work to do, as I'm sure the rest of you do. Patton will return once he tires of this stunt."

Logan is gone and now it's just the four of them.

"Someone's salty about being abandoned," Roman comments too loudly.

"FALSEHOOD!"

"Alllll byyyyy myseeeelffff," Remus sings off-key.

Virgil debates whether to follow Logan up or try a window next. He stares down into the beady, button eyes of his Patton Pal doll.

"Need a hug?" Janus asks him teasingly, watching him.

Virgil scoffs and shoves the plush into his hoodie pocket. It's bulky, but it fits.

Will it stay there?

Will Patton ever return?

Will the sides use this time to overcome their differences and bond as a true family?

Find out next time on "Episodes From The Mindscape"!

The screen flicks off.

[avocado-writing]

Hiii <3 I'm the anon that tumblr ate out- I mean I'm the anon that got their request eaten by tumblr. I'm going to send it again but please don't feel like you have to write it at all!

Basically it was just:

Crowley x wife!reader where human reader nearly dies during the London Blitz so Crowley miracles her into living forever as a type of vampire (he's a demon idk). So now Aziraphale, Reader, and Crowley are friends (possibly more by the time we get to the bookshop)

notes: HEY I AM SO SORRY I MADE THIS SO FUCKING ANGSTY. please forgive me. it just felt like the perfect setup for a bite of sadness.

pairing: crowley x f!reader

rating: T

notes: mentions of death

“You shouldn’t do this.”

Crowley knows. He knows that Aziraphale is not wrong for a number of reasons: his head office will notice, it’s against the rules, he’ll get in dreadful dreadful trouble. Demons aren’t meant to meddle in the mortality of humans. But then again demons aren’t meant to marry humans either, and he did that anyway too. 

It’s your tenth anniversary today. He can picture the wedding like a photograph in his memory: your white dress, your red lips, the huge smile you wore all day like it was stuck to your face. Impossible for you to get rid of. 

He braved the pain of a church to marry you in it, then swept you off to bed to take his mind off his burning feet.

Ten years. Ten happy years. Ten years of your gorgeous, gorgeous smile. He knew it wouldn’t be forever, but he thought that he’d at least have longer to work out what he was going to do when the time came. But there was no way you could have predicted where the bomb would land, the explosion it would cause, the shrapnel that would end up shredding your stomach.

He told you to leave London and you refused to. You refused to leave him.

Now blood soaks through your clothes onto his. You’re lifeless in his arms. Covered in brickdust and mortar. Smile gone.

In that moment he realises that he can’t continue existing without it.

“Crowley…”

“Shut it,” he snaps, far more fiercely than he should, and he’ll apologise to Aziraphale for it later… but for now, he does something very reckless indeed.

He summons the miracle from hell. It’s a big one, to snatch a soul out of the aether as it tries to slip away, but he’s a very powerful demon. He grabs the hazy edges of your spirit with his hand and slams it back into your body. There’s a surge of energy as the two parts of you reconnect, and in a shaky spasm you twitch horribly back to life.

“There she is. There’s my girl,” he whispers, cupping your face. As you work out how to breathe again Aziraphale watches in silence. There is nothing for him to say.

--

He manages to get away with it. Hell isn’t known for its incredible paper trail after all, and it’s pretty easy for him to mislay the documents that prove he ever did such a huge miracle at all. You’re alive again and there are no repercussions.

From head office, anyway.

Aziraphale eventually comes to accept the decision, and the two of you actually end up quite good friends. In fact Crowley feels quite ganged up on sometimes. You’re constantly at the bookshop helping shoo away customers and hunting down good deals for old tomes on ebay. You’ve learned to grow with the times.

But still.

There are times where you seem… distant. He’ll catch you staring out a window, seemingly a million miles away from your body. You don’t blink as much as you should since he brought you back. You don’t breathe as hard either, your chest only raising and falling about once a minute. There’s something not the same.

He cannot bring himself to admit that you came back wrong.

Every time Crowley will come over and give you a gentle kiss, bringing you out of your stupor. You’ll shake your head and return to the moment.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he’ll ask.

“Oh, yes. Of course I am,” you’ll reply, and you’ll smile.

But your smile is never quite right.

-

taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@this--is--music @ilyatan @lxsm2@clarina04@wtfhasmy-lifecometo@mrgatotortuga@wereallbrokenangels @night-affiliate @kimqueenofhell@chewbrry @bajablast23 @h3k3t@am-i-obsessed---maybe

[mariacallous]

How do you solve a problem like the Houthis?

The U.S. Navy has certainly tried. It’s fired missiles at the militia’s facilities in Yemen. Together with the British Royal Navy, it has intercepted Houthi missiles being fired at ships in the Red Sea. All sorts of Western navies are conducting patrols in the troubled waters. But the Houthis are not relenting. On the contrary, they have asked the world’s most notorious arms dealer for more weapons. And the arrival of Russia’s Viktor Bout in the Red Sea is bad news for global shipping.

The Houthis are unlike any other adversary that Western militaries have faced in the past few decades. They’re not traditional armed forces. They’re not a Taliban-like insurgency outfit whose only objective is to seize territorial power. And they’re definitely not a mere criminal gang, like Somalia’s pirates.

Instead, the group is a powerful militia that has discovered that it can attack ships to get global attention, and it uses weapons ordinarily reserved for official armed forces.

Not even Hezbollah has such capabilities—or at least, it doesn’t use them, perhaps because Lebanon depends on shipping for its survival. Since the Houthis launched their campaign against Western-linked vessels, they’ve certainly been getting the attention they crave, and they’ve been demonstrating that they have access to highly sophisticated weaponry.

On Oct. 10, for example, the Yemeni outfit struck a Liberian-flagged ship with drones and missiles, and less than a month before that, they fired a missile that reached central Israel before being disabled by an Israeli interceptor.

The Houthis claimed the missile they directed at Israel was hypersonic, which has not been confirmed and is unlikely, but they like to brag. Their attacks seem designed to keep the global public in a state of fear over what might come next. And now, the Wall Street Journal reports, the group is in talks with Viktor Bout over the delivery of additional weapons.

Bout, you may remember, is the world’s most notorious arms dealer. The Russian merchant—who is known as the “merchant of death” and has also worked for Russia’s GRU intelligence service—spent nearly two decades selling weapons to armed groups around the world. Death and destruction followed wherever his weapons went.

But in 2008, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) managed to get him arrested in a sting operation in Thailand. He was subsequently extradited to the United States and sentenced to 25 years in prison on several counts, including conspiracy to kill Americans.

“He’s one of the most dangerous men on the face of the earth,” Michael Braun—the DEA’s chief of operations until 2008—told CBS’s 60 Minutes in 2010.

But two years ago, the United States decided to trade Bout for an American citizen imprisoned in Russia, basketballer Brittney Griner. Former DEA officials were aghast. So were U.S. military personnel, who had seen the immense harm that Bout’s weapons were doing.

Writing in Foreign Policy, Braun strongly advised against the exchange, noting that Bout remained close to the Kremlin: “Even after formally leaving the GRU, Bout enjoyed the backing of—and at times took assignments from—his former employer.” But the Biden administration believed, or wanted to believe, that the Bout of 2022 was much less dangerous than the Bout of 2008.

And now the Houthis have turned to the wily arms dealer. Before his arrest one-and-a-half decades ago, he specialized AK-47s and grenade launchers, but he seems to be able to deliver whatever his clients need.

In 2008, he offered two FARC guerrillas who’d arranged to meet him in Thailand 30,000 AK-47s, “10 million rounds of ammunition, or more, five tons of C-4 plastic explosives, ultralight airplanes outfitted with grenade launchers, mortars, unmanned aerial vehicles, Dragunov sniper rifles with night vision, vehicle-mounted anti-aircraft cannons that could take down an airliner,” not to mention some 700 to 800 MANPADs (man-portable air-defense systems), as Politico subsequently reported. (Alas for Bout, the guerillas had been turned by the DEA, and Bout was arrested.)

That means that Western navies and shipping companies have to prepare for the potential arrival of new weaponry in the Red Sea. The first two deliveries facilitated by Bout, expected as early as this month, “will be mostly AK-74s, an upgraded version of the AK-47 assault rifle,” the Wall Street Journal reported in early October. Bout and the Houthis have also discussed Kornet anti-tank missiles and anti-aircraft weapons.

The Houthis may well need automatic assault rifles in their armed conflict against Yemen’s official government, but it’s the larger weapons that Western countries should worry most about. If Bout’s relationship with the Houthis takes off, anti-ship weapons could well follow. Thanks to Iran, the Houthis already have access to drones and missiles, but Iran is weakened and may not be able to focus much on the Houthis. That’s where Bout could be useful.

And the arms dealer’s talks with the Houthis are hardly a freelance venture. Since his return from a U.S. prison, Bout—hailed as a hero by Russian state media—has entered the warm embrace of the Russian state, and in last year’s regional elections, he was elected a member of the Ulyanovsk state parliament. If he procures weapons for the Houthis, it will be with the knowledge or even assistance of the Kremlin.

The Kremlin has already shown a desire to help the Houthis. Iran is brokering talks between Russia and the militia that would see Russian P-800 Oniks anti-ship missiles delivered to the Houthis, Reuters reported in September.

The powerful missiles, which have a range of 300 kilometers (186 miles) and carry a 200-kilogram (440 pound) high-explosive warhead, would significantly increase the risk for merchant vessels in the Red Sea—and even for the Western naval vessels there to protect them. Indeed, the arrival of the nasty P-800 Oniks would trigger the departure of the remaining few shipping companies still sending their vessels through the Red Sea.

“The very notion of the high seas is now challenged, and once state and/or nonstate actors, especially proxies, discover a new approach that has strategic, operational, and tactical impact, it will only be mimicked by others,” retired Vice Adm. Duncan Potts, who commanded the European Union’s counter-piracy operation in the Indian Ocean at the height of the piracy resurgence there in the early 2010s, told Foreign Policy. “I fear this is a game-changer,” he added. “Defending against complex weapons needs complex weapons, and there are relatively few navies who have the capability, number of platforms, and will to do anything about it.”

It’s also about the dividing world. Ever since launching its campaign against shipping last November, the Yemeni militia has spared Russian and Chinese vessels. The two powers have shown their appreciation by not pressuring the Houthis to end their campaign and—unlike earlier operations against Red Sea pirates, where China participated—by not taking part in escort plans. (Western countries are conducting the escorts and fighting of Houthi attacks regardless of what flag ships fly and in which country they’re owned.)

The fact that Moscow appears so willing to fund an assault on Western vessels shows that global shipping is splitting in two—and a divided ocean will be a far riskier and more costly place.

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 2

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: After the apocalypse took everything Iris held dear, a new opportunity presents itself in the form of a bag of guns. Little does she know, that bag of guns starts something much bigger than she ever could have anticipated. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; gun violence, gang violence, offensive terminology for gang members and daryl, salty language

Chapter 2 - The Deal

The kid led them to a warehouse further into the city, and Iris was fidgeting with her knives. They waited at a wall further outside the building, a broken window between them and their friend. The bandana was back over her face, the bag of guns slung over T-Dog's shoulder. Rick rattled a shotgun shell next to his ear before loading it into the gun.

The group of warehouses was old enough to be made of brick and mortar, broken windows and doorframes unaccompanied by a roof. All except for the main building at the back, where the rest of the gang was presumably waiting. The kid wasn't smart enough to set them up, hopefully.

"You sure you're up for this?" Rick asked T-Dog.

"Yeah." He assured. Daryl gripped his crossbow tightly, keeping an eye on the kid as Iris peered through the broken barred window to the gate on the other side. Wasn't anything to write home about, but looks could be deceiving. 

"One wrong move, you get an arrow in the ass. Just so you know." Daryl grunted.

"G's gonna take that arrow out of my ass and shove it up yours. Just so you know." The kid retorted.

"G?" Rick asked.

"Guillermo. He's the man here."

"Okay then." Rick continued, cocking the gun. "Let's go see Guillermo." He gestured for Iris to go first and she scoffed, ducking through the bars and wire fence. T-Dog took up a sniper position on the wall to give them an edge. Rick pushed the kid forward and they followed him to the gate.

They slid open with a loud creak, a group of guards standing in the doorway. One man stepped forward, a cross chain hanging from his neck. He was shorter than the kid, and young. Didn't look like much of a threat, but there were more Iris couldn't see. She gripped the handle of her knife tighter.

"You okay, little man?" Guillermo asked, his hands in his pockets as he regarded them carefully.

"They're gonna cut off my feet, carnal." The kid replied, twitching. Clearly he'd never been a hostage before. That being said, most days consisted of things Iris had never done before.

"Cops do that?" Guillermo asked, his scrunched brow directed at Rick.

"Not him. This redneck puto, here. He cut off some dude's hand, man. He showed it to me." The kid whined. Iris glanced between Daryl and the kid.

"Shut up." Daryl snapped.

"Hey, that's that vato right there, homes." One of the men from before stepped, or limped, forward, one hand pointing at Daryl with a very small revolver, the other firmly pressing a rag to his ass. "He shot me in the ass with an arrow. What's up, homes, huh?"

"Chill, ese, chill. Chill." Guillermo said, holding out his arms to keep him back. He levelled his gaze back at them. "This true? He wants Miguelito's feet? That's pretty sick, man."

"We were hoping more for a calm discussion." Rick countered, shotgun still pointing at Miguel. 

"That hillbilly jumps on Felipe's cousin. Beats on him, threatens to cut off his feet. Felipe gets an arrow in the ass and you want a calm discussion?" Guillermo recounted, frowning. He licked his lips. "You fascinate me."

"Heat of the moment." Rick explained. "Mistakes were made. On both sides."

"Who's that dude to you anyway? You don't look related." He asked, nodding to Daryl.

"He's one of our group, more or less. I'm sure you have a few like him."

"You got my brother in there?" Daryl asked abruptly. 

"Sorry, we're fresh out of white boys." Guillermo replied, equally as fast. "But I got Asian. You interested?"

"I have one of yours, you have one of mine." Rick said evenly. "Sounds like an even trade."

"Don't sound even to me." Guillermo grunted.

"G..." Miguel protested. "Come on, man."

"My people got attacked." Guillermo continued, unfazed. "Where's the compensation for their pain and suffering? More to the point, where's my bag of guns?"

"Guns?" Rick asked.

"The bag Miguel saw in the street. The bag Felipe and Jorge were going back to get. That bag of guns."

"You're mistaken." Rick replied.

"I don't think so."

"About it being yours." He continued. "It's my bag of guns." Guillermo shrugged, leaning back with a frown.

"The bag was in the street. Anybody could come around and say it was theirs. I'm supposed to take your word?" He asked. "What's to stop my people from unloading on you right here and now and I take what's mine?" Felipe cocked his tiny gun once more, Jorge flanking Guillermo from the other side. Daryl raised his crossbow, clicking echoes coming from inside as more guns found their targets, men raised pipes and crowbars.

"You could do that." Rick shrugged, turning to where T-Dog had a rifle levelled at Guillermo's face. "Or not."

"Oye!" Guillermo called, looking up to the roof of the warehouse. Two guys walked to the edge, a third wrestling between them, a soiled bag tucked over his head. They ripped the bag off, Glenn whimpering with a piece of duct tape over his mouth. "I see two options." Guillermo continued. "You come back with Miguel and my bag of guns, everybody walks. Or you come back locked and loaded, we'll see which side spills more blood."

Guillermo shrugged again, raising an eyebrow at them before turning and retreating into the warehouse. Jorge and Felipe followed, the doors sliding shut. Rick put the shotgun down, sighing as Glenn and the two guards disappeared back onto the roof. Iris blew out a breath.

- "Them guns are worth more than gold." Daryl said pointedly. "Gold won't protect your family or put food on the table."

He was pacing back and forth in front of the desk Rick stood at, the bag of guns set atop it in consideration. Rick was checking them one by one under Iris' watchful eye. They'd come back to their cleared building, T-Dog watching over Miguel as they decided what to do. Guillermo was right, there were two ways this could go, and neither of them were ideal.

"You willing to give that up for that kid?" Daryl asked. Iris raised an eyebrow at him. The whole reason they were here was for their friend. Though, it seemed all he cared about was finding his hand-less brother. He still didn't trust her, that much was obvious, especially by the looks he gave her every few minutes. 

"If I knew we'd get Glenn back, I might agree. But you think that vato across the way is just gonna hand him over?" T-Dog asked.

"You calling G a liar?" Miguel asked.

"Are you a part of this?" Daryl snapped, slapping the kid across the face. "You want to hold onto your teeth?"

"You willing to risk it on Guillermo's word?" Iris asked, turning back to the sheriff. Rick sighed in exasperation.

"Could be risking more than them guns. Could be your life." Daryl added, making a face at Rick. "Glenn worth that to you?"

"What life I have I owe to him." Rick answered firmly. "I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away, but he didn't. Neither will I."

"So you're gonna hand the guns over." Daryl concluded.

"I didn't say that." Rick reasoned. "Look, there's nothing keeping you three here. You should get out, head back to camp."

"And tell your family what?" T-Dog asked, rubbing his temple.

"I'm not going anywhere without my guns." Iris replied, shaking her head. Rick looked to the three of them, nodding conclusively. T-Dog stepped forward, him and Daryl taking a shotgun each.

"Oh, come on. This is nuts!" Miguel protested, siting right back down as Daryl pointed a stern finger at him. "Just do like G says." They loaded them up, each taking an additional hand gun. Iris loaded up her 22, slinging a rifle over her back. 

With a towel tied into his mouth and hands bound, Miguel was escorted by the four of them back to the warehouse and the makeshift courtyard. Iris was trying to ignore the anxiety pulsing in her stomach.

Daryl had his gun pressing into Miguel's spine as they walked, armed and dangerous, through the gate and into the warehouse. Iris carried the bag of guns over her shoulder as they passed through the hoard of guards. Guillermo met them halfway through the warehouse, guns pointed in all directions.

"I see my guns," He mused, "but they're not all in the bag."

"That's because they're not yours. I thought I mentioned that." Rick replied simply.

"Let's just shoot these fools right now, ese." Filipe urged. Daryl pressed the muzzle of the gun into the back of Miguel's head. "Alright? Unload on their asses, ese."

"I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation." Guillermo said sharply.

"No, I'm pretty clear." Rick assured. He nodded to Iris, who cut the duct tape binding Miguel's wrists and shoved him forward. "You have your man. I want mine."

"I'm gonna chop up your boy. I'm gonna feed him to my dogs." Guillermo murmured. "They're the evilest, nastiest man-eating bitches you ever saw. I picked them up from Satan at a yard sale. I told you how it has to be. Are you woefully deaf?"

"No, my hearing's fine. You said come locked and loaded." He stated, cocking the shotgun. It echoed as everyone around took aim, Guillermo staring down the barrel. "Okay then, we're here."

There was a pregnant pause of baited silence as they all waited for someone to make a move, to say something. They stared down one another, waiting for the triggers to be pulled. The silence was filled with a small shuffling, and a woman's voice carrying through the warehouse.

"Felipe! Felipe!" She called, tone wavering with age. Iris watched as an old woman walked through the warehouse of gangbangers with no fear.

"Abuela, go back with the others-- now." Felipe urged, keeping his gaze and gun pointed on them, though fear laced his words.

"Get that old lady out of the line of fire!" Daryl chastised. Guillermo huffed, turning to her.

"Abuela, listen to your mijo, okay?" He instructed softly. "This is not the place for you right now."

"Mr Gilbert is having trouble breathing." She pleaded, looking to her grandson and tugging on his shirt. "He needs his asthma stuff. Carlito didn't find it. He needs his medicine." Guillermo glanced nervously between them and the old woman.

"Felipe, go take care of it, okay?" He snapped. "And take your grandmother with you." Felipe took her gently, pleading with her to walk with him, but she brushed past him toward Guillermo, frowning at Rick.

"Who are those men?" She asked. "Don't you take him--"

"Ma'am--"

"Felipe is a good boy." She assured. "He has his trouble but he'll pull himself together. We need him here."

"Ma'am, I'm not here to arrest your grandson." Rick replied calmly, putting the gun down.

"Then what do you want him for?" She asked.

"He's... helping us find a missing person. A fella named Glenn." Rick answered.

"The Asian boy? He's with Mr. Gilbert. Come, come." She urged, waving him along. "I show you. He needs his medicine."

Iris hid her small smile behind her bandana as she followed Rick, Felipe and the old woman through the warehouse. Daryl and T-Dog stayed on their tail, watching the others carefully, even though Guillermo ordered to let them pass. 

The old woman held Rick's hand as she led them out of the warehouse and through a neat garden, and through the doors to another building. It was a hospice center, or a retirement home of some sort. Felipe asked his grandmother to take him to Mr. Gilbert, while the others glanced around.

There were doctor's offices and hospital beds, everything occupied by elderly people. Iris was quick to sheath her knives, following Rick into an old auditorium, tables and chairs set up for a common area. A man in a wheelchair at the back was coughing and wheezing, deeply inhaling as Felipe helped him with his inhaler. Glenn stood beside the, watching to make sure he'd be okay.

"What the hell is this?" Rick said softly.

"An asthma attack." Glenn replied worriedly. "Couldn't get his breath all of a sudden."

"I thought you were being eaten by dogs, man." T-Dog hissed. A small bark sounded from the corner, a trio of chihuahuas sitting in a leopard print bed. 

"Could I have a word with you?" Rick asked, taking Guillermo to the side. "You're the dumbest son of a bitch I ever met..." He hissed, Iris' attention taken away by Felipe's grandma approaching her.

"Young lady, why do you hide your face? Do you have a scar?" She asked, gesturing to her own face.

"No." Iris replied with a small smile, pulling the bandana down to show her face.

"Oh, que linda eres." She cooed, patting Iris' face. "I should introduce you to my grandson. There are no more pretty young girls around here." Iris laughed nervously as she toddled over to Felipe, prodding him in her direction. He flushed, swatting her hand away as he continued to help Mr. Gilbert.

"So you're the girl with the guns." Glenn said, folding his arms as he walked over. Iris turned to him, nodding.

"Iris." She said, holding out her hand.

"Glenn." He replied with a slight frown, shaking it politely. Rick and Guillermo finished their little chat, the former beckoning them into a small room where Guillermo could speak to them quietly.

"What about the rest of your crew?" Rick asked, gesturing to Iris. She handed him the bag of guns, eyeing the interaction closely.

"The vatos trickle in, to check on their parents, their grandparents. They see how things are and most decide to stay." Guillermo explained. "It's a good thing, too. We need the muscle. The people we've encountered since things fell apart? The worst kind. Plunderers, the kind that take by force."

"That's not who we are." Rick assured.

"How was I to know?" He defended. "My people got attacked, and you show up with Miguel hostage-- appearances."

"Guess the world changed." T-Dog mused.

"No." Guillermo disagreed. "It's the same as it ever was. The weak get taken. So we do what we can here. The vatos work on those cars, talk about getting the old people out of the city. But most can't even get to the bathrooms by themselves, so that's just a dream. Still, it keeps the crew busy, and that's worth something. So we barred all the windows, welded all the doors shut except for one entrance. The vatos, they go out, scavenge what they can to keep us going. We watch the perimeter night and day and we wait. The people here? They all look to me now. I don't even know why."

"Because they can." Rick replied honestly. He handed the shotgun to Guillermo, and began to sort the guns from the bag. 

Iris turned from the room, walking back out into the auditorium. The vatos kept an eye on her, but she walked over to the closest.

"Hey, Felipe?" She asked. He turned from the table of elderly people, frowning at her sudden appearance. Iris took a map from her coat pocket and a pencil from an abandoned crossword puzzle, circling a place on the map. "I don't know who's in charge of the runs, but just outside the city here, there's an auto shop. If you can make it, there's a van out back full of parts, more cars in the shop. Take whatever you need. No one's gonna come back for it."

"Why?" He asked, taking the map and frowning. Iris shrugged, trying to offer him a comforting smile.

"Gesture of good faith?"

[cobalt-knave]

Inspired by @anistarrose 's poll because I found it so utterly delightful that I had to make one of my own

[ackackh]

Idk if you're still doing these, but what are the Pacific and/or BOB bros dressing up as for Halloween?

I am always open to talk about headcanons/ideas! This is so good, lemme see what I can think of off the top of my head (jk I looked up some ideas)

Pacific boys, H Co: Mario Ensemble! Leckie=Mario, Chuckler=Luigi (because tall), Hoosier=Waluigi because I can’t not do that, I’m sorry, Sid=Peach and Runner=Daisy. I picture them in cute little dresses, mostly drunk and smoking cigarettes outside.

Jesus, would modern au boys vape? Whatever, not here, anyway.

K Co: Andy is Raggedy Andy, even if the boys boo him for not being terribly creative. He even paints his cheeks! Eddie is Woody from Toy Story. Because he wants to write ANDY on the bottom of one of his boots. (It’s me, actually, I want him to do that)

I do think it’d be funny if the mortar squad (plus Bill ofc) did the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. You can imagine the colors as you wish. Or maybe, wait! Scooby Doo gang! Like, Burgie would be Fred, Jay would be Shaggy, Snaf is Velma, and Eugene is Daphne. Bill is Scooby. Of course.

Also, an aside, I once had a WIP (it still exists, it’s just buried) in which all the Pacific boys dressed up as the Peanuts for Halloween. It was a nineties high school au and I think about it like a lover who’s gone off to war.

I’ll have to come back atcha for the BoB boys, maybe I’ll reblog and add on if I have some ideas later :)

Thank you for the ask!! 🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡

[professorlizzard]

The beaming creature pressed a piece of laminated paper into the bartender's hand. Confused, he lifted towards the light, and realized it was a business card. It had GUNSLINGER written on it in a bold capital font, surrounded by four crude revolver sketches. He glanced at the creature. It was evident that he deemed this as a sufficient form of identification that would answer any and all lingering questions. The beaming creature pressed a piece of laminated paper into the bartender's hand. Confused, he lifted towards the light, and realized it was a business card. It had GUNSLINGER written on it in a bold capital font, surrounded by four crude revolver sketches. He glanced at the creature. It was evident that he deemed this as a sufficient form of identification that would answer any and all lingering questions.

"Not talking ay? Well, I have one of those bona fide mind readers on my gang. Round Robin will get to your secrets." Gunslinger was still confused. He had nothing to say that was not self-evident, and he did not have any secrets. The aforementioned Round Robin floated by, him being a hovering many limbed beetle. He wore a mortar board on his head, probably to announce to the world "Look out! I am smart". He placed one of his hands on Gunslinger's head, and a few moments passed by. Silence. "Anything good?" said the bandit leader. Round Robin replied, his voice quivering. "This is outside my paygrade. I quit." He stormed out of the room, much to the confusion of the bandits. Gunslinger didn't understood what was happening either, but he was glad he could help someone abandon the life of crime.

Snippets from a story that doesn't exist... experimenting!

[roses-bah-garden]

Could I request level 5 packs for both Melinoe and Moros from Hades II? If I can only request one, then I'd like to prioritize Melinoe! Thank you very much :)

here you go! might steal these packs myself tbh, i'm proud of these guys. don't know how much i like the melinoe moodboard, but it's done, so!

a new flower has blossomed! 🌹

melinoe + moros (hades ii) ... [LVL 5 PACK]

══════════════════

name(s) ;; melinoe, mel, stella, luna

pronouns ;; she/her, they/them, ghost/ghosts, death/deaths, night/nights, night/mare

age ;; ageless

species ;; deity

gender(s) ;; ghosttypic, moonguardian

orientation(s) ;; sapphic, bisexual

role(s) ;; protector, comforter

source ;; hades ii

sign-off(s) ;; – Melinoe ; {★}

══════════════════

hex code ;; #00c8b5 (caribbean green)

personality ;; ambitious and courageous. they are determined, kind, and loyal. she can be a bit awkward at times, and as such values solitude or her inner circle heavily above others. ghost enjoys helping others.

bonus info ;; types some words in ALL CAPS for EMPHASIS

══════════════════

likes ;; frogs, collecting small things (shells, marbles, stickers, etc.), jewelry, astrology, the moon, hades ii

dislikes ;; lore olympus, real-life violence, large meals (prefers to snack, except on holidays)

possible front triggers ;; hellenic holidays, stressful circumstances, frogs, her source

══════════════════

cisid(s) ;; cisADHD, cthonic deity, nymph, follower of hecate, heroine, heterochromia, blonde hair, cisGreek

transid(s) ;; transOlympian, transConsang, transFangs, transBlackHair

kink/fetish/para(s) ;; teratophilia, spectrophilia, autobiastophilia, autosomnophilia, transConsang

══════════════════

moodboard ;; found here

playlist ;; "take me to war" - the crane wives / "cassandra" - florence + the machine / "you might not like her" - maddie zahm / "the hand that feeds" - the crane wives / "everybody goes to hell" - candi carpenter

kinlist ;; princess anastasia (anastasia) / coraline jones (coraline) / froghearted

══════════════════

name(s) ;; moros, doom, moody, damian

pronouns ;; he/him, weep/weeps, haze/hazes, h-/h-m

age ;; ageless

species ;; deity

gender(s) ;; shadowgender, mascfluid, hazemasc

orientation(s) ;; demisexual, hyperplatonic

role(s) ;; sadness holder, autism symptom holder

source ;; hades ii

sign-off(s) ;; – Moros ; {🪡}

══════════════════

hex code ;; #4e3c53 (mortar)

personality ;; pessimistic and socially awkward. he is extremely respectful and polite, but can be overly formal due to his social difficulties. weep is extremely loyal to the system's melinoe, and can often be found at her side. h-'s often teary-eyed, and is a sensitive person.

bonus info ;; types in all lowercase ... and frequently uses ellipses ... ; always wears body's hair up when fronting (if applicable)

══════════════════

likes ;; epic: the underworld saga, stargazing, wine, tragedy films/plays

dislikes ;; toxic positivity, being told to smile, sugary foods, loud noises

possible front triggers ;; melinoe fronting, tragedy films/plays

══════════════════

cisid(s) ;; cisAutistic, cthonic deity, cisGreek, cisHarmless, cisPeaceful

transid(s) ;; transNocturnal, transNonverbal, transNarcolepsy, transMADD, transProphet

kink/fetish/para(s) ;; spectrophilia, (auto)somnophilia

══════════════════

moodboard ;; found here

playlist ;; "no longer you" - epic: the underworld saga / "once upon a december" - anastasia: the musical / "achilles come down" - gang of youths / "it will come back" - hozier / "something in the orange" - zach bryan

kinlist ;; swan therian / deer therian / fogkin (conceptkin) / oliver banks (the magnus archives) / tiresias (epic: the underworld saga)

[sholiofic]

A Biggles prompt- Biggles & co. are searching the base of whatever gang they're up against on their latest case and in addition to the plans/photographs/documents they were after they find a left behind prisoner... who turns out to be a wounded and distrustful EvS. And they (Biggles) can't just *leave* him there...

"Down here, there's just the cellars to check, and then we can be out of this bally--" Bertie's voice faltered, and he called in a very different tone, "Biggles!"

Biggles was down the stairs in three leaps, gun in hand. "What've you found?" he asked, catching himself on a crate.

"Something a bit different from the usual, old boy," Bertie said in a distracted tone. He was struggling with the lock on a barred corner of the cellar, forcing it with an iron rod and a single-minded focus unlike him.

Biggles came up behind him. He expected from Bertie's intensity that the creature being rescued was some small animal, a dog or a trapped exotic pet. He was unprepared, with a full-body shock, for a human being, rolling off a nest of burlap at the center of the cell's concrete floor. Blinking in the lights, the prisoner tried to pick himself up and then half-fell, but struggled defiantly to rise and confront them.

"Von Stalhein," Biggles breathed.

Von Stalhein scrabbled until he was sitting up, squinting against the light and crouched in a defiant posture that was somehow desperate. Biggles stepped back, partly to give Bertie room to work on the lock but also in genuine shock. There was a bucket of water in the cell, nearly empty, and nothing else except a heap of burlap sacks in which von Stalhein had evidently been sleeping. He was unshaven, several days' growth of beard peppered with grey. The ragged linen shirt he wore was plastered with dark, stiff patches that Biggles knew were blood.

Bertie finally wrenched the door free with a ringing clang. Von Stalhein half-fell to sit on his burlap pallet and glared at them with a defiant anger that was made somehow poignant by the fact that it was clear he could barely see in the sudden bright light. He flinched back when Biggles stepped forward, and Biggles stopped instantly.

"It's only me," he said.

"Of course it's you," von Stalhein spat, his voice rasping. He scrabbled back, working with one arm while the other hung stiffly at his side, and managed to find the mortared stone wall and use it to get, clumsily and painfully, to his feet. "Here to lecture me on my life choices, I'm sure," he snarled. 

Biggles had a brief thought of a scene from his childhood: an abandoned trap meant to catch a wild antelope that had instead caught a tiger. When the village men had found it, the creature was weak and emaciated, pierced with spears from the trap but still crouched and snarling, lashing out at everyone who had tried to set it free.

"No, I-- we did not know you were here. Your associates have all left." He nodded to Bertie, who stepped back. Biggles became aware that the gun was still in his hand (lowered in shock, half forgotten) and hastily put it away. "Come with us, we have food and medical supplies upstairs."

He stepped forward, into the reeking cell. When he reached out an arm, von Stalhein recoiled as if from a snake, but Biggles stood his ground and offered an arm. Von Stalhein took a shaky step forward, and Biggles wrapped his arm around the narrow waist. At that, von Stalhein all but fell forward, and Biggles caught him, supporting him. Von Stalhein's head fell on Biggles's shoulder, and he gasped a little, grasping at Biggles's sleeve with his good hand. His fingertips were clotted with blood, as if he had clawed at the door-- a thought best not considered just at the moment. Biggles helped him out of the cell, and he seemed to relax a little when he was out, straightening slightly and trying to take more of his own weight.

"Step up, carefully," Biggles said, pausing so they could navigate the stairs. "We have a camp just outside the base -- we'll have something to eat, take a look at your shoulder. The swine who were here have gone, and good riddance. Here, watch the step."

He didn't ask if von Stalhein knew anything about where they might have gone. And the hand gripping his arm tightly, the head resting on his shoulder as they climbed up into daylight, even the way that von Stalhein flinched back a little but seemed to trust Biggles as a bulwark at his back as he did, let Biggles know that he had chosen rightly. He helped von Stalhein to sit on a folded blanket beside their campfire, and von Stalhein took a flask of soup that Ginger offered, and sat quietly when Bertie brought the first aid kit. 

[the-leegend-99]

Today's drawing is dedicated to Dante Di Nanni, a hero of the Italian Resistance against nazi-fascism that ruled our land until 1945. He was an Italian communist partisan who died in Turin on May 18th 1944, sacrificing himself to cover up his comrades' retreat from the fascist pursuers.

He was the son of southerner immigrants from Apulia, he had to go to night school and get a factory job at 15. When the resistance began, he joined the GAP groups of the communist Brigate Garibaldi (organized by the PCI, Communist party of Italy, until he was held up that fateful day. For hours he held the fascist squads at bay, armed with rifle and pistol and grenades, shooting at them from a balcony while they hounded him with armored cars and a mortar and snipers. He utterly humiliated them.

He is a working class hero and a forgotten martyr. You know who else has had plenty of those? Palestine.

Dante Di Nanni fought to see a land where children and teenagers could go to school instead of working in a factory, a land without discrimination or exploitation, a land finally free of the influence of imperialist powers and free of capitalists lording over the masses, hoarding the wealth and means of work while protected by fascist gangs and police. That was the ideal of the Italian Resistance he fought in.

A Resistance that was left incomplete. A resistance that all over the world, save a few still existing bright spots, still needs to win and carry out a revolution for the collective good.

That's why Palestine is so important. They're fighting against all those horrors people like Dante di Nanni fought against, but multiplied a thousandfold by the scourge of Israeli colonialism, the terrorist, predatory State where the most ruthless parts of global capitalism converge.

Supporting the Palestinian resistance is not just a moral imperstive, then. It is paramount, if we want our own to succeed.

For Palestinian liberation is the lynchpin of collective liberation!

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Translation of the Italian text

"Eighty years have gone by,

Since the day when the fascists,

Numbering a hundred went to kill him,

And still they do not feel safe,

Because they know he stalks the city,

Dante Di Nanni!"

"We too have martyrs of our own

From an unfulfilled resistance

The best way to honor them

Is to support the Palestinian one!"

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Insinuation 2.7 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

I really need to plow through these faster. I'll be at this all summer and more at this rate.

 I felt a touch guilty, for acting under false pretenses.   I also felt pleased with myself, in an irrational way.

What false pretenses? :P Taylor, why you always lyin' to yourself? :P

That regret quickly turned to a pang of anxiety.  What would they think when they saw the real me?  Brian and Alec were good looking guys, in very different ways.  Lisa was, on the sliding scale between plain and pretty, more pretty than not.  My own scale of attractiveness, by contrast, put me somewhere on a scale that ranged from ‘nerd’ to ‘plain’.  My opinion of where I fit on that scale changed depending on the mood I was in when I was looking in the mirror.  They were cool, confident, assured people.  I was… me.

A year and a half of some of the most intense bullying will fuck you up.

I stopped myself before I could get worked up.  I wasn’t regular old Taylor, here.  In the here and now, I was the girl who had put Lung in the hospital, accidental as it was.  I was the girl who was going undercover to try and get the details on a particularly persistent gang of supervillains.  I was, until I came up with a better name to go by, Bug, the girl the Undersiders wanted on their team.

Ayyyyyy! There's that brain Taylor! :high fives her:

 I rationalized it by telling myself that I was already in this wholesale.  Being truthful about that one thing might well save my hide if any of them decided to do some digging on me, or if I ran into someone I knew while in their company. 

This isn't even a bad rationalization, like some of your others. Just sound logic.

 Lisa, though, put one of her arms around my shoulders and gave me a one-armed squeeze of a hug.  She was a little older than I was, so she was just tall enough to be at the perfect height to do it.  What caught me off guard was how nice the gesture felt.  Like I had been needing a hug from someone who wasn’t my dad for a long time.

Oh god you poor touch starved girl. We need to get you some emergency kittens, STAT! Maybe an overexcited puppy or two.

Or just Kara Danvers. She's huggy enough to cure even the worst touch-starvedness

It wasn’t an area that had been kept up, and kind of gave off an impression of a ghost town, or what a city might look like if war or disaster forced people to abandon it for a few years.  Grass and weeds grew between slats in the sidewalk, the road had potholes you could hide a cat in, and the buildings were all faded, consisting of peeling paint, cracked mortar and rusty metal.  The desaturated colors of the buildings were contrasted by splashes of vividly colored graffiti.  As we passed what had once been a main road for the trucks traveling between the warehouses and the docks, I saw a row of power lines without wires stretching between them.  At one point weeds had crawled most of the way up the poles, only to wither and die at some point.  Now each of the poles had a mess of dead brown plants hanging off of them.

Ah yes. The deadsville. Every fictional Urban Dystopia has one. :rofl:

Our destination was a red brick factory with a massive sliding metal door locked shut by a coil of chain.  Both the chain and door had rusted so much that I expected that neither offered any use.  The size of the door and the broadness of the driveway made me think that large trucks or small boats would have been backed up through the entryway back in the factory’s heyday.  The building itself was large, stretching nearly half the block, two or three stories tall.  The background of the sign at the top of the building had faded from red to a pale orange-pink, but I could make out the bold white letters that read ‘Redmond Welding’.

The convenient abandoned warehouse/factory.

Someone should set up an evil lair in an abandoned coffee shop. Just for a change of fictional pace.

I supposed they might have a TiVo, though I’d never seen one.

For some reason, some name-brands just feel... weird to see name-checked in fiction. TiVo is one of them.

“I’m jealous,” I admitted, meaning it. “Dork,” Alec said, “What are you jealous for?” “I meant it’s cool,” I protested, a touch defensively. Lisa spoke before Alec could reply, “I think what Alec means is that this is your place now too.  This is the team’s space, and you’re a member of the team, now.”

Cut her some slack Alec. She's still getting used to the idea of belonging/being wanted/welcome anywhere.

Also, like, I imagine Lisa doing that has *got* to get infuriating sometimes.

“Last time he went up against Shadow Stalker, he came back here and bled all over a white couch,” Lisa groused, “nine hundred dollar couch and we had to replace it.”

You shouldn't have gotten a white couch then :P

I blinked a few times, then hedged, “For other local capes?  I’ve done research online, read the cape magazines religiously for a few years, more since getting my powers… but I dunno.  If the past twenty four hours have taught me anything, it’s that there’s a lot I don’t know, and will only find out the hard way.”

Information is the greatest weapon in the Wormverse, that's for sure.

I stared at her, a good part of me horrified that I’d gotten into an undercover situation opposite a girl with superpowered intuition. Taking my silence for awe, she grinned her vulpine smile, “It’s not that amazing.  I’m really best with concrete stuff.  Where things are, timing, encryption, yadda yadda.  I can read something out of changes in body language or routine, but it’s less reliable and kind of a headache.  Enough information overload without, you know?” I did know, her explanation echoed my own thoughts regarding my ability to see and hear things through my bugs.  Still, her words didn’t make me feel that much better.

Alert! Danger Will Robinson Taylor Hebert

“And,” Brian said, still glowering at Lisa, “Even if she knows a lot, that doesn’t mean Lisa can’t be a dumbass sometimes.”

Everyone who has valid (even if not always correct) reason to think they're the smartest person in the room has a remarkable ability to also be the biggest dumbass in the room.

2.7 - not quite knocks it out of the park, but definitely very good.