#one of the many reasons why I changed jobs is because of the remote work

[ltbarnes]

Back to December (1/2)

Summary: Your new job as an assistant for the CEO of a big, shiny company was supposed to be a good thing. Instead your ex from uni who completely ghosted you out of nowhere several years ago happens to be one of your superiors. It doesn’t help that he’s only gotten more handsome over the years. But you hate him for leaving without an explanation, and he seems to hate you too. Everything is just fucking great.

Pairing: ex!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Word count: 6.9k

Warnings: OFFICE AU (Ghost is not ceo but he’s up there in the company somewhere), exes to enemies to lovers, harassment, past emotional violence/threats, ghost was a rugby player in uni lol, blood

A/N: I’m finally dipping my toe into another fandom 🫣 I’ve been obsessed with the cod men for months now so I suppose it’s time. this is the first part of two, maybe three. we’ll see where my imagination takes me!!

Part 2

Masterlist

So many years spent wondering what the hell happened that night, and there he is on the opposite side of the meeting room table gathering his papers into a neat pile. Simon always was organized, you remember.

He hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he doesn't recognize you. You don't think you have changed that much, but you never know. More as a person than your appearance, you guess.

Maybe that's why you haven't fell down to the floor crying yet—you would have just a few years ago. Seeing your ex-boyfriend for the first time since you were 20 might do that to you.

But you just feel anger. Anger over the fact that Simon has the audacity to have grown into his looks that way, and that he's successful and has this great scruff on his face and that he just left and never said a word to you again. How dare he have a good life when he just abandoned you and your relationship that night all those years ago without giving you a reason for it.

Your new boss clears his throat, sitting down at one of the ridiculously expensive chairs right next to you. You didn't notice him come in, and you certainly haven't gotten used to his intimidating presence yet.

"Garcia, you have about...fifteen minutes to go through your presentation. I have another meeting with Hill soon." Mr. Price pauses to look down at his wrist watch for two seconds in the middle of his sentence, before nodding towards the beautiful redhead standing with a small remote in her hand.

For some reason this company seems to be where models who get tired of their careers come to work. You didn't exactly get that memo. It's only your second day here, and you feel intimidated by everyone. Maybe that's the way an assistant should feel.

"Y/l/n, you keeping notes for me?" Your head tilts up dangerously fast at the mention of your name, taking a few seconds too long to process his request, before nodding obediently.

"Yes, sir."

Your fingers click too loudly against the keys as you frantically try to draw up a document with the correct font and size. It's too quiet in here. You haven't done anything wrong, yet it feels like everyone is waiting for you to misstep. Your anxiety is a bitch.

"Riley. Riley, what the hell?" you hear someone whisper angrily. It's not until you hear a pen clatter to the floor that you dare to look up his way.

Honey brown eyes stare right into your goddamn soul. Your breath hitches, speeding up the pace of your anxiety-ridden heart even further. More than what's acceptable for sitting still in a work meeting. But your momentary weakness over catching his attention soon disappears, to be replaced by your anger again.

You look away with a clenched jaw, focusing on the keyboard right beneath you. Simon is still staring at you. You can feel it. Feels like it always used to do, but this time you don't want it. In your ideal world Simon Riley would not sit opposite you, would not stand up to join the beautiful, model redhead to hold a presentation where he keeps stumbling on his words all the time because of your presence. At least you think it's your presence, but you're not sure if it's in a good or bad way. For you it's bad.

But it does make you feel good that he keeps having these space outs—tripping over his words, forgetting them all together. It is not a good presentation on his part, and Ms. Garcia is getting increasingly more irritated at him for his lack of delivery. You hope she scolds him for it afterward. God knows you would like to throw every curse word you know at the man.

Should you be this angry after all these years? Should you have let it go a long time ago? Should you have stopped acting as if being with another man after him is betrayal? Probably. The last question is probably the answer to why you haven't really moved on from your hurt.

It just makes you so mad—for a year he was your entire world. Simon hugged you from behind each time he encountered you out in public and played with your hair as you fell asleep in his arms and woke you up with his fingers tracing patters on your hip. He fucked you until your bed broke and made love to you so gently you might as well have been made of glass to him. Two weeks from your anniversary he stopped talking to you. Not one thing of his was left in your dorm the next morning, and you didn't see him on campus even once during the term he had left of school. The few friends you had in common didn't talk to you anymore.

It broke your heart, to be abandoned like that. That night was already shit, and Simon just decided to make it ten times worse. You were in shock and all you wanted was his comfort. To find out he had left? You barely made it through that next semester.

For years you have pondered over what part of you was so unlovable that Simon couldn't even bear to say another word to you. Maybe his inability to function properly during this meeting wasn't due to shock, but instead disgust over having to be in the same room as you. Fuck, you are mad, and yet so scared that you have to meet him every single week from now on. You're not strong enough for that.

"That was...something. I expect you to be better prepared next time I see you, Riley," Mr. Price says, clicking his pen while pointing it towards Simon. "Don't know what the fuck that was," he mutters under his breath while rising from his chair.

You follow swiftly. The chair is too loud as it's pushed back. You cringe. Gathering your laptop and your papers is ungraciously done. Price still waits for you though, for some reason, but he sighs and puffs while doing so. Everyone else is quiet, besides the slap to his arm Simon receives from Ms. Garcia. They're probably dating. Two perfect, good looking people having perfect sex in their perfect apartments. You hate them both.

You try not to look at him as you walk out behind Mr. Price. But you still say a 'have a good day' that is too quiet to the room, answered with a few nods and some 'you too' back.

A small squeak of surprise escapes your lips when your boss comes to an abrupt halt in front of you. A millisecond is all it would take for you to have crushed into him, and that squeak leaves heat travelling to your face. He turns around, facing the room once again, with his usual glare.

"Don't bloody stare at my new assistant. I don't want another HR-situation with this one. Especially talking to you, Riley."

Price pins his glare on Simon, who gives him an equally harsh glare back. You are just about ready for the floor to break so you can fall through to the bottom level and run out of here. But you're frozen in your place, clutching your belongings to your chest tightly enough to make a computer-sized dent in your skin.

Without another word, your boss turns around and heads out of the room. You couldn't have moved any faster if you wanted to—already tight on his heels while your heart rate desperately tries to calm down. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. What the hell are you going to do? Ignore Simon and hope that you manage to avoid him for however long you'll work here? It feels kind of impossible, but the last thing you want is to talk to him. You couldn't.

You've just put down your things on your desk right outside of Price's office when he speaks again. His voice always manages to make you jump in your place, head flying up to meet his gaze.

"If Riley, or anyone else, gives you any trouble—you tell me," he says, unflinching and stoic.

You gulp, frozen in your position. "Oh—I, okay. Thank you." The words come out quieter than you wanted to.

"You seem like a good kid. Don't want these fucking fools to chase away 'nother one of my assistants."

The door to his office is closed the next second. You just stand there, dumbfounded and a little confused, but still flattered in some way. A good kid—you'll take that.

Popcorn crunches underneath your sneakers as you push yourself past the people going up and down the stairs, trickling out of the stadium with happy smiles on their faces and lively conversations exchanged now that the game is over. They won. The players are still out on the field, celebrating their victory with slaps to each other's backs, jumping up and down, impromptu attack hugs. You are giggling too, watching them.

Simon has torn his shirt off, sweaty, blond hair a mess as he shakes his head. Johnny just poured water all over him—the guy always gets so overexcited. And goddamn, your man looks good as he has that rare smile on his face.

The game was a really good one on his part. Everyone in the team calls him 'Ghost' because of how quickly and seamlessly he moves despite his size. And the big tattoo of a man wearing a skull mask on his arm. But once  he's out on the field, the players never expects his speed. At least one player during each game runs right into him, as if he was invisible. A ghost.

He hasn't noticed you yet, where you stand leaning against the railing. It's freezing out. The first really cold September day, and you didn't think to bring a proper jacket. But you don't really care, because seeing Simon and your friends this happy has plastered a permanent grin on your face.

"Riley, your girl!"

Someone shouts and points at you, alerting your boyfriend of your presence. His head whips in your direction, brown eyes pinpointing you in your place before a 6'2'' man starts barreling towards you. Simon throws the water bottle in his hand away carelessly as you giggle furiously over his excitement.

"Fuck, love," he says as he reaches his hands out, lifting you over the railing within a second. You yelp in surprise.

"Wha—Simon! Put me down!"

Simon just holds onto you tighter, pressing you close to him with your feet still in the air. How is he this strong? "Not a chance, Princess. We fucking won. I'm celebrating with my girl."

You chuckle, holding onto his shoulders while looking down at his sweaty face. "I know. I'm so proud of you."

A shy grin grows on his face, slowly setting you down onto the fake grass. "Really?"

"Really. It's the best you've ever played. Wanted to shout to everyone that it was my boyfriend doing all the best throws out there," you tell him, now looking up at him instead. God, he's tall.

Simon's mouth comes crashing down onto yours, giving you a sloppy kiss that makes you laugh.

"I lov—I loved having you here." Simon pauses in the middle of the sentence, as if he was supposed to say something else. "You're my fucking lucky charm, you know that?"

"I'm not so sure about that. You have lost quite a few games with me here as well," you tell him, ruffling his messy hair with your hand.

"Don't matter. I feel lucky anyway." A boyish grin adorns his face as he leans down to press a kiss to your head. "Now, tell me why in the hell my little lady is out here freezing her arse off 'cause she didn't bring a jacket? Like I told her to do?"

You groan, giving him a glare. "Stop. I should have listened to you, you were right, and all that. I know."

"Well, better for me, 'cause I get to rub my sweaty arms all over you now to warm you up."

"Go shower, you idiot." You push at his chest gently, rolling your eyes. He pretends to stumble backwards, holding his hands up.

"I will. Just wait a few seconds here, will you?"

Simon keeps walking backwards, waiting for your nod of confirmation, before breaking out into a jog towards the locker rooms.

You embrace your torso with your arms, rubbing up and down with your hands to warm your skin. There's so many players left on the field, still messing with each other like rugby teams usually do. Some you recognize—like Johnny and Gaz. They're your friends too. Others you have seen in passing at parties, in class. Some you only know because Simon complains about them to you. The fly-half never was his favorite. Graves, something? They're constantly at each other's throats.

Simon comes running out onto the field once more, this time with his jacket in hand. You sigh, scratching the skin above your eyebrow with a small smile.

"Si—you didn't have to. I'm fine," you say as soon as he's within earshot.

"Shut up. I'm being a bloody gentleman, just like my mum taught me."

The jacket is laid gently around your shoulders. You tug it tighter around you, because despite your words it is cold. And you love his jacket.

"Look at you. So fucking adorable."

You smile up at him, scrunching your nose. You love this fool. You love Simon Riley, have done so for many, many months. Haven't told him yet though. But it can wait—you have all the time in the world.

Simon is avoiding you. A week of not seeing him even once, despite the fact that you work on the same floor. You haven't attended any more meetings since your second day, but you still would have expected to run into him in the break room, or in the hallway. Hell, you've even delivered paper copies to his office and still haven't seen him.

You don't know what you feel about that. You are mad at him and you definitely don't want to be forced into an awkward encounter with your ex-boyfriend, but still not knowing why he left has chipped away at every ounce of confidence you had in yourself. Even now at your grown age. It's been several years since. It's pathetic. Maybe Simon realized that on a Friday night in December during his senior year of college—you are pathetic.

God, why are you still that 20-year old girl? Why are you sitting at your desk, 3:30 PM on a Wednesday, obsessing over every flaw you can come up with all because of a stupid man?

The anger you held towards him last Tuesday has morphed into deep self-hate. You begin to understand his perspective. He doesn't want to interact with the silly little girl he broke up with ages ago in her silly little assistant job. Simon is a senior executive in this company, for god's sake. He doesn't even have to send a second glance your way.

"Y/l/n! Coffee!" your boss yells from within his office. But the yelling and cold tone still doesn't offend you like it would any other person—it's just the way he is. Price has actually been pretty nice to you. You like him as your boss, despite his less than chipper attitude.

"Yes, sir," you shout back, rising from your seat.

You smooth down your dress, fiddle with your hair in the reflection of your laptop, before taking a deep breath. It's just a short trip to the break room. No big deal. Nobody actually cares that you are the new girl.

It's practically empty as you arrive, besides a man reading his newspaper in the corner while seemingly on an important call. Seems a little arrogant, but you know he's high up in the company. At least you think he is. Price doesn't like him. He told you so the first day.

A sigh of relief escapes your lungs as you walk to the expensive, Italian coffee machine. You press the double espresso button. No sugar, no milk. Just straight, black coffee for your boss. Kind of reflects his personality. It buzzes loudly as coffee drips into the cup, you standing there waiting patiently. It has started raining outside. You'll probably be soaking wet tonight once you come back to your apartment.

Someone comes standing beside you, taking a mug off the highest shelf. You catch a glimpse of his expensive suit before glancing upwards. Your lips part, almost just as shocked as you were last Tuesday. You can't catch a fucking break, can you?

"Johnny?"

The now bearded man, with a full head of hair as well, which he definitely didn't have when you last saw him, turns around towards you with a stoic expression. It doesn't change once he gets a good look at who said his name.

"You work here too?" you ask before gulping.

"Y/n," he says, a frown growing in between his eyebrows. "I work here, yes." The Scottish accent that you used to like listening to is now impossibly deeper.

"Uh, I—how you doing? It's been...a while." You glance away, cowering under his gaze. Soap always used to be so kind to you, treated you as if you were one of the boys. Insisted you call him Soap, something only his friends were allowed to call him. Now there is a hidden undertone of distaste in the way he looks at you. "See you've gotten rid of the Mohawk."

"I'm alright. Good to see ya', Y/n, but I gotta go back," he tells you. For some reason you feel like he's actually not all that happy to see you.

"Oh. Okay." The disappointment in your voice is clear. "We'll probably see each other again soon, I guess."

Johnny has already started walking away when the words leave your mouth. You hear him mumble a halfhearted 'Take care, lassie" before leaving you there dumbfounded and upright hurt with your boss's coffee cup. What was that?

You always knew Johnny was as loyal of a friend you could be, but...you didn't know he hated you that much. Especially when you didn't actually do anything against him. Not that you did anything against Simon either. That you know of. But, you know.

The short interaction leaves you jarred for the rest of your work day. You still get things done, but the look on Johnny's face is in the back of your mind the entire time. What did you do that was so bad that John goddamn MacTavish hates you for it?

It wasn't enough to work with the man who broke your heart, but your ex-friend as well. His best friend. You will never be welcomed here if half of the company leaders consist of people who have a grudge against you spanning years.

When the clock strikes 6, Price sends you home. He will probably stay for another few hours, you think, because there has been empty takeout containers in his office the morning after every day this week. You tell him to have a good night, he answers with a grunt, and then you and your bag take off through the hallways.

Your heels click against the floor as you walk through the mostly empty office space. Some rooms still have their lights on, casting shadows over the mahogany desks and the important people sitting behind them.

You halt your steps as you hear two voices wrapped into a conversation with each other. Someone must have left their door open. You don't want to eavesdrop, but it gets hard to resist when you recognize Johnny's voice from earlier.

"You can't avoid her forever," he says.

"Well, don't you think I fucking know that?"

You freeze as you instantly recognize the deep, rumbling timber of Simon's voice answering Soap. Fucking hell—they're talking about you. You can't not eavesdrop now.

"It's just—it's fucking hard, you know? She just walks in here all..."

"Met her in the break room earlier. Making coffee for Price."

"Yeah? She said somethin'?" Simon's voice sounds curious, eager almost.

"Asked how I was doing, the usual. Didn't know I worked here, it seemed like." A sigh sounds from the room, and you press yourself even closer to the wall. Please, for the love of god, don't let anyone walk by. "I couldn't just act like normal. I can't be fuckin'...nice to someone like that. When I know your past."

"What—you were fucking rude, or what? Just ignored her?"

"No, for fuck's sake. Left pretty quick, though. I just don't have any respect for things like that. You know that."

"Yeah." Simon lets out a bitter chuckle. If you could see him, he'd probably be shaking his head now. "I'm still fucking angry, you know? Can barely stand to be in the same room."

You bite down on your lip, shaking your head to yourself. You can't listen to the two of them talk about how much they hate you. How they don't have respect for 'things' like you. It's nauseating. Your limbs shake with poorly contained anger, but still the urge to cry is even stronger.

But there's no other way out than past his office. So you brave it—practically sprint by with your hand covering the side of your face in hope that they won't see who it is. You don't think they do. The blinds were down.

A single, pathetic tear slips down your face as soon as you exit the building. Cars fly past you, lights blaring everywhere, noise unending. You just want to go home. But you know the overthinking won't stop there.

As the obnoxiously loud alarm disturbs your sleep that finally came about three hours before, you groan into your pillow and wish for it to be anything else but Thursday. You want the weekend. You want to sleep in and wallow in the fact that you probably won't have this job for very long after what you heard Simon and Johnny say about you yesterday.

You don't even bother putting on heels this morning. An old pair of ballerina shoes and a thick, fuzzy sweater over your dress is what you drag yourself to the office in. It's cold and you're exhausted and sad. You can't stand people not liking you—it takes over every part of your being. And when it's Simon...

There's a meeting going on. Price gave you a list of everyone's coffee orders and made you run over to the shop across the street. You see Simon's name taunting you at the top of the list. A cortado, extra sugar. Fuck, he's still the same.

It takes twenty minutes of queuing before you manage to get to the counter. Another ten to have everyone's order ready. The bag is ridiculously heavy as you carry it out of the coffee shop. The meeting will probably be over by the time you arrive, and then Price will curse you out and you will cry, because today you cannot handle even the smallest criticism.

You're a little sweaty by the time you reach the fourteenth floor of the building, which is fine, but the panting doesn't exactly add to your charisma that somehow seems to repent your coworkers from your person. For a minute you stand outside the meeting room, gathering yourself enough to be somewhere near presentable. Not entirely, but as close as you will get.

The door is shouldered open with a little force. More than you thought it would take. Nobody really gives a thought to your presence—they continue the meeting as if you weren't there at all, and you like it that way. You try to match each coffee to the right person on the list. But there's thirteen of them, and you have yet to learn everyone's name.

You feel Simon's eyes on you the entire time you spend in that room. He's anything but subtle, staring right at you without shame. He doesn't even answer as someone calls him by name. And it's pure spite leaving him for last. His order is the only one you know by heart, but keeping him waiting for a few extra minutes is deserved, you think. Maybe it just gives him more fuel to hate you, but if he's going to hate you, you might as well give it right back.

His ring-clad fingers clasp around the paper mug, slowly bringing it up to his lips as if taunting you with the existence of them. God, they are so full and pink and—no. Don't even go down that route. It'll all make it so much harder to live like this if you keep thinking about how fucking attractive Simon has become with his still blond hair slightly unkept from running his hand through it during the day and how his shirt strains against his muscles and the fact that he is still so, so tall.

"This is cold."

The room falls silent, at least you think it does, as Simon's harsh voice echoes throughout the confines of the four walls. The coffee belonging to the person sitting beside him is steaming. You know he's lying. He sets down the mug on the table, glaring up at you with such distaste in his eyes. You never thought that look would be reserved for you.

"Can't even get a bloody coffee order right, can you?" Simon's chuckle is deprecating, shaking his head to himself as if his irritation almost amuses him.

But you just flinch. He doesn't see it, but you think the rest of the room does. His tone fucking hurts. And that he would publicly humiliate you like this?

"Oh, uh..." You want so badly to have a good comeback, something that will make him shrink in his chair, but all you can get out is a stupid 'oh'. Standing there all small and speechless makes you feel dumb. "I'll get a new one."

Your response seems to catch his attention. His gaze flickers up, back to you, and the cruelty falters for a few seconds to be replaced by something likened to...regret? Probably not.

"Riley can drink his cold goddamn coffee. He'll survive," Price chimes in, waving with his pen as a signal for whoever was speaking before to continue.

You nod, clenching your jaw to stop the trembling, before escaping out of the room as quickly as possible without it seeming suspicious.

A shaky, deep breath is inhaled and exhaled as soon as you get out. It was already a bad day, yes, but nearly crying because Simon told you his coffee was cold? That's just childish. You need to pull yourself together if you're going to keep this job. Price clearly doesn't like weakness.

The rest of the day is calm. Mostly you're reviewing Price's schedule, emailing people back and forth about changing meetings and setting them up. He even gives you an extra break, which is so well needed and probably out of pity, but you'll take it.

You realize that you are so fucking petty when your final task of the day, once again, is to deliver some kind of contract to Simon's office. You know he's out on a meeting with a client—you heard him walking past earlier, talking to that client on the phone. You gather your belongings, say goodbye to Price, before heading towards Simon's on your way down.

Stepping inside feels like walking right into his arms. His cologne hangs heavy in the air. Fuck him for still using the same scent.

The entirety of his office is neatly organized, everything in its place. So you move things. A sharpener gets to change its designated spot from desk to shelf. Files labeled under 'F' gets shoved in between 'S' and 'T'. You even go as far as taking out some of the files from one folder, placing it in another. The printer gets unplugged.

Doing something to his old copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that stands proudly on display in his bookcase crosses your mind, but you do want to stay alive long enough to see the end of the week, at least. You remember one time when he slept with it as if it was a stuffed animal. You're being petty, not suicidal.

Your final masterpiece in your rampage is the unscrewing of a wheel on his desk chair. Just the thought of Simon pushing his chair back only for it to suddenly tilt makes you giggle. God, you really are a child.

Any sane person wouldn't even notice half the things you've done in here. But Simon is not sane. This can throw off his entire day, week even. You know from firsthand experience.

Yeah, Simon goddamn Riley broke your fucking heart and now has the audacity to punish you for it. You won't take that.

Simon has been in such a bad mood the entire day. You heard him cursing all the way from his office. Some poor intern got yelled at in the hallway (you really are sorry for that), and you overheard a few of your colleagues mention that he didn't speak to anyone during the entire morning meeting. Price apparently cursed him out for it in front of everyone. That's a little funny, at least.

On one hand you feel proud of your ability to still piss him off without him knowing. On the other hand, you're not too happy yourself. Your situation hasn't exactly changed—half the office still hasn't talked to you, and the ones that do keep strictly work related conversations. You're lonely.

Despite it being Friday, you get off when the sun has already set. It's pouring rain outside and you don't have an umbrella. You really don't have the energy to deal with that as you gaze warily out of the window from your desk. You could take the subway instead of walk all the way home, but you would still get soaking wet during the trek to the station.

"Goodbye, Mr. Price. Have a good weekend," you say, popping your head into his office with a sweet smile on your lips.

"Call me John," he answers without even looking up from whatever report he's reviewing. Still that monotone voice as if he's always tired of hearing people talk.

"Oh. Uh—okay, John," you stutter out. What? He never lets anyone call him by first name.

"Get home safe," Price tells you. Has he grown soft? What's happening? "Have a fuck load of reports needing organization on Monday." There it is.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head lightly, before mumbling another 'bye' to your boss. He lifts his head in a subtle nod as answer. Actually, you might have a chance to stay here if he likes you. He is the CEO after all.

The hallways are dark except the few offices still lit up like every night. These people barely have a life outside of work, it seems like. It's kind of sad. Then again, you don't either, if what counts as a life is having friends and significant others and people who care about you. But at least you have time for doughing in your couch and taking a walk around the neighborhood.

But your daydreaming and overthinking of course leads you into trouble. Rounding the corner forces you right into another person, making you stumble backwards a few steps before a clammy hand grabs your arm to stop you from falling.

"I'm so, so sorry," you say, looking up at the man standing in front of you. It's that executive-something Price doesn't like. Shepherd? An American.

"Don't worry that pretty little head of yours, darling," he says, without backing away from you. He keeps that close distance, letting you feel his dank breath properly.

You gulp, before attempting to release your arm from his grip. He doesn't budge. Your heart rate speeds up instantly.

"Haven't talked to you properly before, sweetheart. Just seen you strutting 'round these hallways in your dresses." He looks down at your wide eyes, before they slowly rake over the rest of your body. Your chest starts to heave up and down as if you've just come back from a run. It's clear he wants something more than just a simple conversation with the new assistant.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I have to go. Train," you stutter out, attempting to tear yourself away from his harsh grip around your arm. You can't.

"Don't be like that, darlin'. I just wanna have a talk, that's all," he tells you, his warm breaths hitting your face.

"Please, sir, I really have to go. We can talk on Monday."

Shepherd raised an eyebrow, gaze flickering down to your chest again as if you can't see it clearly, before tapping your cheek condescendingly with the palm of his hand.

"Alright, sweetheart. Come into my office on Monday. Appreciate it if you'd wear one of those pretty dresses. Makes my day much better, having somethin' sweet to look at."

A wet kiss is pressed to the back of your hand—something that he might think is gentlemanly, but sends shivers down your entire spine out of disgust. You're frozen still as he squeezes your hip before he leaves, leaving you to hear his dress shoes clink against the floor.

The further away he gets, the harder it gets for you to breathe. Panic grows in your chest, tears already threatening to fall as you finally get yourself to move, rushing towards the elevator and pressing the button too many times.

He was so close. And the way his grip tightened as you tried to step away, the squeeze of your hip. It's too much like last time. Too much like that fucking December night all those years ago.

Clear pictures of Philip and his friends flashes past the forefront of your mind as you rush from the elevator, already heaving from your tears. It's empty, thank god, since the guards are posted outside of the main entrance. Philip morphs into the man from just a minute ago. Pushing you against the wall at that party, grinning right in your face as you tell them to stop.

The backdoor leading into the alleyway beside the building is where your feet leads you towards without consulting you. It's better, maybe. You don't want anyone to see you like this.

But those goddamn revolving doors acting as the main entrance starts to move, you hear that, and soon enough someone steps inside with haste in their walk.

"Y/l/n!" someone shouts angrily. You know exactly who it is. "Why the fuck did you move all my stuff? I swear to god—"

Your back is facing away from him, but maybe he still sees the way your shoulders shake from behind. Maybe that's why he falters in his steps. Maybe that's why he decides to cut the first real sentences he's said to you directly since you started working here short.

The last crumb of composure turns to dust, and your hand flies up to your mouth to muffle the first real sob from your lips. You escape through the door, out into the cold, rainy alleyway as your cries turn too forceful to stop.

It's wet and dirty and crawling with grovel as your knees hit the ground harshly. You manage to turn yourself around to lean your back against the cold brick wall instead. It'll all bring you grief later, but right now your legs can't carry your weight.

With a bang, the door flies wide open once more. Long legs bend down, big hands on your arms.

"Y/n. Y/n, c'mon. Why are you crying?"

Simon's voice is drowning in urgency, his shakes of your shoulders almost forceful. But you can't stop crying. And you're still so fucking angry with him.

"Don't touch me," you sob, pushing his hands away from you. The rain grows heavier the same second, soaking the entirety of you as you sit there on the dirty ground.

"Alright, alright. I won't," he breathes out, holding his hands up beside him. Those big, veiny fucking hands that you have missed every day since he last put them on you. "But you gotta tell me what's wrong."

"Why?" you almost yell, tilting your head up, away from the palms of your hands previously hiding your face. You get raindrops right in your eyes. "You hate me, don't you? Can't even stand to be in the same room as me!"

"Y/n," he growls, as if he's scolding you with the simple mention of your name. "You know bloody fucking well I don't hate you. Now tell me what the hell's making you sob like this. You're sitting on the ground, for fuck's sake."

You dry away your tears, despite it being so futile in this rain, while letting out a bitter chuckle. "All due respect, you're the last person I wanna talk to."

Simon lets out a shaky breath, one filled with frustration. "So fucking stubborn..."

He shakes his head. "Just—just let me drive you home, at least, okay? The trains from this station are cancelled. Blowing up to a storm."

The words you were about to force out through your tears disappear completely. Instead you just stare at the man now looking down at you with something likened to concern. Still has that frown in between his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to get in a car with you, Riley," you mumble out. If you had your way it would sound angrier, more assertive, but your voice fails you.

"Riley, huh? That's where it's at?" Simon scoffs, as if he didn't call you by your last name a few minutes earlier. "Just get up, c'mon."

"No." You shake your head, looking down in your lap. In reality you're not just apprehensive because of your anger towards him—he's a man at the end of the day, and you are his ex-girlfriend who he dislikes very strongly.

"Are you—for god's sake." He shakes his head again. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n. I would never harm you. Not any woman," he tells you. How can he still read you this well?

You don't answer. Just take your wet sleeve to dry away even more tears. How to stop crying in front of your ex seems to be an art you haven't mastered yet.

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. You let me get you a taxi home, after you get out of this fucking rain and step inside. That alright with you?"

You nod with a sniffle, reaching for your bag beside you.

"C'mon."

Simon nods towards the door, reaching his hand out. You take it, because there's no chance you would manage to get up all by yourself. But that's the only reason.

He holds the door open for you, letting you slip inside again. Exactly how much the rain soaked you hits you as you step inside, instantly freezing cold and uncomfortable. And goddamn your right knee hurts. Falling down to the ground did come with consequences, it seems.

"Fucking hell," Simon mutters under his breath as soon as he gets inside, dripping water down onto the shiny floor. His suit is entirely soaked too.

You see a glance of yourself in a mirror as you take off your heels. There's mascara underneath your eyes. You try to remove it furiously with your fingers.

"Don't have to do that. Nothing that I haven't seen before," Simon speaks up from behind you, looking at you as well through the mirror.

You glance up at him, just for half a second, before lowering your arms slowly. And then you rummage through your bag with trembling hands, finding a napkin you kept from a restaurant. You dry away the mascara with that instead.

Simon looks at you, really looks at you, as you stand there dripping water onto the floor and makeup ruined and your clothes dirty. You feel so vulnerable underneath his gaze. What is he trying to find?

"Bloody hell, Y/n. You're bleeding for fuck's sake. That's a fucking gash."

He points at your knee. You look down, seeing the outpouring of blood running down your leg from the open wound right below your knee. It does look very, very bad. Like, you're slowly becoming nauseous by looking at it. How didn't you notice it earlier?

"Oh."

"I'm driving you wether you like it or not." Simon stalks up to you, grabbing a hold of your arm to put it around his shoulder. His arm sneaks its way around your waist. Fuck.

"Do I get a say in this?" you ask. You know what the answer is, but you also don't understand. What is this? Why is he doing this for you? A few days ago he was talking shit about you with Soap and humiliated you purposely in front of your co-workers. Now he's getting worried about you crying and driving you home from work?

"No."

Part 2

#cod mw2 #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost fic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #back to december

[exeggcute]

well it's been almost six months which I think is long enough to break my posting embargo, so, uh: guess what! I got liposuction lol. specifically hip/thigh lipo to quell some pretty wicked dysphoria that stemmed from having such a feminine silhouette… and I have to say I'm really, really pleased with the results.

tbh my initial plan was to keep things under wraps for good which is why I haven't said anything about it yet (and even as I'm typing this up I keep debating whether to post it or trash it)—partly because I was/am worried people might Act Weird about it and partly because I get a little embarrassed talking about bodygendershit in general. but here we are. one reason I do feel compelled to finally share, other than being super happy about how everything went, is that I haven't encountered a lot of discussions about body sculpting as a possible avenue of gender-affirming care (although, to be fair, maybe I just haven't been looking in the right places) and I figured at least one person out there would be interested to learn about what I did and where I've ended up so far.

anyway. pics/details under the cut—nothing even remotely risqué (or yucky), I just know that body image stuff is fraught + not everyone is eager to hear surgery talk.

to be precise: I got tumescent liposuction of the inner and outer thigh, plus this ultrasound thing to help the skin shrink. a different surgeon who I consulted (but ultimately did not go with for a number of reasons) said that even if I got the results I wanted from lipo, which he claimed was unlikely, the affected skin would look loose/baggy/weird forever... and that surgeon was wrong on both counts lol. my elasticity was great bitch!!!!

they didn't take out that much fat overall, only eight pounds or so, but it's way more about the Where than the How Much. my actual surgeon (who kicks ass btw) said lipo isn't that great for weight loss per se, and what it's really good for is sculpting targeted areas—so basically exactly what I did. six months post-op I actually weigh about the same as what I did pre-op, but the distribution has held steady; more weight goes to my stomach now and less, proportionally, goes to my hips since there are fewer fat cells in that area now. so my silhouette retains its new shape!

the overall change is admittedly on the subtle side, since I'm pretty short and have wide hip bones (and you can't change your literal skeleton) but it's still gone a looooooong way. the main thing I requested from my surgeon was "I want to fit in men's pants" and boy did he deliver.

also a good place to note that if you're in the las vegas area looking for a plastic and/or cosmetic surgeon—this guy is board-certified in both btw—then I absolutely have the guy for you. feel free to DM me for details. lipo is clearly his specialty (and it shows!) but he also does a lot of breast revisions/mastopexy (i.e., fixing implants that other surgeons did a bad job putting in), regular implants, and face work (particularly facial feminization surgery). one thing that sold me on this guy was an enthusiastic yelp review from a local stripper who said he hid the incisions for her breast lift in her armpits so none of her clients would notice that she'd had work done... a true master of his craft

okay you've scrolled enough so I'll give you what you're here for lol. I don't have many pre-op pics because I was obviously unhappy with how I looked and was not taking full-body selfies on a regular basis, but here's a few I took ~2 weeks beforehand:

these super thin men's joggers were my go-to dysphoria pants, to the point where I bought five pairs in different colors, but now they're so baggy on me that they have the opposite effect and make it look like I have wider hips than I do. so I retired them from my wardrobe...

...except not immediately because I had to wear compression garments 24/7 for the first three months post-op and these joggers were just loose enough to comfortably wear a medical girdle underneath them at all times, 110° degree temperatures be damned. (not that I was going out much for the first month since I was soooooooooooo fucking bruised and sore lol.) here's a few post-op pics in the same style pants:

(first pic is less than 24 hours post-op, about to go to my follow-up appointment, looking greasy as fuck because I wasn't allowed to shower yet; second pic two days post-op and also post-shower, thankfully; third pic is about a month post-op.)

so, like, CLEAR improvement already. I will not be posting pictures of my black-and-blue-and-swollen-all-over legs but considering how puffy I was from getting internally pummeled with a cannula it's wild that I still saw improvement literally as soon as I came home.

recovery was obviously not a blast in the moment but I got off easy, all things considered. I was supposed to get drains put in and was Not looking forward to that at all lol. the first thing I asked when I woke up after surgery was "how many drains?" because they weren't sure if I'd end up needing two or four, but it turned out the answer was zero. no drains!!!

I did have to lie with my feet elevated for the first two weeks straight, and had major bruising that receded over the first month (you could barely see my regular skin underneath all the mottled spots), but little to no nerve pain, no weird complications, and I was more or less back to normal after six weeks. also noelle took very very good care of me and was brave about injecting me with blood thinners so I wouldn't get clots and die :)

when I went into it I was fully expecting to get huge vertical scars up and down the sides of my legs (and had made peace with it!) but instead I wound up with four tiny incisions like this, each less than two inches long:

what's totally crazy is that the scars are basically Gone now. like even when I'm trying to find them I struggle to locate the ones in the front. I joked to noelle that if someone did an autopsy on me they might not figure out that I'd had cosmetic surgery, especially since the skin on my thighs is back to its normal color and texture. (in this scenario I like to imagine that it's dana scully giving me the autopsy and I'm in an x-files plot where instead of regular lipo I got alien lipo and mulder figures it out purely by accident.)

with lipo it can take up to a year to see the full results but I already feel so much fucking better in my body that seeing old pre-op pics throws me for a loop. and I can absolutely wear men's pants now—pants for short and stocky men, to be fair, but actual regular men's pants and not exclusively Pants For Men With Huge Butts And Legs. which is the only style I could even hope to fit in before. and even then it was a stretch.

big pic dump of shitty mirror selfies taken over the last few months:

:)

(also I really debated sharing this one but I already included it in the yelp review I left my surgeon so fuck it: here's a tasteful before-and-after in my undies where you can see my bare legs for easier comparison. left pic is one week pre-op, right pic is about five months post-op. including it as a link instead of embedding it in the post in case your boss happens to be reading over your shoulder at this very moment. also this is the one and only time you will ever see me stripped down on tumblr dot com so don't get used to it lol.)

[callsigndragon]

Seeing Red | Ch. 50: Gone ✍️📲

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: THE MOLE IS REVEALED. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGST AND FLUFFFFFFFFF. mentions of pregnancy, Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo (he deserves his own warning) a bit of jealousy and... big ASS DRAMA AT THE END.

A/N: Am I sorry? Not really. Hope you enjoy the pain :)

Follow @jinxlibrary for updates!

Masterlist on pinned!

Jake leaves the phone on the table and looks around, searching for any familiar faces from his childhood or maybe an unfamiliar one that shouldn't be here at the moment. 

Gregory always said that you should rely on the same people to take care of the "delicate matters”. That meant that you couldn't just go around hiring people to follow your target. It's troublesome. If someone went to follow him, Jake would know. There's only one guy who would do such a job in his father's name. 

Nobody knew his real name, but they called him Vlad. He wasn't Russian, nor did he look like one, but Jake never asked about the meaning behind it. He couldn’t care less. Vlad had a terrible scar on his left eye, but by some miracle, he wasn't blind. If that guy was around, he would know. Jake's worst fear was turning around one day and seeing Vlad standing behind him. He was his father's left hand. 

But Vlad wasn't here. 

"Jake?" Mickey asks, following his eyes around the bar.

"Someone's listening to our conversation." 

"Man, the only other person here except the Daggers is Joe, and he's in his late 60s." 

Jake looks at Mickey, scanning his face. "Then who told my father that we were talking about all the food we had on the Fourth of July?" Jake whispers, not wanting to reveal to whoever is listening what he knows.

Mickey frowns, searching around the table and napkin dispenser. He presses a finger to his lips and looks under the wooden surface. He’s looking for a microphone. This is their designated table, the one that Penny always reserves for them. It could be easy to just leave a microphone somewhere and hear everything the group says. 

But there's nothing. 

"Hey hermano, can I take your phone for a sec? Mine just died." 

"Sure, go ahead." Jake unlocks it and hands it to him, with Mickey wasting no time in looking around his apps as if he were looking for something. "Man, how many kid apps do you have?" 

"Red has even more. I only have…" Jake takes a moment to count in his mind. "Four." 

"Well, it makes sense that you have so many." But Mickey’s words don't match his expression, as he raises his hand, palm open and fingers spread, and vocalizes 'five'. 

There's an app that shouldn't be there. Jake takes the phone and looks at it. No, he doesn't remember getting that app. Jake shakes his head, and Mickey takes the phone back, dropping it inside his own beer mug. He takes Jake by the arm and goes to the bar.

"They were listening to you." Mickey informs, looking at his own phone to check for any unknown apps. 

"Can an app have access to all my phone's data?" 

"Yeah, texts, calls, emails, and photos—and some of them can listen to you the whole time. Did you have problems with the battery?" 

Jake blinks, realizing that the reason his phone is always running low on battery isn't because it's old, but because this damned app is working all the time. "Yeah, I did." 

"Now you know why." 

"But how did that app get onto my phone?" 

"Someone with skills who knows your phone number can download it remotely on your phone." 

"I change my phone number regularly so he doesn't find me," Jake points out, a rule he followed for the last twenty years of his life. 

"He texted you in Hawaii, Jake. He had your phone number." Mickey recalls, running a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. "Shit, they know Liam's schedule." 

"What?" 

"It was on the group chat. They know." 

"Who has Liam now?" Jake pats his pockets, looking for his car keys. 

"Nat and Ames are here, Penny is working so… Mav." Liam is not safe, nor is Mav either.

"I need to go. Where's Red?" Just as he finishes his question, he sees you coming out of the bathroom, followed by the other two girls. "Red, come on, we need to leave." 

You look at him with wide eyes, and your voice trembles when you speak. "W-why, what's happening?"

"Jake had a parental control app installed on his phone that he didn’t download. It was spyware." 

"Holy shit. They've been listening?" Ames asks, looking at her own phone to see if there's any app that shouldn't be there.

"Liam's schedule." You say, grabbing Jake's arm. "We need to leave, now." 

Both of you run to Jake's car, while you unlock your phone to check if you also have an app that shouldn't be there. Nothing is out of place. 

"How did you find out?" You ask once the two of you are on the road. 

"Gregory texted me talking about the amount of food we ate on the Fourth of July." 

"Son of a bitch." 

"I'm sorry, sweets. This is all my fault." 

"Jake Seresin, if you apologize one more time for something that is not your fault, I will punch you." 

"Please, don't. You have a serious right hook." 

You get to Mav's in no time; the pilot and the kid are playing with the dogs in the living room. You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding. He’s okay. Your baby is okay. 

"It's too soon for you to come get Liam, did something happen?" Mav asks, getting up from the floor and dusting off his pants. 

"There was an app on my phone listening to everything."

"Okay… I'll delete you from every group chat before we start planning Liam's schedule again." Mav says, grabbing his phone. You look at Liam, who is lying on the floor with Milo’s head over his tummy. Milo is like the brother Liam doesn’t have. Yet. 

You try not to touch your belly because you don't want anyone else to discover that you're pregnant. Things are hard enough as they are.

“I’m gonna call a friend.” You say, knowing that maybe you should have done this before, but there was already an NCIS agent taking care of the case, so you didn’t think it was necessary. 

“Do you think someone can help us?” Jake puts his hand on your lower back and presses his lips to your temple as he murmurs. “I just want this whole mess to end.” 

“Don’t worry. He’s the best.” 

“Okay, what’s happening?” Jake asks, closing the oven door after putting the pizza inside. 

You blink, looking at him with a surprised expression. You drop the t-shirt you've been folding, and push Liam’s backpack to the side. He’s going to stay a few days with Penny and Mav while you and Jake help DiNozzo and McGee solve this fucking drama. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve been awfully quiet since we came back home, Red.” 

Yeah, you have. You keep thinking about whether you should tell him about the baby or not. If you do, Jake will try to leave you out of this. Maybe he will leave again to protect you. And you can't afford that. 

You sigh, looking down. "It's nothing, really. I was just thinking about everything he might have heard through your phone." 

He closes the distance between you two, his calloused fingers lifting your chin. "There's more than that. You can't lie to me, Red." 

You close your eyes and take a shaky breath, silently telling him that something is bothering you. “It’s too soon, I haven’t gone to the doctor yet. I need to check if everything is okay, and then...”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Jake holds your face between his hands, kissing your forehead. “Breathe, sweets. Why do you need to go to the doctor? Are you sick?” 

You shake your head, hot tears fall on the tips of his thumbs. You can’t lie to him. He missed every day of your first pregnancy. He needs to know. He deserves to know that there’s someone more worth fighting for. 

“You’re scaring me.” He mutters, his voice thick and hoarse. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

“Pregnant.” He repeats, and you open your eyes, and you can see in him a mirror of your own emotions. Scared and excited in equal parts. “You’re pregnant.” 

“Yes.” 

He laughs, his eyes welling up with tears as he gazes at your stomach. “We’re gonna have another baby.” 

“Yes.” You start laughing with him, wiping his tears away. “Ames says that your aiming skills are legendary.” 

Jakes snorts, hugging you tightly. “Hawaii, right?” 

You nod, inhaling his perfume. There’s no safer place at this moment than in his arms. “Everyone was right; we made a baby on our honeymoon.”

He kisses your lips softly and kneels down, his hands on your hips. “Hi, princess. I can’t wait to meet you.” 

You run your fingers through his locks, chuckling. “You don’t know if it’s gonna be a girl.” 

“Shhhh, don’t listen to mama. Of course you are a sweet princess.” He says, lifting your t-shirt and kissing your stomach. “Now you gotta be a good girl and stay there for the next eight months.” 

“I still have to go to the doctor, you know.” 

“We’ll go tomorrow.” He gets up from the floor, kissing you passionately. His right hand caressing your belly. “We’re having another baby, oh my god.” 

“Let’s wait a bit until we tell Liam. I want to make sure that the baby is okay.” He nods, grinning like he just won the lottery. He walks to the oven, his movements looking more like dance moves than actual steps. He’s gleaming with joy. How can someone look so cute while taking a pizza out of the oven? “You look like a kid who just got new toys.” 

"I have a new baby; of course I'm excited." 

A knock on the door pulls you out of your bubble. Liam looks at you, and you signal him to come with you, Milo following the kid. Jake moves to the door slowly, and you can feel your heartbeat in your ears. The doorbell rings, and you grab the nearest thing, which happens to be a pan, ready to hit whoever walks through that door. 

“Red? It’s me, DiNozzo.” A muffled male voice says from the other side of the door. 

“Jesus, Tony.” You open the door and see the brunette standing in front of you. McGee is right behind him with an awkward smile. You nod in his direction with a tight smile of your own. Maybe you should have told Jake that you and McGee had something in the past. “Hey McGee.” 

“Red.” He nods. Yeah, things are still a bit awkward. 

“I didn’t expect you for another hour.” You mutter, moving to the side so they can enter. 

“When you told me that your kid was in danger, I got on the first plane I could. That’s what cousins are for, right?” 

Jake looks at you with a frown. “He’s your cousin?” 

“Not really. His father and my father were cousins.” You explain, feeling Liam’s hand on your leg. You look down, smiling at your son. “Hey baby, can you say hi to these gentlemen?” 

“Hello, I’m Liam.” He mutters, making Tony kneel down and offer his hand to the kid. 

“Hello, Liam. My name is Tony. And this guy here is Timmy.” 

“Hi, Tony. Hi, Timmy” Liam waves, and McGee’s expression softens immediately. Yeah, nobody can resist Liam’s cuteness. 

“Bubs, can you go give Milo some water? I think he’s thirsty.” Jake says, brushing Liam’s blonde locks out of his face. 

“Milo you want water?” Liam asks the dog, who just barks, and they both leave to get some water. 

“Well, now we can talk.” Jake says, signaling the couch. “Please sit down. I’m Jake, Red’s husband.” 

“I would have loved to meet you under better circumstances, but...” Tony sits on the couch, patting the seat next to him, and looks at McGee. “Guess this will have to do for now.”

“Well, tell us all you know. We’ve read Walters’ report, so we know the important info. Jake is Jacob St. James, the heir that ran away when he was 17, Gregory planned James Seresin’s murder…” DiNozzo lists all the important events of the case, looking at the two of you and waiting, in case you want to add something. 

“He had someone following Red’s every step for three years.” Jake says while sitting next to you.

“You have proof?” 

“He sent me pictures. But... he apparently had spyware installed on my phone. Could have erased everything by now.” 

“Where’s the phone?” McGee asks, getting his laptop out of his bag. He starts typing something with one hand, the other one extended in Jake's direction, palm facing up. 

You get up, and get a zip-top plastic bag from the counter. It’s filled with rice and Jake’s phone. You place the bag in his hand, prompting the blonde agent to raise an eyebrow. “Our friend dropped it inside a beer mug.” 

“You could’ve turned it off.” DiNozzo says, poking the bag. 

“No, Tony. It doesn’t work like that. Once the spyware is installed on the phone, it can work even when the phone is turned off.”

“Okay, McGoogle. Thanks for the info.” He pats McGee’s back and turns to the both of you. "Well, he's been listening. Anything else?" 

"Someone followed us on our honeymoon and sent a photo to our boss. He wanted to kick one of us out. My guess is that he wanted Jake to be left alone here, but Admiral Kazansky offered me an instructor position and we’re allowed to be together this way.” You explain, playing with your wedding band, a habit you have picked up again during this last month. 

“Have you been directly threatened by him?” McGee questions, this time looking directly at you. 

Jake coughs, not liking the stares that McNerd is giving you. “He told me he was giving me a last chance.” 

“When?” 

“This afternoon.” 

“Then we must work quickly. He might act very soon.” Tony gets up from the couch and grabs his bag. “Do you have a place where we can stay?” 

“We don’t have room here, and the couches are small…” You look at Jake, an idea popping in your mind. “Hey, you still have your house keys, right?” 

“Yeah, legally I still live there because we’re not married, you know.” He stands up, walking to the little table where you two leave your keys once you enter the house, and grabs his keys. “Come, guys. I’ll show you where it is. It’s only three blocks away.”

McGee gathers his things, giving Tony the bag of rice. There’s something comical about the way he looks at the bag. 

“Red.” Jake calls out for you, nodding towards the kitchen. You follow him, ignoring the little voice in the back of your mind that is telling you that he shouldn’t leave the house. Not now. “So… why is this guy looking at you like he came out of Bridgerton and he couldn’t believe that the love of his life got married to another man?” 

“Are you comparing McGee to Anthony Bridgerton?” You snort, covering your mouth to not laugh. 

“I don’t know, it’s just weird. Did something happened between you two?” 

The small, tremulous tone of his voice tells you more than his words. “It was before I met you, and it didn’t work out. He was in Washington, I was deployed all the time…” 

“So there’s no feelings left?” 

You grab his hand, your thumb caressing the warm platinum band in his ring finger. “Jacob, I will crawl to the end of the world to be with you if I had to. There won’t be anyone else. Ever.” 

“I’m the only one who crawls here, love. Queens don’t do that.” He smirks, pulling you close by the belt loops of your pants to kiss you. “Imma get those two to my house. I’ll see you in a bit.” 

“Be careful, okay? I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You mutter, your eyes traveling all over his face, as if it were the last time you’ll be able to do it. 

“I’ll be three blocks away. Nothing will happen. I promise.” He kisses your cheek and pats Liam’s head, before getting out of the house with McGee and DiNozzo. 

It only takes the group of men a few minutes to get to the house. Jake helps McGee with his bags, carrying them to the door. 

“Are you sure you can prove that he’s behind all this?” Jake finally asks the question he’s been having in his head all day since you told him that you were calling a friend. 

“Walters managed to get a lot of information about your grandpa’s case, he has proof that the accident was planned, but he didn’t manage to get anything that pointed in his direction. I mean, Gregory planned a big funeral for him.” DiNozzo says, explaining the difficulties of the case. They don’t have witnesses, or a direct link with Gregory or SJAC. 

“What if I made him confess?” Jake’s suggestion makes both agents freeze in their tracks. 

“You want to meet him?” McGee implies, shaking his head. “We came here to protect you, not to allow you to put yourself in danger.” 

“I have a family to protect. I could go to his house, trick him into thinking that I’m going back with him, and make him confess everything. I’ll wear a mic. It’s the best plan.” Jake assures them, groaning at the way both agents mutter a resounding no to his plan. “It’s the only way, and you know it.” 

“We’ll find a plan that doesn’t involve my cousin being left without a husband. Now, can you please open up the door?” 

“Sometimes you have to take risks.” Jake opens the door, lighting the house, and leads them to the main bedroom. “This one has a big bed. The other one is small. Liam’s size. So you’ll have to share this one.” 

“Not again.” McGee mutters, dropping his bags on the bed. “Thanks for letting us stay here.” 

“It’s the least I can do. Come home for breakfast tomorrow, there’s no food in here.” Jake offers, patting DiNozzo’s back. “Let me check if the fridge still works; it was giving me a hard time before I moved to Red’s house.” 

Jake walks to the kitchen, thinking about the cold pizza that’s waiting for him when he gets back home. He sighs—maybe it’s not too late to order some takeout. Something catches Jake’s eye. The backdoor of the house is open. And there’s a black box on the counter.

That shouldn’t be there. 

“Guys?” Jake calls them, and Tony appears behind him, gun in hand, looking everywhere. 

“What happens?” 

“That box shouldn’t be there.” Jake looks at it. It’s too small to have an explosive, smaller than a phone. The biggest thing it could fit would be a pendrive. Jake grabs the box with shaky hands, opening it slowly. 

Jake starts running before the box can hit the floor. McGee kneels, grabbing the object that fell from the black box. 

It’s a chess piece. 

A red queen. 

Jake runs faster than he’s ever done it in his life. There’s no time to get the car, and he doesn’t even have the keys. He decided to leave his own car at home and make the small trip in DiNozzo's. 

He should have listened to you. You had a bad feeling. You somehow knew that this was the opportunity Gregory had been waiting for. He had been waiting until one of you found a solution to all your problems, giving the two of you a false sense of hope and making you feel that everything was going to end soon, just so he could take everything away from Jake. 

How could he have been so stupid? 

He trips on his own feet, almost falling to the floor, but he stops the fall with his hands, getting up quickly. His lungs are screaming at him to stop running, twinges of pain leaving him breathless, begging him to stop and catch some air, but he can’t. That red queen pointed at you, and if something happens to you, he won’t forgive himself. 

He can’t lose you and his little girl. 

He can’t. 

Jake finally sees his home, the lights are turned off, and that scares him. He pulls out the.38 Special revolver he'd been carrying on his ankle for the past month and takes a few deep breaths to relax before entering the house. 

He wants to call out for you, but that’s a rookie mistake. He can’t make his presence known. 

Milo emerges from Liam's room, limping and grunting at Jake until the animal realizes it's not an intruder, but his owner. Jake crouches and pats the dog’s side, feeling him. The dog whines when Jake’s fingers touch a certain spot. Someone has kicked Milo. 

That’s when Jake notices your unconscious body lying on the floor. 

No. No. No. No. No.

“Red?” He holds your body in his arms, looking around to see any wounds, any signs of blood, or anything else. “Babe, come on, wake up. Wake up, please.” 

You grunt, opening your eyes slowly until you focus on him, and then your eyes open wide in pure terror. “Liam.” You whisper, getting up from the floor and running to his room while holding the back of your head in pain. 

But there’s no one in his room. 

Your baby is not there. 

He’s gone.

#top gun maverick #top gun x reader #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun fanfiction #jake hangman x reader #hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman imagine #top gun #jake hangman fic #jake hangman x fem!reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin imagine #hangman top gun #hangman seresin x reader

[leiawritesstories]

Stick Season (Part 1)

Rowaelin Month 2023, Day 1: Song Fic

inspired by "Stick Season" by Noah Kahan (giggles in Frederick) I've had so much fun writing this and I am beyond excited to share it with all of you! happy Rowaelin Month once again! <3

Word count: 2,480

Warnings: swearing, bad decisions, heartbreak, not-great parenting, angst, simmering sexual tension, pining idiots in love but they won't admit it

Enjoyyyy! (yes there will be more, i promise)

@rowaelinscourt

Prologue

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downtown Orynth, Vermont, still looked exactly the same as it always did when Aelin paid her occasional, brief visit to her hometown. Same “cozy” wooden buildings, same storefronts lining Main Street, same pine boughs wrapped around the light posts, same dusting of snow brushed across the rooftops in a postcard-picture kind of perfection. Same kindhearted shopowners waving at her as she strolled down the cleanly swept sidewalk. 

If she smiled hard enough, maybe she could pretend there wasn’t a gaping hole in her heart. 

Three years since she cut the other half of her soul out of her life, and no amount of friendship and laughter and girls’ nights could fill the empty chasm that leaving Rowan left in her. 

“Aelin?” The voice came from her left as she passed the local bookstore, a place where she’d spent some of the happiest hours of her youth. 

She turned. “Philippa!” A genuine smile curved up her lips. “I didn’t think you were still working here all the time.” 

Philippa waved off the mild protest with a flippant hand. “You know how busy it gets at this time of year, my dear.” She pulled Aelin into a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you again!” 

Aelin melted into the older woman’s motherly embrace. “Want to know a secret?” 

“Is that even a question?” Philippa laughed, opening the bookstore door and nudging her inside. “I live to collect secrets.” 

“Of course you do,” Aelin chuckled. “Well, here it is: I wasn’t planning to be back home this year. Or next year. Or anytime soon, really.” She blew out a short, sharp sigh. “I’m only here because…well…” She trailed off, not fully ready to voice the reason she’d returned. 

Philippa patted her arm. “It’s alright to let yourself grieve, dear. Your mother’s passing was a shock to all of us.” 

“And something of a relief,” Aelin mumbled under her breath. 

Ever tactful, Philippa pretended not to hear. “Will you be here through New Year’s?” she asked, smoothly changing the somber subject. 

Aelin nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive back to New York sometime around January fifteenth, unless Dad needs me for longer. I’m working remotely until then.” 

“Thank goodness for modern technology, right?” 

“Right.” She half-grinned. “I don’t suppose you’re still resisting that modern nonsense, hmm?” 

Philippa pretended to hide. “You caught me.” 

Aelin fake-groaned. “How many times have I told you that it will help the bookstore grow? Think of all the customers you could reach with something as simple as a website and maybe an Instagram profile!” Pasion seeped into her words, coloring her thoughts with excitement. “And you could easily keep up with the online orders–that crappy old monitor you have barely runs basic word programming, let alone internet.” 

“You be nice to Mort, now,” Philippa teased. She’d named the bookstore’s ancient computer Mort in honor of the many times it had brushed with death. 

“Mort deserves to be laid to rest once and for all,” Aelin laughed. “Are you trying to keep me in town or something, asking when I’m heading home?” 

“Maybe.” The older woman’s laugh lines crinkled as she grinned. “Or maybe I’m just planning to offer you a job here while you’re in town.” 

“You know I work in publishing, right?” Aelin raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure that’s enough books and book stuff for one woman.” 

“How long has it been since you remembered why you work in publishing in the first place?” 

The question made Aelin stop in her tracks, mind whirling as she sifted through years of memories. “I…years. God, it’s been…years.” For a moment, yearning flickered across her face. “Maybe not since the last time I volunteered here at Christmas.” 

“Exactly.” Philippa gave Aelin’s hand a motherly squeeze. “Christmas season is far too busy for one old woman to handle alone. So…will you help me?” 

A fond smile curved Aelin’s lips. “Of course I will.” 

~

Snow-dusted evergreen boughs adorned the lampposts of downtown Orynth, weaving their crisp pine breezes through the early evening air. Hands tucked into the pockets of his quilted flannel jacket, Rowan strolled down Main Street, determined to avoid being sidetracked into one of the golden-lit shops that smelled invitingly of cedar, maple sugar, pine, and spiced cider. Christmas scents always had been his weakness, despite the pain he couldn’t separate from the holiday. 

A single paper bag dangled from his left wrist, the only sign that he’d been out shopping for the holidays. His entire brood of cousins was about to descend upon Doranelle, the next town over, for the next few weeks, so he’d come into Orynth to pick up a few things. He refused to admit that the massive canister of peppermint hot cocoa mix was an impulse buy–it had been on sale, and he knew how much his relatives adored all the sweet holiday treats. 

It had nothing whatsoever to do with peppermint hot chocolate being Aelin’s favorite. Nothing.

“Whitethorn?” The call came from his left. 

Rowan turned towards the voice. “Who–” 

“Whitethorn! It is you!” Aedion Ashryver stepped out of Staghorns Tavern, a popular local brewery. “Come inside, man, have a drink.” He pulled Rowan into a brief, back-slapping hug. “Good to see you again.” 

“Good to see you too, Ashryver.” Rowan returned the hug but hesitated at the offer of a drink. “I dunno about the drink, though.” He raised his shopping bag. “Gotta go home and prepare the place for the Whitethorn horde.” 

Aedion snickered. “You’re still letting them crash at your place, huh? Thought you would’ve liked the house to yourself every once in a while.” 

Rowan shrugged. “It’s a big house, and I live alone all the rest of the year.” He flashed Aedion a smirk. “Besides, Sellene and Enda would just barge in anyways, so I might as well allow it.” 

“Fair enough.” Aedion glanced into the brewery, waving off someone inside. “You sure you don’t want to grab a quick drink? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in forever.” 

“Yeah, give me a rain check on the…” Rowan trailed off into silence, his brain stalling at the sight of Aelin Galathynius opening Stag’s door and grabbing her cousin by the arm, halfway through a teasing jibe about Aedion wasting his body heat trying to warm up the December chill. 

“...not worth it to–oh.” Her wide-eyed turquoise gaze slammed into Rowan with all the force of an avalanche. 

“What are you doing here?” The question, though whispered, tore out of him with the force of a deafening scream. 

Aedion brushed a protective touch over Aelin’s shoulder, murmured something softly into her ear, and slipped back into the brewery, wisely leaving the two of them alone. 

She swallowed thickly and steeled her spine, meeting his stare head-on. “I’m home for my mother’s funeral and the holidays.” Her tone was cool, detached, nothing more than an old acquaintance responding to a casual question. 

“I–I had no idea,” Rowan murmured. “I’m so sorry, Aelin.” 

“Don’t be.” She snorted quietly, her shields snapping back into place as swiftly as they’d fallen. “About Evalin, Rowan. Don’t be sorry.” A pause, a crack in her controlled exterior. “I can’t say I am.” Her expression sharpened. “Can I ask what you’re doing out here…um, by Staghorns?” 

He read the unspoken question, finding himself surprised that she hadn’t asked outright. “I was in Orynth to pick up a few things before my cousins get here tomorrow, and I was heading down towards the parking lot.” Downtown Orynth was strictly car-free, so the town had built parking space by the edge of the no-traffic zone. “Your cousin saw me, so I stopped for a bit.” And held off the alcohol, he added, silently. 

She nodded in understanding. “I…I should go.” She turned. 

“Wait!” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand, stopping himself with bare millimeters between his skin and hers. “I…when are you leaving?” 

“After New Year’s.” The words were clipped. 

The shields encasing his heart slammed back down with finality. “So you’ll just up and leave again, no warning, not telling anyone?” He laughed, a sound as brittle as the winter air. “I don’t know why I expected any different.” 

“Some things never change,” she whispered, half to herself, her voice teetering dangerously close to anguish. Without another word, without a backward glance, she yanked open the brewery door, walked in, and vanished into the crowd packed into the bustling space. 

His heart a tangle of stormy emotions, Rowan turned on his heel and strode down the rest of the street, not stopping until he reached his pickup. There, he dropped his shopping bag in the back seat, leaned himself against the truck’s battered old green frame, and breathed as deeply as he could. Eyes screwed shut, he allowed the flood of memories to wash over him, sinking into the aching familiarity of her golden hair and wild laugh, her burning resilience and unwavering strength. The watery croak of her voice when she told him she was sorry three years ago. The tsunami of anger and rage and grief and torment that had ripped through his whole being for weeks after that afternoon.

Then he locked those precious, shattered memories back into the dark recesses of his mind, swung himself up into the truck, and drove off into the December night. 

~

Three Years Ago

Rowan pulled into his driveway in shell-shocked silence, muscle memory guiding him out of his truck and into the house. He kicked off his boots in the mudroom, shook the loose snow off the soles, and placed them neatly on the rack. Numbly, he shed his thick winter jacket and hung it on its peg, made sure he was free of tray snow and ice, and walked into the warmth of the wood-paneled house. 

A beer bottle shattered at his feet the second he came through the door. 

“The hell y’been, boy?” His stepfather’s slurred words were barely distinguishable. 

“Work, then the store.” Rowan had learned years ago to keep his words as brief and subdued as possible, lest he face another of Arobynn’s famous eruptions of drunken wrath. “Picked up another six-pack.” He placed the case of beer bottles on the kitchen counter. 

Arobynn squinted at the six-pack. “Leas’ y’did one thing right,” he sneered. “Clean up the fuckin’ floor, boy.” He grabbed two bottles of beer and stumbled back out into the living room, where he collapsed into his reeking, tattered old leather recliner and lost himself in his usual world of alcohol and blaring television. 

Rowan clenched his fists and jaw and picked up the broom. He made quick work of the broken glass, dumped it in the trash bin, put away the broom, and grabbed some food as he hurried off to his room. Arobynn’s alcoholism was a blessing, in a way–he confined himself to that side of the house, not moving much between the den, the kitchen, and his bedroom and bathroom. It meant that Rowan could stay in the master bedroom, which was at the other end of the house, and keep the rest of his family home as clean as possible. 

Every time he looked at the single portrait of his parents that adorned his bedroom wall, he swore he could hear their sorrow at the state of their once-beautiful home. 

That goddamn crash had taken so much from the Whitethorn family. 

Rowan was only a child when he lost his dad, and his mother had been so buried in her grief that she’d failed to see the giant blaring red flags of the first man that showed her any affection. She’d married Arobynn Hamel partially out of what she thought was love and partially out of necessity; the property needed another pair of adult hands to maintain it, not to mention another income. It was only a few months before Arobynn’s true colors showed themselves. 

For five years, Rowan’s mother had stayed strong, protecting her son by sacrificing herself. She’d protected her son from his stepfather’s fits of drunken rage, from the anger that reverberated through the house, and even from the knowledge of her medical diagnosis. When he lost her, too, Rowan lost all hope that his life could be anything but alcohol and anger and abuse. 

Then he went away to college and met Aelin, and her warmth rekindled his frozen soul. 

Watching her drive away from him mere hours ago had ripped the fragile, carefully patched scraps of his heart into bleeding shreds. 

Fuck it. If he didn’t blow off some steam now, he’d do something he’d regret later.

As silently as possible, Rowan slipped out of the house, crossed the snowy yard to the barn, hauled open the door that desperately needed some oil, and flicked on the overhead lights, illuminating the large, chilly, wooden-beamed space. He’d slowly transformed the barn into a gym over the years, picking up old equipment at estate sales and local gyms who were remodeling or getting rid of old machines and other stuff. Right then, he only had eyes for the punching bag–his favorite way to release the pent-up anger his fists itched to rain down upon Arobynn’s worthless face. 

He took off his jacket and sweatshirt, pulled on his well-loved boxing gloves, and strode over to the punching bag. With a grunt, he launched into a punishing round of strikes and punches, pummeling the taut leather sandbag with enough force to send it rocking on its chain. That first volley loosened the knot of tension in his chest, opening the floodgates, and every tangled, indecipherable, raw emotion he’d bottled up came pouring out in the erratic rhythm of his gloved fists (and occasionally his shoes) against the punching bag, interspersed with hoarse yells, broken shouts, curses, groans, and grunts. He lost himself in the slap of leather on leather, barely remembering to draw breath, slapping and punching and kicking until the flood of grief and pain and rage had subsided enough for his head to clear. 

Chest heaving, rare tears seeping hot and salty down his face, Rowan sank to the weathered wooden plank floor, buried his head in his hands, and felt the crushing weight of abandonment, an old familiar companion, press down upon his shoulders once again. 

Although he didn’t know it, Aelin was curled in the same position on the floor of her childhood bedroom, her face buried in her hands, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. The same anguish tore through her ruined heart, a white-hot knife of grief and guilt piercing her to her core. Leaving him was the last thing she ever wanted to do; it was like splitting herself in half. Yet she had left him, tossed him to the snowy curb without a backward glance. Leaving him shell-shocked on the edge of the highway, heart in his throat and the winter wind whistling through his empty hands.

~~~

TAGS:

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@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

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@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

#my writing #stick season #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin modern au #based off a song #song fic #rowaelin month 2023 #rowaelinmonth2023 #stick season the fic #inspired by noah kahan ofc #rowaelin winter au #rowaelin holiday au #winter holiday au

[whiskeynwriting]

Sloth

Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

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Word Count: 7k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) drug use, dirty talk, praise kink, tiny daddy kink, oral (m receiving), handjob, light nipple play, rimming, mentions of bisexuality, unprotected vaginal sex, cumplay, established relationship, fluffies

◆

A/N: co-written with @phnyx beta-read by her and @fishingforpike can’t stop won’t stop lmao

For some reason I find myself feeling incredibly iffy on this one, and I never feel this way. It could be because there’s a new element in here that I’ve never written before, or the fact that this one is a little shorter than “Pride and Envy” and “Gluttony”. Either way, I hope you enjoy my lovelies <3 don’t hesitate to let me know your thoughts

◆

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It isn’t unusual for him to be this stubborn, nor is it for him to be so self-absorbed. But in a certain sense, you were attracted to it; and in that same sense, you hated yourself for it. How can a human live in a state of perfect balance while being in such disarray? 

When you came back, you walked directly into a cloud of smoke; not exactly a rare occurrence, nor an unpleasant one. Dieter had basically hot-boxed the room, and you could care less. It’s not like it’s your house. The two of you were staying out of state for a movie he was shooting, this luxury hotel being your home until he was done with his work here. And since your job was remote, setting up shop with your laptop at cafes became your regular routine.

He’d glanced up briefly when you walked in, giving you a barely-there nod before his brown eyes returned to the magazine in his hands, likely browsing some gossipy cover. He was tired, you didn’t have to know him to know that. While lounging on the couch, he usually wore his signature pajamas, the exact outfit he slipped into every time he came back from set. Those loose, striped pj pants, that long, pukish-green robe, and a purple short-sleeved shirt. But he must not have done his laundry last night, because today, he’s wearing something different, and wearing much less.

“You were never good at these.” You tease him, sliding your tongue along the edge of the paper.

“Yeah…” He sighs, leaning further back. “Don’t know why, though.” 

Dieter had always been good at rolling joints, he just liked to watch you do it. Or rather, he liked to watch your little fingers work, your tongue sliding along the paper shortly afterwards. You have a knack for it, he’ll give you that. 

After changing into some comfier clothes, you sat on the ground between the coffee table and couch, leaning against the cushions. Dieter was lying sideways, wearing that fluffy, dark brown coat that makes him look like a giant teddy bear, and he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. The edges of it hang off his sides, draping onto the couch. The only other thing he’s wearing besides his jewelry is an incredibly old pair of dark gray boxers, short enough for you to see his teeny elephant tattoo. Reaching out, you gently poke it, tracing it with your fingernail. And it makes him giggle.

“Quit it.” He says playfully, smiling. He’s so ticklish.

But you still sigh, aggravated with him. You’d been asking him for attention, any kind of sexual or romantic touch, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood today. Now, don’t get him wrong, Dieter was just as sex crazed as he always was; he could never get enough. If he had the energy, he’d fuck you on the couch right now. It’s the fact that he’s so incredibly tired from his day, so exhausted that he’s unwilling to even try. Dieter had so many talents and knowing how to please you was definitely one of them. But on his lazier days, he just didn’t feel like using them.

“Dieter, please.” You beg, whining beside him as you hand him the joint.

Happily, he takes it, immediately lifting it to his lips with the lighter already lit in his other hand. His lips connect once on the bud resting on his lower lip, inhaling deeply.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” It comes out as a small whimper, even though you don’t mean it to. But it makes him look over at you, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. 

The joint held between Dieter’s lips continues smoking from the end, now setting down the lighter he’d just used. With a heavy sigh and a small grunt, he changes his positioning, now sitting up to address you.

“Of course I am.” He reassures you in that gravely baritone; oh, he really is so tired today, isn’t he? 

Giving him your best innocent eyes, you then ask, “Then why don’t you want me?”

It’s the funniest thing, you being aroused by him right now. You came home to a completely baked, slightly buzzed, entirely soft Dieter. The man looked like he hadn’t showered since he’d been home nor washed his clothes in days. His hair is a mess, his outfit is ridiculous, and his surroundings couldn’t be messier. But to you, this was Dieter. Chaotic, lazy, disheveled Dieter. He’s your baby boy, your puppy dog, your big teddy bear. And even though he didn’t always take care of himself, he always made sure to take care of you.

“Oh kitten,” Dieter lifts a hand to run it over his face, releasing another heavy groan of a sigh. “I’m too tired. Don’t you know aallll I do in a day?”

He looks down to see you pouting, and you’re not faking it, either. “Sweetie,” He continues softly, “I had four fittings today, I’m exhausted! A star like me needs his time to relax, not do anything.” He waves a flimsy hand in the air, taking another puff of weed. 

“You never do anything,” You mumble, glancing down while twiddling your fingers. “Not when you’re home. Not with me.”

“You know that isn’t true.” He furrows his brows at you, exhaling the smoke. 

“Not lately.” You reply in that same mumbly tone. 

“I fucked you last night, sweetheart.” Leaning down, he gently taps your chin with his thumb. “Remember when I made you drool?”

You do remember, you remember it all too well. Dieter had you from behind, pinned down beneath his weight with a fist in your hair. Your knuckles still ache from how hard you were clutching your shared bedspread, your throat still a little hoarse from how many times he’d slid down the length of it. It also didn’t help that you were moaning for two-plus hours. 

“Baby,” Comes your sudden gasp of a whine. “I want it, I want it again.” 

Sure, Dieter was sex-crazed. But you could be, too.

“Dammit kitten,” He chastises gently, “You can be such a needy little thing.” 

Usually when he says you’re needy, it means he’s going to take advantage of it. But not this time. 

Laying back to breathe in the smoke once again, he sighs. “Can’t be bothered; daddy’s tired.” 

“Dee,” Comes your second whine of the night, that small word a reference to more than just his given name. 

Your head is leaning against the couch cushion, resting just beside his outer knee. Reaching between his legs, you slide your hand along his inner thigh, smoothing your palm over the center of his boxers. Looking over his form, you eye his jewelry, his tattoos, the sight of them making your throat feel dry, a tingle shooting through your thighs. And he hums out a gravely sigh.

“You want it that bad, huh?” Dieter then asks, a lazy eyebrow raised. Your eyes meet his, nodding just a little for him. 

The space beneath your palm rises just the slightest bit, hardening from your touch. While keeping his gaze, you smile. He’s so easy to excite. 

“Well,” He sighs, shrugging while giving you a teasing grin. “If you want it so bad, you’ll have to do it yourself, kitten.” 

In all honesty, Dieter isn’t sure what you’ll do with this proposal. Will you huff and walk away? Touch yourself in the bedroom until you’re satisfied? Or will you stay frustrated with him, waiting until late in the night or early tomorrow when he’ll likely want to fuck? Lucky for him though, he’s pleasantly surprised. 

“You want me to do the work today, baby?” You then ask, giving his semi a little squeeze. “Hm?”

“Oh…” Mouth dropping open, he nods. For a second there he really thought he wasn’t getting any tonight. “Hell yeah I do.” With a smile on his face, he wiggles his hips on the cushions, eagerly awaiting your next move.

“Huh,” You tut, clicking your tongue while staring up at him. “You sure seem to have some energy now.”

“Well,” He shrugs, rolling his eyes with a grin. And then he shifts again, situating his legs on either side of you. You laugh.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do!”

“I know what I want you to do.”

“Selfish.” You roll your eyes, only partly joking. But he’s right, you were heading in this direction. 

“Yeah, but you like it.” He shrugs again, leaning even further back. 

God dammit, how could one man be so lazy yet so cocky? Although, when Dieter wasn’t feeling lazy, he had the ability to make you absolutely dumb, just like he did last night. He fucked you until you couldn’t take it anymore, until you were a babbling, compliant mess beneath him. So, maybe you can return the favor today.

Reaching up, Dieter takes a hold of his joint between two thick fingers, watching you from above. His lips connect briefly, sucking in before blowing out a small cloud of smoke. He does it while settling further back against the couch, spreading his legs a little wider for you. Slowly, your hands trailing up his calves, his thighs, fingertips squeezing the meat of them gently. When your tongue pokes out, wetting your lower lip, Dieter’s head rolls to the side, a sluggish smile crawling across his face. 

“Yeah…” Comes his heavy sigh, jaw dropping just slightly while he watches you move. 

By now, he’s fully hardened beneath your touch. The thought of sex alone was enough to get him riled up. While slipping your fingers over the edge of his boxers, tugging them down ever so slightly, he leans over to put out the bud in the nearest ashtray to his side. While reaching for another joint, one he’d rolled quite loosely, he lifts his hips for you, allowing you to slide his boxers all the way down to his feet. And as you follow them down, you give him kisses, placing your lips on the softness of his thighs, that delicate little elephant tattoo, trailing down to his calves, and sighing while you do. 

“Oh, baby…” It comes out as a quiet whine, looking up to watch his chest rise as he inhales deeply. 

Seeing Dieter naked, or in this case nearly naked, was always so satisfying to you. It was like a breath of fresh air, seeing the man that you love like this, completely bare for you. And honestly, Dieter had reason to be cocky. He was uncut, and while that may not be to everyone’s taste, it genuinely made you drool. The length of him was average, but his girth certainly was not. And you loved how thick he was, every inch of him filling you entirely and dragging pleasurably against your walls. 

“I love when you do this, baby.” He mutters, releasing a short grunt when you grip him gently. 

“Yeah?” Glancing up to meet his eyes, you lay out your tongue on the underside of him. 

Those sweet, brown eyes go soft upon seeing your beautiful face, your pretty mouth starting to go down on him. You slide your tongue up his shaft, watching him sigh while you look into his eyes. It’s done loosely, dragging his foreskin upward as you do it. But then you pull it back, looking down at his reddened head to flick your tongue across his slit. 

“Fuck me,” He moans, joint hanging on his bottom lip.

The curve of Dieter’s belly rises and falls, his hazy mind already swimming with bliss. He watches you lean up onto your knees, angling your head downward and allowing a trail of spit to fall onto his tip. With a smile on your face you pull his foreskin back, watching your saliva roll down his shaft. It’s not long after that that you take him into your mouth, wrapping your lips around his crimson head. 

“Oh,” He chokes, feeling your tongue slide over his delicate skin. 

Whenever you went down on Dieter, you made sure to go slow. To say the least, the man could cum quick. And you weren’t sure if he’d be up for round two tonight, so you make sure to take your time. 

Amidst his hazy state, Dieter’s head lolls to the side, eyes falling on the mirror not too far from him. The hotel you’re staying in is decorated lavishly, almost gaudy in appearance. And the six-foot mirror facing him is no different. While gazing into it, he smirks, watching as you go down on him. Jesus Christ, he loves this. He can see your pretty frame resting on your knees for him, nestled between his spread legs. And while watching your reflection, he pets at your hair, brushing some of it aside. You really were willing to do anything for him; and he doesn’t even need to work for it. 

Closing your eyes as you begin to work, you keep your fingers circled around his base, sliding him further and further into your mouth. Before allowing him into your throat you move up, tonguing his tip before swallowing him again. And while he’d sat up entirely straight at first, he now allows himself to relax, resting back against the couch and letting his head fall back. His dominant hand allows him to smoke, the other one landing on the top of your head. And although he’s too tired to put any real effort into this moment, when you reach his base, he still holds your head down so you can choke on him. 

This is when you gag, your movements graceful until now. Drool begins to drip from your mouth, wetting the longer hairs scattering his pelvis. He never kept himself trimmed, and for some reason, you kind of like it. 

“That’s it, kitten.” He grumbles, lifting his head to look down at you. “Such a messy girl for me.” 

Dieter’s mouth drops open just a little bit, the joint hanging on his lips when you gag again. But you stay down for him, you always do. And when he finally allows you to move you shoot backward, gasping for air. All he does is smile, taking in another puff of smoke. He inhales sharply, almost a hiss, before blowing the small cloud out of the side of his mouth. 

“You’re always so good at it.” Then he gives you a single nod. “Do it again, will you, kitten?” 

More than eager to comply, you go down again, taking him in one swallow and feeling the couch rock as his head thumps back against the top of it. He groans heavily, leaving the joint on his lips and bringing his other hand down to your head. Those talented fingers intertwine with your hair, scratching your scalp gently. And when you moan around him he pulses against your tongue, his hips shuttering ever so slightly. 

In the back of your mind, you’re thinking about what you can do for him, what will feel best, what he’ll enjoy most. Oftentimes, you thought about his other relationships, the ones before you. You considered what they brought to him, sexually and otherwise. It was like a challenge to you, and so far, you could do everything they did and more. And according to Dieter, you did it better than them, too. But there’s one thing you haven’t done that is currently popping into your mind…

From the angle you’re at, you can see him perfectly, his entire body. One thing Dieter certainly did not have was shame. Since the first night you slept together, he was all in. He spread his legs wide when you first went down on him, and this time is no different. Only now, you can see his sex entirely, his full length laying on his belly when you released him, his scrotum resting beneath the thickness of him… and that forbidden little space you’ve yet to befriend. Maybe he’d enjoy that. 

“Uh-huh,” He nods, the sound coming from his open mouth. He’s watching you move up and down, slowly twisting your hand beneath your mouth. 

Your tongue wiggles on the underside of him as you continue to bob up and down, moaning when you can and breathing through your nose. But the size of him sometimes made even that difficult. Dieter likes to see you struggle to take him though, his chest sighing out heavy breaths while you drool around him, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. 

“No, no,” He protests, urging you back down. 

“Sh…” You’ve lifted yourself from him, giving another ounce of spit before wrapping your entire fist around him. 

With excitement tingling in your belly, you lower yourself just a bit. You wonder how this will go. Will he like it? Will you? He’s talked about past partners doing it before, but never once did it cross over to you. And on the opposite end of this, Dieter’s done it to you, and you want to make him feel just as good. 

So you don’t give him too big of a surprise, you start out gentle, slowly making your way down. Your lips fall to his balls, licking and mouthing at them while he moans. And while you’re doing this, you jerk him off with firm, languid tugs. Inch by little inch, you creep down, your tongue sliding lower and lower while you continue to lick him. And above you, Dieter barely notices. All he’s registering is the euphoria flowing effortlessly through his brain. 

“Hm…” The hum you exude shivers directly through his center, the muscles in his thighs tensing from it. You notice this, lifting your free hand to massage the sweet meat of his upper legs, feeling him relax even further under your touch. 

Landing on the relatively smooth space between his scrotum and cheeks, you give him time to adjust, that is, if he’s even noticing. Moving your hand up to his tip, you give it a gentle squeeze, earning an unruly, erotic cry from him. He loves to be teased. And it’s in this exact moment that you make your first swipe, your tongue sliding along the tighter muscles you’ve yet to explore. 

“Uh-ugh,” Comes his punched out gasp, eyes shooting open to look down at you. 

At first, his reaction makes you nervous, an intense heat washing your entire body with anxiety. But you don’t stop, you just keep yourself there, meeting his gaze. He’s panting now, but he doesn’t say anything. So, experimentally, you do it again.

“Oh my god.” He babbles loosely from his mouth, fingers taking hold of the blunt he’d been smoking. He lets his forearm land on the armrest of the couch, letting the bud simmer between his fore and middle fingers. 

Again, another swipe, deeper this time. Your hand is still working him, and this is when you get a definitive answer on whether or not he’s enjoying this surprise. His head falls back again, a guttural groan released from his throat. Almost of their own volition, his legs spread even wider, hips lifting up a little higher. 

Wow, he really does want this.

“Y-Yeah…” Dieter stutters out a sigh, mouth falling agape while his head continues to lay back. 

“Mm,” Comes your enticed moan, excited now that you’ve been given full permission to do this.

When Dieter moved his legs wider for you, it allowed you to see more of him, too. His cheeks separated that much more, allowing you to wiggle in even closer to the space between his legs. This time, you go in slowly, sliding your tongue up the entirety of his hole. You can feel his tight muscles twitch beneath you, your free hand now dropping to his right cheek. Grabbing him, you open him even wider, feeling his cock throb in your hand. 

“W-What,” Dieter lifts his head, confused when you pull away. “What’re you doing?”

Reaching behind your back, you find the coffee table, pulling it closer to the couch. And then you look up at him, sliding both hands over his thighs. 

“Put your feet on the coffee table, baby.” All he can do is stare dumbly at you. “Let me lick you.” 

“Fuck me…” 

As if he’s too high to even move, you help him, leaning down to lift one foot onto the small table while he moves the other. Now, he’s got his thighs on either side of your head, both of his hands falling to the couch cushions as he searches for something to grab. He doesn’t let go of his joint, though, in fact, when you return to your work, he takes another breath. 

Looking back into the large mirror behind you, he grins breathlessly, watching you perform this new act for him. It’s so fucking sexy, watching you do this to him. The sight of it makes his muscles clench, your groan shivering through his hips. 

“Baby… yeah…” He moans deeply from above, pinching his eyes shut when you begin to lick him deep. “Just like that, oh yeah… that’s so good…” 

He’s twitching in your hand and pulsing against your tongue, the sensations almost too much for him to handle. And still he sits back, watching you do everything for him. The hand you’re not using to jerk him off wraps around his thigh, keeping him close, and he moans when you drag your nails across his sensitive skin. Every now and then your nose nudges his balls and it makes his head fucking spin. He can’t believe you’re doing this, he can’t believe you’re doing this for him. 

“B-Baby,” You continue to lick him, even through his passionate whines. His stomach and legs flex around you, his toes curling, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “That, that feels so good, you don’t even know…”

Dieter’s praise made you the happiest woman in the world. He was so much more experienced than you, so to know that even through the multitude of men and women he’s slept with, that he wants you… it was a feeling you couldn't even fathom until he gave it to you.

His hips push up, shoving his fluttering hole closer to you, wanting you to have the best access to him, all of him. And this is so beyond sexy to you, to hear him fall into a whiny, moaning mess from you licking his little hole while jerking him off. You never expected it to be so thrilling for you, too, the entirety of your being fizzling with excitement and adrenaline. 

While you’re tonguing his hole, prodding gently into the taut little ring, he looks up. He’s breathless when he speaks, his chest fucking heaving. “You look so good like this…” His voice is hoarse, and he clears it, swallowing briefly. “So pretty like this, kitten.” 

Your open-mouthed moan makes him whine, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip when he feels your own circle his asshole. And you grin at this, giving a small giggle from beneath him. 

“Still feeling too lazy for this, Dee?” You’re mumbling over his slicked-up skin, eyes flickering up to meet his.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” He immediately grits out, shaking his head. “Keep going, please keep going.” 

Closing your eyes once again, you let yourself dive in, moving your tongue incessantly against him. It’s grown sloppy, your motions erratic and almost frenzied. And he’s enjoying every fucking minute of it. When you let go of him, intending to bring your hand down to fondle his balls, he reaches out for you.

“No,” He begs, bringing your hand back up to him. “Keep your hand there.”

But then he doesn’t leave. He wraps his own hand around yours, the both of you jerking him off while he now thrusts up into your hold. It makes you gasp, seeing him this turned on by what you’re doing to him. Helplessly, he ruts up into your hand, keeping his grip on yours tight so the pressure feels just right for him.

“Yes, yes!” He nearly wails, and before you can say anything, before you can pull away and make him wait, he cums. 

It shoots all over his belly, some spouting all the way up to his chest. It comes out in gooey spurts, hot and sticky as it litters his skin. You moan while watching him, his head falling back while his eyebrows furrow, eyes pinching shut while his mouth tries desperately to hold onto the joint he’d been smoking. But he wants to open his mouth fully, wants to moan out wantonly. And while you’re enjoying the show of Dieter making a mess of himself, you continue tonguing him, rolling the wet muscle along the rim of his hole over and over again. It’s shocking, how much he cums, the amount of it sliding down his sides just a bit. That’s a shame, you wanted it in your mouth. 

“Oh my god,” He huffs out, chest heaving with desperate attempts to try and catch his breath. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dieter nods breathlessly, shaking his head quickly in response. He closes his eyes, repeating himself before his dry lips meet with a swallow. And you can see him start to relax. He reaches to the side, grabbing the blunt he’d left in the tray as he returns to lay on his back along the couch. 

“Dieter,” Your whine makes his eyes snap open, head turning to the side. “I want more.” Your chest is heaving, you can’t help but beg. You do want more, you want more of those whines, more of those grunts, more his beautifully erotic expressions.

“Ride me,” He blurts out. “Fuck, ride me.” 

Immediately, you rise to your feet, shimmying out of the shorts you’d pulled on when you came home. You slide your panties off alongside them, now climbing on top of him. There’s a dirty shirt laying on the ground that you quickly grab, using it to wipe off his tummy. 

“You miss me? Huh?” 

You toss the shirt to the floor, placing your hands on his chest to lean forward. 

“Yes baby, I don’t ever get enough of you. You’re always gone, Dee, I miss you.” 

“Then show me,” He swallows again, steadying his breaths. “Show me how much you miss me, kitten. Maybe it’ll make me stay home for you.” 

He’s still hard beneath you, feeling the delicate skin of your lips rest on top of his shaft. Again, he keeps the joint between his lips, both hands reaching to squeeze your hips. And when he does, you lift yourself, keeping your eyes on his beautiful face while you position him. Dieter’s eyes are trained elsewhere, though, he’s gawking at the space where the two of you will connect. 

“Dee…” It’s an exasperated sigh, huffed out as you sink down. He stretches you wide, painfully so, your walls throbbing around him from the intrusion only when he’s halfway inside. 

He feels it, of course he does. “Fuuuck…” he groans, mouth hanging open. 

The small wiggle you give your hips when you’re entirely seated on him makes him grin. He releases a short and quiet giggle, one hand rising to trail up your torso.

“Take off your shirt.” He gently orders, eyes fixated on your covered chest. “Let me see your tits.”

You do as he says while forming a smile on your face. “Who’s needy now?” 

Dieter laughs, a cocky half-smirk on his face. “You know you love me.” 

As soon as it's off, those two large hands move to paw at your chest, cupping you gently before digging his fingers in. He holds them while you start to move, swaying your hips. 

“Oh, kitten,” He sighs, releasing your breasts. His dominant hand returns to his lips, taking a puff before removing the blunt. The other falls to his stomach, lazily brushing the pads of his fingertips across one of his nipples. “You really needed it today, huh?” 

“Mhm,” Nodding, you whine, too, closing your eyes as you move. “I need you, I need you, baby.”

“I’m here, kitten.” He coos to you, inhaling another deep breath of smoke. “I’m here.” 

Looking down, you’re met with the beautiful sight of the incredibly chaotic man you’ve chosen to love. He looks so scruffy right now, his hair a big mess and his cheeks littered with short, unruly strands. He looks so good below you, his curvy body moving slightly every time you rut yourself against him. 

You’re going slow, enjoying every moment of it, enjoying the stretch and your gentle sighs. When your head dips back, your lips parting to release a moan, Dieter reaches up to lazily grab your left breast, jiggling it in his hand as he grins. 

“Perfect,” He mumbles over the blunt he’s holding between his lips, still teasing his nipples. 

He rocks back and forth with every one of your gentle thrusts, and he’s so tired that all he can do is smile; he can’t even thrust. Besides, he likes seeing you take the reins like this. He’s surprised by how much you’re willing to do for him.

“Oh, fuck.” Out of seemingly nowhere, you change your pace, slapping your ass down onto his groin. He grunts out, eyebrows furrowing as you bring him a much quicker dose of bliss. 

“Dieter…” You moan, fingernails digging into his chest. 

You’re taking what you want from him, the languid pace you once created floating away like dust in the wind. You’ve wanted to fuck this lazy bastard all day, and you’re going to do it your way. And Dieter couldn’t love it any more than he currently does, he feels like a fucking god right now. Just sitting back, watching this beautiful woman grind on top of him while he gets high. 

He’s giving you little grunts and moans, his mouth hanging open as he breathes heavily. And he just stares at you, eyes flickering back and forth from your face to your tits to your gorgeous cunt as it takes him. His eyebrows furrow in disbelief, finding himself feeling lucky. You treat him so well. You always come home with a smile on your face, never forgetting to give him a kiss and a hug. Every day, you ask about the set, how filming is going, inquiring about how he feels about the script. If you’re not taking care of ordering the food, you’re preparing it, if you’re not making arrangements for your suite to be cleaned, you’re doing it. And by far the most impressive thing you do, is you manage to love him; even through all his shit, through his attitude and addictions. He should really learn to appreciate you more. 

“Baby,” You whimper for him, knowing how much he likes it. Biting down on your lower lip, you wiggle down onto him, feeling him pulse inside. 

“Fuck, you look so good like this.” He says with a breath of amazement. “I love when you’re on top of me.”

“Yeah? Even when you’re too tired to have me?”

“I might be tired, but I’m glad you aren’t.” He grins, that lazy, cocky smirk never ceasing to stir arousal within you. 

“Hm…” It’s a hum, an enticed one. “You like it, daddy? You like when I do this to you?”

“Oh kitten, you know I do. You’re so perfect, doing this for me…” 

Releasing a contented sigh, your head tilts back, and he wishes he could kiss your throat. But there’s no way in hell he can lean up that far right now. Not when he’s high and getting fucked out of his mind. 

Dieter’s eyes fall to the area behind you, zoning in on the reflection of your ass bouncing down against him. You’re such a sexy little thing, your entire body moving over his, always doing your best to please him. Your skin looks so smooth, is so smooth, the dips and curves of your physique was something that caught his eye immediately. Honestly, he can’t help but look at himself, too. Every time you lift yourself, he can see his cock slide almost all the way out of you before you’re plummeting down onto him again, his scrotum bouncing slightly from your forceful movements. The thick meat of his thighs jiggle beneath your own, your hips relentless in their search for his high. 

Eyes rolling back, they finally close, a low and guttural moan coming from his throat. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Again?” You couldn’t be happier to hear him say this. You love it when he cums more than once. 

“Again.” Dieter answers you, breath continuing to leave him. His eyes are still closed, his head nodding sluggishly. “Make me cum, please kitten. Please make me cum.”

“Mm… where are you gonna cum, baby? Inside me?”

“No,” You knew he’d answer this way. “Gonna pull out.” 

There was a very specific way Dieter went about cumming when you rode him. It’s not that he didn’t love cumming inside you, he definitely did. Oftentimes, he’d lick it out of you. But when you rode him, he liked to pull out and jerk himself off against your ass. It oozes out of him, spilling over his hand. And right after he’d bring it to his lips so he could taste it. 

“Oh,” He whines, his neck straining and veins protruding. “Fu-uck.”

Smiling down at him, you reach around, your dominant hand finding his scrotum. You cup him gently, fingers fondling the delicate skin as he nears his high. This is when he ruts up into you, the only time he’d done so tonight. His hips move of their own volition, punching up inside your core before his hands fly to wrap around your back, hauling you down to his chest. You squeal quietly as he does it, hands wrapping around his neck. You duck your face down to his shoulder, fingernails and teeth scraping along his throat. And while you’re busy doing this, he reaches down, pushing you further up on his chest so he can pull out of you. Forcefully, his fingers wrap around his shaft, tugging his cock harshly beneath your ass. Every time his fist moves up his knuckles graze the plumpness of your backside, helping to height his orgasm. 

The sticky-whiteness of it washes your skin, wet globs littering your ass and dripping down onto his hand. Since this is the second time he’s cum, there isn’t as much as the first time, but it doesn’t matter, not to either of you. He groans harshly when he feels your pretty lips kissing his tawny skin, your wondrous tongue poking out to lay over his neck. By the way you’re nipping at him, he knows hair and makeup will have to cover the hickeys up in the morning. And you like knowing that. 

“Fuck, fuck,” His hand moves frantically, milking himself of every drop he can give. 

Graceful fingertips pet over the hair scattering those squeezable cheeks, your nose running along the curve of his jaw. His eyes are pinched shut, lips parted as he revels in this. You lift your face just enough to give his cheek a kiss, smiling and humming against him. With his breaths picking up he removes his hand, lifting it to his face. He looks at the whiteness of himself coating every single knuckle, groaning quietly. Dieter then brings his knuckles closer, his tongue poking out to lick it off of his skin. 

“You love doing that, huh baby?” You grin against him, lightly scratching his scruff. 

He doesn’t answer you, he just brings his fingers to your lips. Looking to the side, he watches you take them in, tasting not only the remnants of his orgasm but his spit, too. Slack-jawed and staring, he can’t take his eyes off you. When he takes his fingers out of your mouth you reach up to keep him close, sliding your tongue through the mess of him. 

“I love you,” Comes his airy yet guttural admission. “I fucking love you so much.”

“I love you too, baby.” You’re happy to hear him say it after missing him all day. 

“I’m sorry,” He’s still breathing heavily, trying to calm his breaths. “I don't,” Then he swallows, his clean hand rising to hold the back of your head when you snuggle against him. “I don’t treat you like I should.”

“What do you mean?” You furrow your brows. “You take care of me.”

“More like you take care of me.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.” You admit with a laugh. “But I know you love me, Dee.” 

“I really hope you do.” Dieter sighs below you, his body firm, steady. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. You’re my person, baby.” 

Lifting your head, you stare down at him. “Baby, why are you so worried?”

“I just don’t want to lose you,” Dieter clears his throat, those warm brown eyes looking up sweetly at you. “And I know I will if I act like an ass.” 

“Well, don’t be an ass.” Shrugging, you playfully grin. “And you won’t lose me.”

But Dieter doesn’t smile, he isn’t joking. 

“I know you get tired baby, and you do deserve to relax. You work hard.” Well, as hard as he can on the set of Cliff Beasts Seven. Honestly, the better description would be he has hard days, long days. Dieter wasn’t necessarily putting his best foot forward to uphold his career. But he didn’t really have to. He did what he wanted, and honestly, people loved him for it. 

“You don’t get sick of me?” He’s feeling insecure about this. He knows he can be a lot. 

“Sure I do, sometimes I get really aggravated with you.” Honesty was always important between the two of you. “But I don’t ever stop loving you baby, and that’s what matters most to me.” 

For a moment, Dieter just looks at you. “I’m gonna marry you one day.” 

“Yeah? Is that a promise?” 

“A big fucking promise.” He nods, pulling you down to kiss you. And you smile into it, happy to be in the relationship that you’re in. You know you have something so many people want, not only a celebrity but a man who’s willing to love you through anything. And Dieter’s more than aware of how lucky he is to have you. Sexy, funny, incredible you.

When you climb off of him, retrieving your shirt and shorts, you get a rag so he can clean up. You bring him a clean pair of boxers and a hoodie of his that you’d found in your shared room, his brown fuzzy jacket now ruined. But he can get it dry cleaned no problem. 

“What do you feel like ordering tonight?” You ask, phone in hand. 

“Pizza?”

“We had pizza last night.” 

“Yeah,” He widens his eyes, rolling them. “Because it’s good.” 

Shaking your head with a cheesy grin on your face, you order your boyfriend what he wants. These were your usual nights, ordering in, cuddling, and turning on a movie. Oftentimes, they were documentaries. Dieter didn’t like movies that much, he sees enough actors on the daily. He knows most of them, too. They’re colleagues to him, not interesting celebrities he looks up to. Tonight, he picks out a documentary about the Amazon, grinning like a little kid when the koalas come on. 

“You want one.” 

“Sure,” You let him light the blunt for you, leaning on him while tugging a blanket over the two of you. 

“You wanna do LSD?” He then asks, glancing down at you. “I got some new ones.”

“You know, for one night I’d like to not trip balls.”

“Yeah okay, fine.” He rolls his eyes dramatically, and it makes you grin. Dieter slouches beside you, leaning on your body and wrapping both arms around you. 

“What time do you need to be on set tomorrow?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. “Eight fucking am.”

“Damn,” He responds with a disgruntled I know. 

Lucky for the two of you, tomorrow is a Friday, and thank fuck he has the weekend off. Maybe he’ll take you out to dinner, maybe even go to a club or two. Those nights are always fun with him. Honestly though, every night spent with Dieter was a fucking blast. If you stayed in, you’d both blare music till the sun comes up, drinking the night away while you sing happily. Those are the nights you’d usually do LSD. Those are also the nights he tells you about his craziest sex fantasies. But if you went out you got the chance to be spotted by the paparazzi, something you honestly both love. What can you say? You’re attention whores. 

“Well, you wanna shower together before bed? I can make you all soapy…” You run a hand down his belly, now full of pizza and pop. “Get you nice and tired so you can sleep like a baby.” 

“I’m already exhausted, but you know I like a challenge.” 

In his own head, he’s already planning out the weekend he’s going to give you. He’s considering booking a short vacation, take some time off and get a breather from set. Maybe he’ll bring you to Venice for a few days, make you cum in as many Italian cities as he can. He knows you’d like that. 

#Dieter Bravo #Baby #My soft teddy bear #I love you so much #Ugh #Dieter Bravo x you #Dieter Bravo x reader #Dieter Bravo x female reader #Dieter Bravo smut #Dieter Bravo fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #The Bubble #Kinktober #Kinktober 2022 #Sintober #Sintober 2022

[haleigh-sloth]

Hi, I’m someone who follows your blog but I’m shy so I’m on anon lol. I just kinda wanted to vent about how so many BNHA fans want Tomura to have a suicide redemption at the end of the show, or to apologize and then decay himself, or take a bullet for Izuku, etc. I’m struggling to interact with the fandom because it’s triggering for me as someone who had a similar childhood to Tenko in most ways. To me it also misses the point of his character and makes him out to be selfish at his core instead of, y’know, groomed from practical infancy. What are your thoughts on this and do you think this ending is likely? (Don’t answer if it’s triggering for you, I just wanted to ask since you’re the Shiggy guru ><)

Hi! Shiggy guru pls

No I do not think that ending is likely, I don’t think it’s even remotely possible.

I don’t see an ending where any of the redeemable villains die, otherwise the heroes are failures of their own convictions and arcs. This is especially true of Midoriya who, so far, is the only one who has actually outright used the s word—while Shouto and Ochacko haven’t been made to say it quite yet (maybe they won’t, since we’re supposed to understand through Midoriya what they’re wanting to do). Midoriya said “I want to save him”. In BNHA saving means you are safe, not only physically out of harm’s way, but heart and soul.

Look at the Sports Festival arc with his fight with Shouto—AM described Midoriya’s actions as saving Shouto. Look at Shouto wanting to save his mom by rekindling his relationship with her. Look at Mirio and Midoriya wanting to make Eri smile because “she hasn’t been truly saved” until she can smile again. Something that was brought back into play this recent chapter—worth noting. He’s still fighting for someone’s smile. Tomura is right there in front of him, internally crying out Midoriya’s name asking him to come save him. There isn’t a question as to whose smile we’re supposed to be thinking about.

Fighting for Tomura’s smile is ultimately pointless if he dies in the end—even if it’s his own doing by suicide.

Tomura isn’t suicidal, he keeps fighting so hard so he doesn’t get killed. So this doesn’t even make sense to begin with. We do have a canonically suicidal character in the mix and it’s Touya, and it’s not framed as a good thing. It’s something we’re seeing Shouto desperately trying to keep from happening.

Redemption by death is what so many people jump to because they’re lazy and don’t want to think hard about it or how it could work. It’s one of the laziest predictions I have ever seen for a manga that really isn’t that hard to follow on a thematic level. And also for some reason so many people are convinced it’s not possible—which is just stupid. This is why I’m convinced a large part of this fan base is not familiar with manga outside of BNHA, because of this weird adverse reaction to redemption (among other reasons lol). It’s so weird. I truly don’t get it honestly, but it’s not my job to change their minds. But I will be stalking the Reddit subthreads to watch the hilarious melt downs when people are faced with a fantasy Disney-esque ending.

I DO think Tomura will for sure do something to save Midoriya too, in a way. I mean, I expect them it work together, fight with each other, and with that worry about each other and probably pull stupid sacrificial moves out for each other’s sake. But think of the main character—his arc won’t allow for the person he just saved to die for his sake. The entire point of their storyline bringing them together is that they need each other, and one can’t just die and leave the other behind.

Chapter 378 was peak follow up on BNHA themes. There are only a few chapters I feel hit the mark so hard in showing what this manga is truly about. The main two that come to mind are 305 and 378, I’ll have to think of the others when I get home from work.

But yeah, because 378 is so foretelling about what’s to come, and we are very close to the climax of the manga, do expect more rancid takes to come out of the woodwork. I would block liberally and curate your space strictly so that you aren’t faced with upsetting discussions.

I can tell you that whatever you’re seeing is completely devoid of any deep thinking of the manga overall. I’d avoid those spaces.

I am really comfortable with the manga’s direction, Tomura’s arc, and the overall endgame that is set up. I’m really confident in a very, cheesy, happy ending, so I hope that helps!

#anonymous #bnha asks #boku no hero academia #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #Midoriya izuku #shigaraki and midoriya

[acourtofthought]

No. To summarise your entire post, you suggested that because Elain doesn’t like cruelty, and Azriel engages with cruelty… they cannot be together, because Elain would be “sacrificing what she is comfortable with,” as it “goes against her beliefs and values.”

If that was even remotely true, then we would have already witnessed Elain’s discomfort in Azriel’s presence. If Elain was so repulsed by Azriel and his supposed “cruelty,” then I find it hard to believe that she would be buying thoughtful gifts for him, or that she would be leaning in to kiss him on Solstice night. “Oh but she doesn’t know about Azriel’s cruelty” she is a SEER !!

And even if she wasn’t a seer, do you truly believe that Elain, who has fond feelings towards Azriel, would suddenly switch up on him if she discovered that he was required to torture the enemies of the Night Court (ie. not good people !!) as part of his job? The same girl who has always loved Nesta, no matter her level of cruelty? The same girl who is known for seeing the good in people - in places and things?

“I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger.”

As a comparison, this is like saying that Bryce, who vehemently hates the Asteri (and even lost her best friend to them), can’t romantically be involved with Hunt, because he worked for the Asteri for 200+ years, and did terrible, unforgivable things in their name.

“Based on precedence, every Archeron (or any SJM endgame couple for that matter) either started off uncomfortable around their endgame person or eventually developed some sort of discomfort around them before ending up with them so there is a very real chance Elain has a reason for her behavior towards Lucien that could still result in them ending up together.”

So you acknowledge that Elain’s preferences and opinions can change… yet it’s so hard for you to believe that Elain can’t see the nuance in Azriel’s spymaster duties, and the torture is he obliged to take part in? That she couldn’t come to accept that part of him?

And, if we’re giving weight to precedence, then every Archeron sister also ended up with one of the Bat Boys.

And, every single SJM endgame couple experienced conflict and discomfort before they accepted the mating bond, sure. But absolutely zero SJM endgame couples went through a period of flat-out aversion and non-interaction. Feyre once hated Rhys, Aelin once despised Rowan, Nesta and Cassian were always at each others throats, and Bryce even immediately cut Hunt off after his betrayal - but not a single one of those women were ever so disinterested and avoidant of their mate as Elain is to Lucien.

And again, Elain is a seer. She can see the future. If she is going to work with Lucien to save the world, if she’s going to travel the world with him, if she’s going to rule the Day Court with him, if they are going to mate and wed and find their happily ever after… she would be able to see all of that already. And if that’s the case; then why would she avoid him?

This is going to sound rude but have you not read the books?

First there is NOTHING wrong with my suggesting that Elain and Azriel would be incompatibile because they have a difference in values. Thats literally one of the main reasons relationships fail. I'm not sure why that thought is offensive to you but I can assure you there's been many a study done and many expert opinions saying the exact same thing.

Can they still be in a relationship despite it? Sure.

But do I think it means it might lead to problems for them? Absolutely. It's not like Elain would see him in action and say, "you're a bad disgusting man and I can't bear to look at you!" What would happen is there'd be a twinge of unease and discomfort. Then he'd come home every day and they'd talk about what that looked like and he'd feel uneasy admitting to Elain who he tortured for information because he'd noticed the bit of discomfort that crossed her face anytime he mentioned having to hurt someone so he'd start hiding details. Or he'd tell her and she'd try to encourage him to find other methods which would make him feel even guiltier for the things he'd done.

You realize relationships fail in the real world all the time right? People struggle to maintain love because of a difference in views and interests and that's just life and no one is a bad person for discovering they aren't compatible enough to be with someone in the long term.

And just because there is precedence for two sisters ending up with a "bat boy" doesn't mean Elain should definitely end up with the third. There's things that are actually important in predicting endgame pairings that go beyond "keeping it in the family" 😂😂😂

And your example of Bryce and Hunt. I'm not talking about Elain overcoming prejudice or hating something someone had to do because they were a SLAVE. We've already seen that where initially the sisters weren't comfortable with the Fae and two eventually fell in love with them (and Elain will most likely end up with a Fae male too). Not to mention..... We have never had an SJM FMC outside Elain who is noted as BEING BOTHERED BY CRUELTY. Another important fact is that the FMC was fully aware of what the male had done and she knew what she was getting into before ending up with him. Elain and Az were about to kiss yet she "had no idea the things he's done". You don't find that just a tiny bit worrisome?

Elain is a character who doesn't like cruelty. Could she suddenly become bloodthirsty or take delight in seeing her enemies suffer? Sure! But that's not the direction SJM seems to be taking her because of everything we know after she stabbed the King (immediately dropped the knife while Nesta cut his head off, returned TT with no further interest in learning to handle weapons, us being told that cruelty still bothers her in SF). So that does not seem like something that's changing because it's not a misconception Elain has about a certain group of people, it's the thought of people harming other people that bothers her. She can still acknowledge someone isn't all bad while it making her uncomfortable. I'm not sure why you're trying to argue against that aspect about Elain's personality, why you insist that it means nothing. The IC has witnessed Az do these things and it makes them a bit uncomfortable even though they too often resort to violence. Yet it's only Elain who is noted as being bothered by cruelty, a key piece of information that sets her apart from the main characters in the IC and that the author really drilled home in SF. Also, Elain is notably absent anytime Az is performing his "symphony of pain" so you pretending she'd be comfortable witnessing it is you serving your ship rather than being rational.

And to your point that Elain somehow knows what Az does, which I still don't agree with, then why would SJM bother telling us that she's bothered by cruelty? Doesn't that seem a little strange to add that into the book when we know Azriel's job is to TORTURE PEOPLE? Wouldn't SJM have added something like "but she understood the need for it in certain situations" or something along those lines?

And yes, Elain loves Nesta despite the things she may have done but those are different than hurting people through vicious means on the regular. Did she seem like she was happy when Nesta beheaded the King? Do you think she wanted to run up and kiss Nesta after that? You can love someone while choosing to distance yourself from a lifestyle that's different than what you want for yourself. Did it seem like Nesta and Elain were BFFs in Silver Flames? Hanging out, hitting up bars together? Training together? They are very different people and even by the end of SF the only thing we see them do together is visit their fathers grave. To me, they are on different paths and while that doesn't mean they love each other less, it does mean they're not going to be connecting on a level where their lives intertwine in a major way.

"We would have witnessed Elain's discomfort in Azriel's presence".

Please share with me evidence from the book where Elain has experienced the "real" Azriel. The one who left Mor shaking after his attack on Eris. The one where Azriel is standing with a bloody TT after cutting up his enemies. The one where he tries to argue against Rhys and Feyre's orders and the one where he says "There is a darkness to the Dread Trove that Elain should not be exposed to" and "he hadn't gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to" and "if Lucien kills Graysen, good riddance" and "I'll defeat him with little effort", not at all caring about what that would do to Elain or peace.

Not only do we not see that on page but Azriel straight up tells us in his thoughts that she doesn't know that side of him and he's been avoiding her so how can she know him? Hiding a major part of who he is while being "soft", "gentle" and oh so polite around Elain then being someone completely different away from her is a MAJOR RED FLAG. This is not a mafia romance, this is an SJM book and she likes her couples to share similar core values.

Please also share with me where Elain gets to choose what visions she sees.

Why wouldn't she have looked to see whether Feyre would live while giving birth? Why wouldn't she have seen that Rhys would die in the war? Why wouldn't she have looked and seen that Azriel was going to tell her she was a mistake so she could have then avoided seeing him Solstice evening?

Not only does she not decide what she sees, the visions are murky and unclear. Otherwise she would have warned Feyre and Nesta that their lives were at risk in the library that day.

Also, if she had seen a vision of Lucien and knows they aren't going to be together, WHY HASN'T SHE FREED HIM FROM THE BOND AND ASKED HIM NOT TO COME AROUND ANYMORE? And in regards to her avoiding Lucien which is somewhat different from other FMC, Elain is a very different character (LUCIEN is a different character) so her reaction is going to be somewhat different than a more aggressive SJM FMC. Also, she is the ONLY female who had a bond instantly snap and the only female who was engaged when it snapped. You've got to realize things are going to look a bit different for them.

None of your points make any sense at all.

Did you read TOG? Aelin and Rowan hated one another to the point that he punched her in the face. The only reason they were forced to interact is because Maeve commanded that he do so.

No one has yet had to force Lucien and Elain to interact because they are the first pair we've ever seen a bond snap into place for immediately and she had somewhere to go that took her away from Lucien the moment it happened. Then we did see them interact later in ACOWAR, she invited him back to live in Velaris yet something happened to have her draw back again in the novella / SF. Since we don't know what that is we'll have to wait and find out but I highly doubt Elain inviting her mate to live in the town she lived in means that she's completely averse to him. From a plot standpoint it makes sense that the author had to create a "will they / won't they" situation until it's time for Elains book because what good does it do to make them look like they're BFFs through Nesta's book? Then there's no mystery as to what will happen between them.

I don't know why YOU are so offended by what the author herself has told us.

Maybe SJM will give us new information in the next book and it will sway my opinion on things but I'm not making up that SJM has her endgame couples go through a period of hating / ignoring one another before getting together, no matter what that looks like (Feysand / Nessian / Rowalin/ Quinlar), etc. So shipping Elucien, considering she is a fated mates author and SHE MADE THEM MATES shouldn't be that wild of an idea to you regardless of where they currently stand.

SJM also told us:

Feyre, HIGH LADY OF THE NIGHT COURT, is bothered by what she saw from Az even though she KNEW what she was about to see.

Elain has never seen or been made aware of the things Az has done.

Elain is bothered by cruelty.

Elain wants to start doing more (which is not the same thing as violence) but Az waits until she's not around to say that she shouldn't.

Az has never considered a future with Elain beyond his sexual fantasies though he planned his snowball victory for a year.

Seriously, why the hell are you so triggered that I'm just piecing those things together and drawing a conclusion from them? I didn't write them, SJM did and this is going to sound bitchy but you can't be that clueless that there is a possibility that SJM may have in fact put those things in there to let us know why Az and Elain wouldn't make a good endgame couple. Just like she gave us warning signs that Tamlin and Feyre were not going to last, she could be the doing the exact same with E/riel.

To date, SJM has never told us why Elain draws away from Lucien so I'm allowed to be unsure as to the reasons for that based of both Feyre and Nesta having drawn away from Rhys / Cassian yet still ending up with them. But she HAS given us all a lot of information about Elain's personality and Azriel's personality and in my opinion those two things don't fit together when you consider she's shown us in the past that she doesn't prefer opposites attract couples.

#anti e/riel

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

What do you think about decreasing fertility rates and population decline? Should we be concerned? What is your solution?

i am very concerned. think it is potentially the greatest existential threat facing human civilization, especially alongside climate change. imagine populations collapsing, then civilization collapsing with it (due to all the pressures caused by a population collapse), then having a bunch of anarchic primitive societies trying to cope with climate change without the benefit of all our modern technologies (and that includes things like farming -- how many people actually know how to farm? and even more, how many people know how to farm without modern technology?).

with that said, i'm a futurist and an optimist. i believe we will overcome this hurdle like we've overcome all others.

as for what i believe to be possible solutions...

universal basic income is a start. more parental leave. reduce work hours and more remote work for a better work-home life balance. higher wages. affordable high quality daycare. family-oriented education and /actual/ family planning centers where they offer resources and info for having big families. educate people on why having kids is good, for individuals and society, and emphasize the risks of not having kids. fund movies and shows and books which are pro-family, pro-humanity, and pro-natalist. want movies that celebrate family and having kids and demonize people who are childless. being childless needs to be seen as cringe and only for losers. we need to change the culture generally. including in the education system and celebrities and the highest levels of academia. we need to be pushing pro-natalism. we need to encourage an optimistic, life-affirming national ideology through all of the institutions. also just education reform in general. make higher education great again, rather than just the "next step" after high school. and make it free for the truly qualified. and offer career education in other forms.

build walkable, family-friendly cities with more affordable housing. universal healthcare. financial incentives like tax credits per child or family loans for married couples where a portion of the loan is paid off for each child or even preferential loans for homes for extended families or something. meanwhile tax childlessness. invest in automation of menial jobs so we can increase wages and reduce work week. invest in robotics so we can have robot-servants who help reduce the burden of household chores and childcare. invest in artificial exowombs. invest in life extension technologies. encourage people to freeze sperm, eggs, zygotes. encourage space exploration and colonization. address climate change (for a multitude of interrelated reasons, not least of which is because many anti-natalists use it as justification for their death cult).

again, just generally speaking, we need to encourage an optimistic, life-affirming ideology. we need to show people that a better world -- one filled with hope, vitality, nobility, beauty -- is possible.

and, of course, join my cult (which encourages having children).

basically all americans should live as if they were the aristocrats of the globe. living lives of ease and luxury where they are free to hone their skills and virtue and raise future generations of world-aristocrats.

and we need to understand that degrowth, anti-natalist types aren't actually interested in saving the world like they pretend. they are anti-human, life-hating demons who are members of a death cult. they are the ugly and vicious enemies of goodness.

#many people think just allowing more immigration is the solution #but it's not #it's a very short term bandaid because dropping birthrates is an issue around the globe #better to invest in self-sufficiency rather than relying on a dwindling foreign source #it's basically natalist offshoring #not to mention all of the other negative externalities that come with mass immigration #but with that said #i am confident even if we go with a managed decline #and focus on a small but high quality population #we'll be okay #especially combined with life extension and robotics/ai

[stillness-in-green]

Chapter Thoughts: 375, Chaotic Confusion

Sorry for the delay on this and other writings, all. The holidays got very hectic very fast. I really only pushed this one out before another week or two went by because I took a day off to finish it and run some errands. I won't say this is the last thing I'll post this year—I should have at least some downtime during an upcoming trip to visit family!—but fingers crossed for catching up more in the new year, anyway.

That said, to make a start, RIP to Moonfish having any relevance post-Tartarus, apparently. Man, I'm so tired of previously consequential villains getting pulled out of mothballs because that's easier than coming up with a bunch of new ones only for them to be unceremoniously disposed of when the crowd scene they're in is over.

Like, did Toga even notice an OG League member was there?

(See below the cut for much, much more. I had a lot to say this week, though a regrettable amount of it is Stillness-brand finicky overlong breakdowns of easy-to-overlook plot holes or quibbles about grammatical omissions that change the tone of the material.)

O  The descriptors of Toga’s evasion ability continue to be all over the place, to the point that I’m wondering if it’s intentional.  I want over that in some detail in this post, so I won’t repeat myself here(1) save to note that the varied descriptions of lacking intent (Chapter 105), loving intent (Chapter 247), basically misdirection (this chapter), complex and nuanced (also this chapter), cannot fool heightened senses (Chapter 266), and limited in how many people can be fooled at once (this chapter again) do not add up to anything remotely cohesive to me.

Ochaco is, of course, just theorizing, so there’s no guarantee that she’s right, but I don’t really even follow her own internal logic.  If Toga’s move is “basically misdirection,” what makes it so nuanced?  Why would it being complicated mean it only works on a limited number of people?

If the contradictions aren’t intentional, then I wonder if it’s, rather, another case of Horikoshi running into trouble when he tries to overexplain things.  Obviously some explanation is important, but even in this very chapter, there’ll be another, even worse, example of the kinds of problems that arise from trying to anticipate every question and answer it in advance.

O  As @codenamesazanka mentioned here, it’s real good to see members of the League putting their faith in Spinner!  His feelings get the job done, regardless of his quirk loadout.  It especially suits Toga, who of course has an affinity for maidens in love strong feelings of admiration towards others.

O  The chemical to attract Noumu feels like one of those things that raises more questions than it’s really worth.  Like, wow, that sure is a thing that we’re going to see once and then literally never have come up again.  I’d love to be surprised on that front, but like, it doesn’t even bring the Noumu stomping over in this chapter, just makes it throw one (1) volley at attacks at Tsuyu.  Feels like it would have been simpler to just let Toga get the sip in.  Or have the vial contain something acidic from Ujiko’s lab, or something with a foul taste, or anything that would buy Toga two seconds of breathing room and be less of a curveball than a one-off Noumu attractor that’s apparently highly water soluble, given that it seems to lose its effectiveness literal seconds after coming into contact with Tsuyu’s saliva.

That small gripe aside, I do like the idea of Toga having a decoy, for two reasons.  Firstly, and more recently, she had front-row seats for the value of having backup doses courtesy of Kirishima using Mina’s helping of drugs on Gigantomachia.

Secondly, and further back, she was present for Mister’s big fancy marble misdirection at the training camp.(2)  Certainly, this panel of her—

—looks more like someone who’s making a biiiig, obvious show of what she’s about to do than someone interested in successfully doing it.  No need to dangle that vial several inches away from her own mouth if the plan was to ingest it!  Sako would be so proud.

O  I love that the word “miracle” is used to describe the Dead Man’s Parade.  Yes, Dabi’s foresight, Spinner’s will, and Toga’s love did all combine to produce this result, and yes, it is a miracle, because if the fights ended here and now, all that would happen is that the villains would get dropped in jail, forgotten about, and likely eventually executed.  The kids are all still too aligned with the status quo for me to believe it would go any different.  So three cheers for the shake-up.

O  I flagrantly adore Himijin’s wide-eyed expression when Ochaco calls out to her to try and lure her back with rabu rabu talk, and the way her eyes go narrow and she responds with resignation.  She recognizes (or thinks she does) that Ochaco doesn’t actually want to have girls’ talk with her; it’s just a delaying tactic, the same thing Shouto tried on Dabi last chapter with the same lack of results.

(I note additionally that neither Dabi nor Toga fell for it, whereas All For One, despite reflecting on needing to meet back up with his vessel, was more than happy to dally about taking questions from Hawks.  This is because AFO is a comic book evil overlord who can no more stop gloating than he can stop breathing.)

O  Hawks’ internal monologue is the other place I had in mind when I talked about Horikoshi over-explaining things.  Buckle up for a lot of quibbling, then consider:

1: There isn’t really a need for Hawks to be able to jump to this conclusion.  Indeed, I should think it would be more effective if he had that heart-in-his-throat confusion about whether he missed a double somewhere, if this is a ghost, some kind of Noumu resurrection, or if Jin himself actually managed to survive somehow, only for a terrible understanding to dawn when the knives come out.

2: Toga was never noted as being particularly close with Hawks, so there’s no immediate reason to assume that he’d have found out about her quirk evolution during his infiltration.  This might sound like selling him short—why wouldn’t word have gotten around where he could hear about it, after all?—save that we already have an example of the heroes lacking crucial information about what happened in Deika.

When Shigaraki unleashed Decay at the hospital basement, Gran Torino is surprised that it’s spreading to things Shigaraki hasn’t touched.  His subsequent line—“This is the one thing we didn’t know about—his enhancements!”—implies an assumption that this is a result of Shigaraki’s surgery, not a change to his quirk itself.  Ergo, proliferating Decay was not part of Hawks’ information communicated to the HPSC to help shape battle tactics.

Hawks did know about Twice getting past his mental block, but Twice’s capabilities were already a matter of record from his pre-trauma days, Hawks was around Twice constantly, and Twice was an inveterate chatterbox.  Those things were not true of Shigaraki, nor were they true of Toga, which means it’d make more sense for Toga’s change, like Shigaraki’s, to have gone undiscovered until Ochaco told an adult about it after Toga informed her directly at Jakku.

Does it make more sense that Hawks would have found out about all of this during his infiltration, presumably because the MLA and Twice both would have been all abuzz about what happened in Deika?  Well, yes, honestly.  But there’s a lot about Hawks’ infiltration that starts to break down when you look at it critically, so it would perhaps behoove Horikoshi to stop drawing attention to it.

3: How and when exactly did Hawks destroy all of Toga’s stored blood samples?  Doesn’t she usually keep those on her person or safe in a marble in Mr. Compress’s keeping?

Toga, of all the members of the League, is by far the most perceptive of her surroundings, see e.g. her being the first to note Slidin’ Go’s approach in Chapter 224.  When she thinks, in her battle with Curious, that people are just a little bit kinder to high school girls, it’s suggestive of her having become exceptionally attuned—one might even say hair-triggered—to anything around her that might present a danger.  Color me skeptical that she wouldn’t notice any errant red feathers flicking about, especially in the immediate wake of the sound of breaking glass, or that neither she nor anyone else would ask questions if she found her stores ruined.

4: Hawks’s line implies that he was so mindful of the possibility of Toga being able to use Twice’s blood that he specifically and personally went back to the ruins of the villa to clean up the scene of Twice’s death.  This strikes me as a pretty big stretch, given that he was hospitalized for his egregious burns and then was running around with Best Jeanist checking on other people, like his mother and Endeavor, and exactly how long would Twice’s body/the bloodstains have been left alone after heroes secured the villa?

Did Hawks first regain consciousness in the medical tent in the woods around the villa and have to shake off a bunch of doctors plus Tokoyami to return to the scene of his crime before the day was even over?  Or was it days later, Twice’s body long since recovered and dealt with in whatever fashion it was dealt with,(3) and all Hawks was doing was scrubbing and/or burning the patch of floor Jin bled out on?

Either way, it seems much simpler for this to get delegated to a specialized clean-up crew, except that, whoops, the HPSC was in disarray, so there wouldn’t have been one of those available.  So if Hawks had to attend to it himself, be it hours or days later, then he should have known the body was left unattended for a period of time.  And if that’s the case, then…

5: Why didn’t he foresee this possibility?  He knows good and well that Dabi was still up and on his feet after Tokoyami got him out of there.  Sure, Dabi was unlikely to have stray vials on his person, but the villa was a huge resort—it’s not so strange to imagine he could have rustled up a plastic cup(4) from somewhere.

Frankly, though, Dabi isn’t even the most likely culprit for a blood stash.  Like, if he’d had that blood all along, why on earth wouldn’t he have given it to Toga on Gigantomachia?(5)  Just spread Twices all the way from Wakayama to Kyoto!

The fact that that didn’t happen must have led to Hawks thinking he was in the clear once he cleaned up the body.  But then, who could have gotten access to a stash of blood?  Dabi was there, yes, but the much more obvious answer is Ujiko.

Ujiko had clearly been doing some work with Twice given the existence of Mocha, whose use of Double Mirko personally witnessed and survived to debrief about later.  Ujiko’s lab was disintegrated before the heroes had a chance to recover shit from it, but the heroes do know that Shigaraki managed to spare a bunch of Noumu and deleter rounds from his initial Decay wave.  Why not assume he managed to spare some blood vials, too?

Alternatively, consider that Ujiko left gifts behind for AFO in a backup location, including some kind of substance that triggered the latter’s Rewind—a Rewind he name-dropped out loud, in Hawks’ immediate presence.

Ujiko couldn’t have gotten access to Rewind until he got Overhaul’s sample from Shigaraki, well after AFO was imprisoned.  AFO in turn couldn’t have gotten access to it until after he escaped from Tartarus, after Ujiko was taken into custody and the hospital destroyed.  Ergo, Ujiko had to have left something in a secondary location AFO knew to seek out.  Given that, why would it be such a stretch to assume he left some samples for Toga’s use, too?  All to further the dream of the Lord of Evil.

That, in any case, is a more logical explanation(6) than Dabi having time to jet himself back up to Twice’s body, find some kind of way to get a useable blood sample from it, then travel all the way back down to wherever Skeptic had holed up to retrieve him before Gigantomachia managed to snatch him up, and then not give Toga the blood right then and there.

The fact that Hawks jumps to Dabi as an explanation and then ends his train of thought there kind of feels like Horikoshi wants to present Hawks as smart enough to the correct but farfetched conclusion rather than thinking about what conclusions Hawks might naturally come to given everything he knows.(7)

6:  You know what else would have been super easy and avoided this whole thing?  Toga wonders to herself if the heroes knew about Jin’s blood, and that’s why they put her on an island—just let her be right.  Say that Hawks did have her put on an island just in case.  It’s an incredible longshot, and he did everything he could to circumvent it, and probably they would have seen Toga’s Parade by now if it was going to be a problem, but—just in case.

Instead of being about Jin's presence or Toga's possession of his blood, have Hawks' shock and panicky, frantic jumble of thoughts be about the warp gate and what its appearance implies about what happened at Central Hospital.

Hell, that would even be a nice nod to the fact that, despite being a heteromorph himself, Hawks was not immune to badly underestimating the anger of the heteromorph protestors because he, with his isolated government upbringing, sick red angel wings, incredibly useful quirk, and conventionally handsome face, was never subjected to hate crimes over his quirk status.

To restate, then, aaaaall of these issues could have been avoided by not drawing our attention to them and then half-assing the explanation—exactly the same situation as Hawks and Jeanist’s awful expository conversation about how Hawks personally went and revived Jeanist in time for the raid during a time in which his wings were absolutely dripping with micro cameras.

There are so many ways Hawks could have reacted here that wouldn’t be trying to have it both ways: that the allegedly hypercompetent and incredibly meticulous Hawks completely planned for how to neutralize Toga’s powers but then is somehow shocked, just shocked, that the villains might have had a stock he didn’t account for.

The only thing I can think of is that it’s something in Hawks’ bias about the League.  Perhaps he didn’t conceive of them as having the patience or strategic acumen to not use Jin’s blood at the first opportunity, or he thought of Dabi as too much a lone wolf to care about going back to Jin’s body.  It would not be the first time he badly misjudged the League because of a blind spot in his own mindset.

However, even if either of those is meant to be the case—that he misjudged the League’s patience or Dabi’s camaraderie—neither clicks with him being so meticulous as to go back and clean up the blood traces Just In Case.  If he really were that meticulous, then this shouldn’t have blindsided him to begin with.

As ever, I wonder if Horikoshi is overcompensating because he Has A Trauma from all those letters about Deku’s 1,000,000% Smash against Muscular.

…Okay, wow, where was I?

O  It kind of feels like the last two pages should be reorganized a bit?  I assume they’re in the correct order because the panels of Tsuyu throwing Ochaco have the faintest overlay of Flashback Filter, and Ochaco’s in that last array of panels, but it’s a bit silly to have that big dramatic panel of Ochaco and Tsuyu coming through the portal only to immediately cut to a flashback of how it happened.

It feels like the chapter could have used one more page.  Cut from Kinoko’s dismay back to the beach to show the portal closing, have Tsuyu throw Ochaco through it, then back to the villa ruins for Ochaco coming through and pulling Tsuyu after her, ending with the row of character panels and the reporter image.

That aside, my congratulations and appreciation to Ochaco for her time and consideration in making sure Tsuyu stays relevant to this plot, rather than just using her for the yeet and leaving her in the dust which is what Deku would have done.

I wish them all the best in their pursuit of dialogue, but in the meantime, GET THAT FLYBOY, TOGA.  GET HIS ASS.

I know I complained a lot above, but I really did enjoy this chapter on the whole, largely for what a great showcase it is for Toga being sharp as a tack while still being emotionally resonant. Here's to more of Hawks making all the wrong decisions next time!

...But also, I do have some more complaining to do first. None of the stuff below is on Horikoshi—indeed, there's one bit of potential plot I'm very excited about that I didn't talk about above because the potential foreshadowing was lost in translation. Further, plenty of the points below may not really be the fault of Caleb Cook. I don't know the style guide he's working under, nor what sort of editing passes for tone or voice get made on his work after he turns it in.

Whoever's at fault, however, I have an unusually high number of issues this week, so I just moved them all to the end in place of the usual Stray Notes section. I may keep that up going forward so as to better distinguish between criticism of a chapter's actual content and criticism of issues unique to the English release.

Translation and Rendition Quibbles

O  ANAL-RETENTIVE GRAMMAR NITPICK ALERT.

“Coming to terms” feels like an unnecessarily clunky translation for the sentiment teinen is expressing—a feeling of resignation, reaching a state of understanding or acceptance.  Even setting aside the Japanese, the English usage feels very strange, because “coming to terms” would typically be a verb phrase, a phrase that states the action the subject of a sentence is taking upon the direct object of a sentence.  One “comes to terms” or “came to terms” or even “is coming to terms” with something or someone—subject, verb, object.

The usage here, however, is a gerund phrase.  A gerund is a verb that is acting as a noun.  Here, “coming to terms” is (along with “her rancor”) the subject of the sentence, with “completed” being the verb describing the action that subject takes upon the sentence’s object, “her transformation.”

While I suppose it’s not necessarily wrong, in that I understand the meaning, it doesn’t feel right, either—at the very least, it feels incomplete.  Because the phrase in question so specifically begs for an object to be acting upon, using it as a subject in and of itself while omitting the object—the thing/person being come to terms with—leaves the sentence feeling vague, lacking crucial information.  The reader can fill in that information based on the accompanying flashback panel, but it is, again, so much clunkier than just using a single word like “resignation” or “acceptance.”  Heck, “resignation” would even give a nice little alliteration with “rancor.”

O  It is very sigh-inducing that the decision not to do anything to retain the meaning of the -tachi in Spinner’s plea to save Shigaraki-tachi two weeks ago has now resulted in Kurogiri turning up echoing that he has to save Shigaraki and his allies without those words actually tying correctly to Spinner’s earlier words.

O  Another case this week of punctuation woes.  Togawice is supposed to have an ellipsis before she responds to Kurogiri’s question—she doesn’t have that answer on the tip of her tongue.  For all that the narration claims that she’s completely become a villain at this point, she still hesitates before she gives an answer involving violence.  The official release loses this nuance by having her seem to respond immediately.

O Another thing I think is interesting that gets obscured somewhat in translation is the verb Toga uses—kakusan, which means things like spread, diffuse, disseminate, scatter.  This seems like a request that is not going to be met by Kurogiri dropping Togawice in a single location, so I will be extremely unsurprised if, within the next few chapters, we see a bunch more portals with a BUNCH more Parades pouring through them.  She did say she wanted to start with Hawks, of course, but why stop there?  There’s literally no reason not to dump self-replicating doubles through as many portals as Kurogiri has coordinates for.(8)

Aside from being strategically sound, it would also be a nice echo of Sad Man’s Parade coming to Shigaraki and Spinner’s rescue in Deika, though it remains to be seen whether it’ll be as loud and raucous as Jin’s Parade, or whether, being composed entirely of Togas-masquerading-as-Jin, it will be eerily silent.

O  I mentioned this a few days ago, but Jesus fucking Christ, what is up with every translator in the usual pipeline who looked at this chapter apparently completely missing the very prominent and obvious “death” kanji in Toga’s version of the Sad Man’s Parade?  It’s even in the furigana, which reads: saddo manzu desu paredo.  I realize everyone and their mother is in a huge hurry to get this stuff out as quickly as possible for the clicks, but come on.

---------------- FOOTNOTES ----------------

1: I have in fact been over it twice, somewhat embarrassingly, but let it be said that I don’t have the best memory for what rants I have or haven’t been on, hence my occasional broken record harping.

2:  She bailed before the big reveal, but she’d already seen the first part, where Shouji thought he got the real marbles back and Compress was flagrantly unconcerned, even stopping Dabi from going on the attack again to recover them. That doubtlessly was not the only time she ever saw Mr. C perform sleight of hand, either.

3:  Which, incidentally, just begs for fanfic.  What did happen to Twice’s body after it was recovered by the heroes?

4:  Or a bloodstained handkerchief.

5:  Looking for a Watsonian answer to that highly pertinent question, I’d venture to say Dabi knew the time for his broadcast was coming up and he didn’t want anyone or anything to distract from it.

6:  It would lose some thematic resonance to have the blood come from Ujiko’s stores rather than being secured by a League member directly from Twice’s body, but it makes a lot more sense than Dabi running around back and forth through the chaos of battle like a video game character trying to secure all a level’s key items before he gets defeated by a hero, runs out of stamina, or the Machia Timer hits zero.

7:  Terry Pratchett once wrote a mini-rant about detectives who use tiny clues to make huge, sweeping assumptions, Sherlock Holmes-style, when there are a thousand other possible explanations the detective conveniently ignores because the author knows those ones are wrong.  Regardless of whether that's fair to Doyle and his imitators, it’s still the case that Hawks definitely did NOT eliminate every other possible factor to leave only the improbable truth.

8:  Yes, I will consider this to be another example of the villains’ capabilities getting nerfed if it doesn’t happen, just like that massive underground organization full of heroes, politicians, and god only knows what other sorts of public figures they allegedly had that had zero personal impact on a single heroic character.

#bnha #chapter thoughts #toga himiko #flyboy the red #my writing #stillness has questions #dubbed salt #horikoshi's million letters trauma

[fixomnia-scribble]

Big damn personal rant after very little sleep and two large coffees; scroll on by as you like.

I forgive far too quickly and am so hasty to land in a neutral-to-positive mindset, when I need to let myself rage around and actually, be rightfully and righteously furious for a while. Oh, there are many many reasons, all linked with a life history of ADHD-masking and anxiety about taking up space, being seen as uncooperative, uncontained, and god forbid, needing to ask for anyone’s help. Knowing that is still at some distance from actively working at it - and why, indeed, would I want to start dismantling the coping mechanisms that have served me so well and gotten me through seriously awful shit, in the midst of a rising pile of stressors? I don’t have much of a gene for anger, but I do need to up-regulate it instead of letting it fester into bitterness.

This is sparked by the family-viction notice, BTW. I would not want to be the daughter in the situation, who must know that her father has evicted a 12-year tenant with two and a half months notice, so that she can move in. “I don’t feel good about it either,” was the landlord’s protest. I would bloody hope not. I am not remotely interested in arguments that “well, that’s the law.” It is a bad law, unjustly applied and subject to broad overreach from its original intention. There is not a single moral, ethical or reasonable argument to support the way it is applied. I did not ask him to contemplate how he would feel someone doing the same to his daughter, because a) I am too nice and b) I need landlord references, and must grit my teeth on that.

This eviction is the result of the student housing crisis in my city - never mind that I am also a student. Which means I am also dealing with my end of term Grad papers and presentations, getting my 120 undergrad students through their final papers, trying to sort out an unwanted job search/change, AND NOW having to completely dig out and uproot my life, all at the same time. That’s the mental and practical mountain. At the heart of my emotional reaction is the combined sense of being invaded in my home and utter powerlessness about it. Nightmare level stuff. Just after a parkade/car smash break-in, too. (/rant)

I am so easily set off by injustice. I’ll go full Mama Bear on behalf of others, and find resources and supports and case law, dammit. When I am the one affected by an unjust situation, though, my outward reaction is to squirm away from wrathful feelings (silver linings! neutral mind! you should actually thank the person for giving you the chance to grow...real classic victim-brain stuff), and immediately assure people that I’m fine, it’ll all work out, even better than before! and here are the possible solutions I have already found. Heaven forbid I should open the door to my parents’ tendency to grill me very hard for information or try to get me to perform an emotional reaction, just because they need to feel like they’re doing something and are needed. Let alone put any more goop on the shoulders of friends who are also dealing with their own goop.

Before I sign off on this rant I need to point out the incredible depth and long history of a handful of very dear friendships, which have let me stumble through learning to admit when I’m overwhelmed and pissed off and terrified and feeling bruised. The above is not about you. As you know, you’re not people that I need to be “on” for. You’re my people. Huge difference. Difference beyond words. You know who you are, and if it’s possible for me to fling any more armloads of appreciation and adoration at you, well, just tell me where and when.

And yeah, it’ll all work out, even better than before. Already have a pile of possible solutions. Many of them due to the abovementioned friends.

#personal #rant #tenancy #renters #tenancy law #being too nice

[thevalleyisjolly]

I tend to be extremely picky and judgmental about depictions of Elrond in Tolkien adaptations, in no small part because he’s my favourite character and I am, if nothing else, an Opinionated™ person.  But, because he is my favourite, I feel like it’s only fair to the spirit of the character to try to be a little less judgmental and a lot more gracious.  Therefore, here are things I like about the different Elronds of screen!

The Hobbit, 1977 (Rankin/Bass)

Absolutely iconic character design.  I laughed my head off when I first watched this as a child, but looking back on it now, I kind of like it!  Definitely not remotely anywhere near his canonical appearance, but I love the interpretation of a crown of stars, A+++ (even if it gives the impression that he’s suffering from a permanent concussion), and kudos to them for giving Elrond a beard!  I am a big proponent of Elrond choosing to grow a beard, it’s one of my favourite headcanons.  Hush Tolkien, he’s Peredhel, he can grow a beard if he wants to.  I don’t remember anything about how his actual character was adapted because I was about 8 the one and only time I watched this film, but I gotta hand it to them, the character design is very creative and I do have a soft spot for 2D animation.

The Lord of the Rings, 1978 (Bakshi)

Alright, so he has a relatively small role and the character design definitely isn’t much to sneeze at, but damn, that voice!  Like a warm knife through butter, but also something that makes you really get what a Voice of Power might sound like.  “I will not touch it!”  Props to André Morell, he really Went Off on the handful of lines he got.

The Lord of the Rings, 2001-2003 (Jackson)

Cards on the table, while these movies are my absolute favourite movies of all time, I’ve never liked what they did with Elrond’s character in relation to the Aragorn and Arwen storyline.  However, I do get why they did it, and in the context of the story they’re telling, it works.  He fills a specific role for the type of character journey that this film’s Aragorn is on, and if you judge that storyline on its own, independent of source material, it works for what it is - a reluctant hero who needs a strict mentor/parent figure to challenge him to really think about who he is, who he wants to be, and what he really wants.  It’s not a creative decision that I personally would have made if I were on the production team, I’m not a fan at all of the decision to pursue this particular type of storyline, but spilled milk and all that.

Apart from the character’s changed role in the story, Hugo Weaving does a great job of portraying Elrond as someone’s who’s lived a long life, that famous “in his face was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful” descriptor.  There’s a reason why “I was there, Gandalf.  I was there 3000 years ago” has lasting power as a meme - his delivery of that line resonates with this weight and you just can’t forget it.  Also, his face in ROTK during the coronation after he tells Arwen to go to Aragorn is heartbreaking and so good. 

The Hobbit, 2012-2014 (Jackson)

This is my favourite on-screen Elrond thus far, so this will be more like a small essay. I say this wholeheartedly, Elrond in The Hobbit trilogy is the closest any screen adaptation has come thus far to capturing his character from the books.  You got the “kind as summer” in his interactions and burgeoning friendship with Bilbo, you feel that warmth and the fondness in his interactions with Gandalf, the big hug of greeting and the gentle teasing and even how they can disagree with each other on pretty major issues but still walk side by side as friends. 

You got the “wise as a wizard...venerable as a king of dwarves,” most evident in the plot scenes where he’s reading secret maps and participating in important councils, but also just in the way he moves around Rivendell with that measured self-assurance.  Sure, his guests might be starting food fights, breaking furniture, or arguing with White Wizards about the necessity of investigating necromantic activity, but surprise Morgul blades aside, he never really loses his composure beyond a *deep sigh* or a mildly judgmental look of ‘Really?’  He’s not bothered by people showing him a lack of respect, and he’ll extend them hospitality all the same.  Wise and venerable indeed.

They even got his flaws, and I’m pretty happy with the way they adapted that one line from the book, “he did not altogether approve of dwarves and their love of gold.”  Not a great line, of course, and people are probably right in saying that Tolkien had not fully developed his idea of the character yet so it should be taken with a grain of salt, but I like that they kept him having reservations about the Quest, and translated it into something a little less racist (although the casual ableism still isn’t great) by making his disapproval more akin to “the eyes of the great are elsewhere” and so he fails to consider the personal significance of the Quest to the Company.

Because he’s heard of the history that Thorin’s family has with gold sickness, he’s concerned about messing with sleeping dragons, he’s suspicious of Gandalf’s motives for encouraging the quest because he views it as a level of geopolitical interference that none of them have a right to, and all these big overarching factors means he does not consider what the Quest means to the Dwarves, what Erebor means as a homeland forcibly snatched away in fire and blood.  It’s a great way to have an organic character flaw, taking what are usually a person’s positive traits (wisdom and caution) and showing how they too can inform flawed decisions or perspectives under the right circumstances.

Also, possibly my favourite underrated element, but I love how much they incorporated “strong as a warrior." From that first entrance, riding back into Rivendell in full armour after destroying an Orc hunting pack, to the Battle of Dol Goldur, holy shit I could talk about that for ages.  The sheer confidence of “You should have stayed dead,” the excellent battle choreography.  He just impaled a Ringwraith through the spine, from behind!  Watch closely, his fights never last more than two or three blows - he goes straight for what would be killing/KO blows on living creatures.  He’s not here to duel or show off fancy sword skills, he’s here to eliminate the threat as quickly and efficiently as possible.  And then of course, there’s that fantastic line, “Sauron must be hunted down and destroyed, once and for all.” 

Love that for him, honestly, it’s what he deserves.  Beyond the circles of the world, Lúthien is eating popcorn and cheering.

Rings of Power, 2022 (that one company, you know the one)

This is the only thing on the list that I haven’t watched at all so bear in mind that everything I’ve heard is secondhand, but I do have to say that I really like how they’re showing Elrond being good friends with Durin and the other Dwarves.  He absolutely would! (that one line in The Hobbit aside)  I’m still not planning on ever watching the show, but credit where credit is due, it’s very sweet to see them get along so warmly and enthusiastically in the gifsets.

#lotr #the hobbit #elrond #long post #fun side fact: according to tumblr's totally functional code; this is my 40000th post! #seems appropriate to mark a milestone with a post about my favourite blorbo #i haven't listened to any of the radio dramas so i couldn't comment on their elronds #i suppose i also haven't watched the tv show but the gifsets of his friendship with the dwarves are very sweet

[bookwyrminspiration]

Hi! I am here for the clarification!

Montgomery- The most traumatising thing to happen to Maui's life. He was the guy that r@ped him when he was about 7 or 8. He's the reason Maui has such intense arachnophobia, because if Maui wasn't "good" then he'd be thrown into the spider closet. Pitch black with no where to go and so, so many spiders. Maui also just not like tight dark spaces. All of his closets have at least one light.

About the names thing! Ok so Maui is someone who's had many, many names. He was born as Victoria Jr, then he tried to go by Victor, and after he accidentally killed Montgomery and ran away and was found by Manon in the woods Manon called him Hark, and then after he accidently killed everyone he loved (and who they loved) and ran off into the wilderness again he called himself Maui to try distance himself from what he just did. So now he just goes by Maui but uses Hark as an alias when he has to.

But yeah the "accidently killing everyone he loves and who they love" had something to do with him and magic, I haven't sorted out the details yet, so now he's in the forever conundrum of "God I want more power" and "I need to learn to control what I have otherwise I'm going to ruin my life again". So far he's doing a good job at controlling his magic, he's gotten used to the always-there feeling of power, and instead of getting more magical power he's satiating himself with getting more money/political power/control. He. He has a lot of issues to work through.

When Healers lose their sight and rely on magic to "see", corpses and crystals simply are not there. They will walk into elven walls at every chance they get. Usually they walk in groups of one Eyeless One, two that have eyes but cannot see, and two that aren't quite full healers so they can see. This is mostly so that The Eyeless One gets protection and the three blind ones don't bump into walls- thanks to the trainees. They'll probably have at least two guards to protect them, as well. With corpses there might be som residual life left in them, so the healers might be able to see them, but only slightly. With crystals there simply is none, nada, nothing to see here folks. The healers might be able to see them from the fact that there is nothing there, but that's only if it's one building in a forest.

Yeah Manon. Manon is not a good person. She's a good enough parent to Maui/Hark, but she is absolutely not a good influence on him. Because she doesn't plan on getting a partner or having any heirs, she just snagged the child she liked the best and put up the best fight and seemingly had no parents and dubbed him her child. Hark was not opposed to this once she started teaching him how to fight. Anyway, she viewed him as half "Perfect weapon" and half heir to the throne, and it just so happens that those allign perfectly. So Hark gets a healthy dose of "How to strike fear into your enemies" and "How to rule a kingdom without civil unrest" while adoring how being her charge gives him power and control, something he's never had before.

Oh Manon would love the Ogres. They would be her favourite Intelligent Species. She'd only interact with the elves when necessary but would leap at the chance to fight with/talk to/train with the ogres. Another reason why she'd dislike the elves would be because of cultural differences. Like, The crystals, the changing of nature to their whims, the peace loving nature, the holier than thou attitude, the unwillingness to do what has to be done, etc etc. Also the fact that they don't have spicy food.

All of this, of course, translating to Hark. The only Elves Hark would be even remotely interested in would be those part of the neverseen (Mostly Fintan and Gethen) and the ones that tried to make their life in his and Manon's kingdom.

Also Also, not sure if I've mentioned this but the opposite of a Healer is a Necromancer. They go against nature in the hardest forms. They trade one person's soul for another, they bring back the dead when the dead should stay dead. If they want mindless servents then they dig up bodies that have already been buried (Dead people got whole cerimonies like in ancient Greece, and digging up their body kind of ruins the soul's peace that it found in the underworld). If they don't take someone's soul to reanimated it, they take it from plants and forests, draining them of the life that had been and that would've been. Nothing will grow there again. They feel that they can control the way that nature is, they try to tame it.

Other than that, they looked the same as healers. No eyes or a lack of seeing and all that

-Heathen

Heathen this has been in my ask box for about five months at this point I am. So sorry I did not mean to do that. I do not remember what any of my questions were that these are in answer to, but this is very interesting! Maui cannot catch a break it sounds like.

Montgomery sounds awful in so many ways. The fact that he has a spider closet is what my mind keeps catching on, since I am an avid advocate for spider love and I doubt he treated his spiders well. I mean, he definitely didn't treat Maui well and thats more important, I just like spiders.

Oh yeah! I think I remember a thing about the Hark detail and me asking about it. Shout out to Maui for all the name changes, very cool of him to do so. Unfortunate it was brought about by such suffering, but still. Love name things

The power thing...Maui...sir...you don't need more. Sir you've killed so many why would you keep going. I think. I think you are good sir--also political power? uh-oh is Maui holding office somewhere I can't see that ending well. Everything I know about him is chaos he should not be politically or monetarily powerful. Sir. My thoughts and wishes are with the people wherever he's amassing that power because they're gonna need it. Maybe this is a "everything in my life has been out of my control maybe if I have enough power I can finally be in control and things will finally be okay" situation. Who knows!

Also!! Interesting!! These healers are fascinating to learn about, I remember you talking about them sensing the life in things and that's how they see, and they sacrifice more and more of their sight as they practice and become full healers. Though the Eyeless One name is new to me. It seems like quite the entourage and system, I wonder how common healers are in their world. If it's like a common thing, or if these groups of people sacrificing their sight are Super Special. It's quite the sacrifice to make, so I wonder if it's in the culture to be used to it and willing or if there's few healers.

Oh Manon. You fascinate me. I love characters that are complex like that, not good but you can't fully condemn them. Because she did take Maui in, and she did provide for him and teach him. But she also did it entirely motivated by her own wishes and using him for her own ends. She's not a good person, she's not a good influence, but she's a person. So she's not bad. Because people are never that simple. You know? I hope she and Princess Romhilda get along splendidly making fun of and insulting the elves. The elves are definitely a very specific culture, not many kinds of people fit. Hark and Fintan and Gethen though...I am afraid of that group. That. That is not ending well either.

And you haven't mentioned the Necromancers before! I didn't even finish reading the paragraph I heard "when the dead should stay dead" and immediately lost my shit I love those stories so much. You may have seen me losing my mind in the tags of a very separate posts about a particular Aaron Stewart and how he should've stayed dead because i have SO MANY thoughts about that. I love the sound of the necromancers--not that I think they're doing good things, but in that they're fascinating. Taking life and remaking it and the different views of bodies and being so starkly contrasted against the rest of the world. hell yeah I love those kinds of characters. That controlling nature is kinda like the keeper elves (though the elves don't see themselves like that), and yet the two groups would hate each other.

This is all very very interesting and I am remiss that it sat so long in my inbox because I love learning about your ocs and world! Thank you for sharing it with me!

#others' ocs #quil's queries #heathen nonsie #long post #sometimes when asks have be in my inbox a while they become invisible #i'm like 'oh yeah no that's always there' and then it blends into the askbox #and I forget to answer it for even longer #so that is why there was a wait #but! thank you for your patience :) #tw rape mention

[leconcombrerit]

I've been recommended the same job offer for over six months now and they haven't changed anything about it. Not a word. They stick to their guns without wondering if maybe there's a reason they got no applications at all.

That's why I'm always wary of headlines like "there are so many jobs but no one wants to work".

No my dude. This job would require a master's degree in at least two very different subjects, a minimum of five years of experience, competences in both management and PR and some kind of experience in leading workshops both in situ and remote, plus, of course, the individual interviews. Not to mention frequent trips all over the country. Hence a license. It's 45-50 hours, not 35. Even if you're fast as fuck.

All this for a wage some 500 over the minimal one. It's just. No one with the right competences will want the position, if that person even exists. This is a job for a four people team. Maybe five. I love watching them struggle because they're too damn close to their money.

#it's like #I could deal with two points if given training #my dad could have dealt with one other big one #I know of a few people who coulf deal with another one #and then someone actually qualified for communication and PR #dumbfucks no one can do it it's just #you're not even paying well #and then say people don't want to work #I mean I don't but I'm a statistical outlier

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

I can’t write anything remotely specific about what’s happened at the co-op job I’m doing. It’s working at an autism centre, and confidentiality rules are strict, for good reason. I say lots of shit on this blog that I wouldn’t say if it weren’t anonymous, but I say stuff about myself. I know I’m taking a certain amount of risk with my own personal information, putting an amount of it on the internet that is calculated to be enough for this blog to be a nice therapeutic outlet, but hopefully not so much that anyone who knows me ever comes across it. I know it’s very unlikely that anyone would be able to identify me on here, but there’s never zero risk, and I can’t take that risk with other people’s confidential information about what happens in their medical setting. Take note, people I’ve only heard about from stories and have never actually checked to see if they exist but they probably do exist – nurses who film Tik-Toks at work.

However, I would like to say that it is really fucking sucks to be in a room full of stim toys and not be allowed to use any of them. Whole room geared toward supports for kids who have autistic needs, and I’m sitting there trying desperately not to look or sound or seem too autistic because I’m hoping these people will give me a real job someday. I spent yesterday constantly checking every part of my body to make sure I was keeping it still and doing something normal with my gaze, while watching clients in a playground of items that were made for people who have difficulty with this. I have an evaluation sheet to be filled out by my supervisor in which one of the criteria on which she judges me is my ability to present professionally and speak with a natural tone of voice. So basically... to be allowed to work with autistic people, you have to not appear autistic. It’s a strange situation.

Also, I would just like to say, in my Autistic Opinion, I hate that the use of functioning labels has stopped being okay. There are many contexts when those labels aren’t appropriate, and there are many ways in which they’ve been used badly, and that should stop. But sometimes, it’s useful to have a quick way to explain that I can understand language, speak clearly enough to be understood, use the bathroom and get dressed without help, read, and write, and those skills make it much easier for me to navigate the world than it is for people who can’t do those things. But then, the use of functioning labels can make it too easy for me to think of myself as a completely different type of autistic person than the clients I see who can’t do a variety of those things, and I have to remind myself that that isn’t always the case. When I was a kid, I was higher functioning than a lot of the clients at the centre where I work, but not by nearly as much and you’d think based on who I am now. I can watch a kid walk around a therapy room talking to themselves in nonsensical language and not taking notice of anyone or anything around them, and the use of functioning labels can make me think I don’t relate to that, but then I remember that’s exactly what I used to do as a kid and that’s why I had teachers telling my parents I’d never graduate school through the regular system. I had some things change as I got older, but if I try, I can remember how it felt.

When I got diagnosed I was 14 and already much “higher functioning” for my age than I’d been in elementary or middle school, and it was called Asperger’s Syndrome when they applied it to me. Asperger’s Syndrome is no longer an official condition; they took it out of the DSM a few years ago and it all got rolled into autism spectrum disorder, so officially now I’m just high-functioning autistic, rather than officially being Asperger’s, since no one’s officially Asperger’s anymore. Also, the term Asperger’s has Nazi connections and it’s probably best to just stop using it. But I’ll sometimes still call myself Asperger’s just because if I call myself autistic, people are confused because I can talk and read and write and use the bathroom and dress myself unassisted, so how can I be autistic? I sometimes say “mildly autistic”, which has the same problematic connotations as “high functioning”, but it does work as something to make people understand.

Anyway, those are some thoughts. Can’t get more specific than that, but those are some thoughts I have as I work with people who are on other parts of the spectrum than I am. It’s a weird experience. But I’m glad it’s the field I chose to study. I hope I can do good things in it.

[j-g-day]

Your Mandatory RTO Policy Is Illogical and Harmful

First, a note.

This is intended for those organizations who espouse the importance of DEI initiatives, of modernization, of work-life balance, and of progressive work policies. If your organization doesn’t fall into that list, or if you’re in a field where working onsite is a necessity for your job, this does not pertain to you. There are always exceptions.

If, however, you’re an executive, a business owner, or a board member within an organization that claims to care about employee wellbeing and diversity, equity, and inclusion, and if you insist on a return to office (RTO), then this is very much for you.

You may find yourself arguing that we need to return to the office for one or more of the following reasons:

It increases collaboration

It increases productivity

It strengthens workplace relationships

You get the “water cooler” conversations

Here’s the thing: the first three of those four arguments have mixed research. It’s easy to focus in on the pieces of research that support your point of view; confirmation bias is alive and well among all of us, myself included. To that end, I won’t say that it’s completely incorrect to make the first three statements; however, it’s silly to state that it is always, or even mostly, true.

The last argument, as many millennials and Gen Zers can tell you, is just as easily accomplished online. We grew up in the age of chat rooms, AIM, and social media. We’re familiar and comfortable with building online connections; many of us have close friends that we met through social media or some other online platform. It’s not imperative to be in person for these connections to develop, much as some who read this would like to pretend it is. We have slack, teams, zoom — the list goes on. The want for in-person connection with coworkers isn’t necessarily mutual. Incidentally, when was the last time anyone actually had a meaningful or innovative conversation at a water cooler?

Aside from the unfounded arguments that typically punctuate RTO policies, they’re also incredibly harmful for myriad groups of individuals.

Black, Indigenous, and PoC employees need a break.

Numerous BIPOC writers have already written about this at length, and they are all far more informed, both from personal and professional experience, than I, a white individual, will ever be. To that end, here are several articles for your learning:

Black employees will thrive with remote work — it’s anti-racist

BIPOC employees fight to continue remote work. Here’s why

I’m Black. Remote Work Has Been Great for My Mental Health.

Why Hybrid, Remote & Flexible Work Appeals Even More to BIPOC Employees

Why Many Women of Color Don’t Want to Return to the Office

Women, people of color happier working from home

The Psychological Safety of Black Employees

It’s ableist AF.

This should really be self-evident. Look at your office. Is it really completely ADA compliant? Is a wheelchair user able to move about the entire office freely and without issue? Are all of the desks adjustable so employees can change the height as they need? Does your office ensure that neurodivergent employees feel fully comfortable in their environment, whatever that may mean for them?

Employees with disabilities have been requesting remote work options since long before the pandemic hit. It’s nothing new for them, and it’s not just because a pandemic happened to impact our entire world. Why, though?

It’s simple, really. We all have very specific needs and accommodations that an office space is highly unlikely to meet, especially when there is more than one person with a disability in an office. To put into perspective, there are now roughly 42.5 million Americans, or 13 percent of the population, that have a disability. That means more than 1 in 10 employees in your workplace likely have (or have had) at least one disability. There are many of us who have several; comorbidities are, frustratingly, a common occurrence.

I can definitively say I’ve never worked in an office setting where every accommodation I might need for my body and my mind were available; that’d be a lot to expect, after all. But I can find everything I need in the safety of my own home, and I don’t have coworkers asking me why I’m doubled over in pain or why I’m not eating lunch with them at that new restaurant. And I’m not alone in this experience.

As one of the three cofounders of a disability employee resource group (ERG), I’ve met so many other individuals across our place of work that also live with a disability (or two, or three) or care for someone with a disability. It is already exhausting having to go through life with a disability; we’re asking for the bare minimum from employers when we say we need flexible working options.

LGBTQIA+ Folx Are Tired of Masking.

Believe it or not, we do bring our whole selves to work. That includes who we love. Speak with an individual who’s queer, and they’ll likely have a story or two about feeling uncomfortable at work — that they were or are afraid to bring up their identity as a queer person, even in passing. This is especially so for those who are of the older generations. Until recently, it was technically legal to discriminate against a queer individual in the workplace.

I’m bisexual. It’s not something that comes up in daily conversation, especially at work. I’m lucky in that my partner is a cisgender man. I can very easily pass as heterosexual if and when I need to, and that allows me a certain comfort that others don’t necessarily have access to. When we arrive at work, we do not know who’s against us outside of work. We don’t know who opposed, or continues to oppose, marriage equality. We don’t know who believes trans people deserve less respect. We don’t know who we can trust. Because of that, many individuals of the LGBTQIA+ spectrum find it easier — and safer — to mask, or to assume an affectation so they can get through the workday. Data from 2014 shows that this number was as high as 53 percent.

When we’re able to work from home, we have more ability to decide who we want to come out to. For individuals who are trans, this is even more important. It’s given them space to rediscover their selves and to feel safe in their place of work.

Parents are juggling two (or more) jobs.

This is a section where, at least currently, I have no lived experience and therefore am providing a list of resources from parents about their desire for flexible working arrangements. A few common themes have emerged, however, across articles and social posts: more flexibility to handle childcare, less strain on finances, and more time to bond with family.

Married to the job no more: Craving flexibility, parents are quitting to get it

How Parents Feel About Remote and Hybrid Work Being Here to Stay

Fully Remote Work Is Better than Hybrid Work for Parents

Why Hybrid Models Level the Playing Field for Working Parents

Women want remote work, too.

We, as women, face numerous issues at work that men typically don’t. I can tell you firsthand that in the past ten or so years of working, I’ve had more incidents than I can count of sexual harassment by different male coworkers and managers. I’ve also unfortunately faced workplace bullying from a few women in managerial positions over the years — it felt like these woman, though thankfully few in number, had some level of internalized misogyny that resulted in their lashing out at more inexperienced female employees. And I’m not alone in these experiences of sexual harassment or bullying.

This isn’t to say that women are the only ones who experience these issues; individuals of any gender can and do have these experiences. Women, however, are more likely than men to undergo this treatment — and have it happen to them much more frequently.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t speak about the physical, mental, and emotional stress women go through due to our menstrual cycles. Whether it’s awful period pains, endometriosis, or the dreaded menopausal transition, we’re sometimes handling pain that to others would be unbearable — all while going to work and acting like we’re not wanting to scream.

We need a break. We need a space to feel safe from those who would try to harm us. Many of us have had those “crying in the bathroom stall at work” moments, and we’re tired of it. These issues aren’t just going to go away overnight, so at the very least, give us a reprieve.

Working from home can be more ecofriendly.

Your job to reduce your carbon footprint is not done just because you drive a Prius to work. Honestly, that’s the bare minimum. Employees who work from home typically have a smaller carbon footprint than those who commute. According to a recent study by Cornell and Microsoft, it can be up to 54 percent lower than their commuting peers. We don’t all have access to sustainable transport options, either. While some of us live in cities where public transportation is semi-functional, 45 percent of our country doesn’t have access to public transportation.

A note for those who will, inevitably, argue.

First and foremost, the groups about whom I’ve written are not monoliths. They are groups of individuals who all have diverse opinions and experiences, and this includes how they view returning to the office. Some thrive in an office space and love to be around their coworkers. Some are perfectly content with returning to the office either full-time or on a hybrid schedule. There’s nothing wrong at all with that.

What is unacceptable, however, is forcing all employees to return to the office simply because an executive or a board insists on it. RTO mandates say nothing about employees’ productivity or diligence and everything about these executives. Those in positions of power who are adamant in their stance that returning to the office is required have the need to maintain control over their employees, are unable to adapt to change or to see another perspective, and/or are benefiting from the commercial real estate industry — I really can think of no other reason, try as I might.

If you’re going to require employees return to the office, regardless of if it’s five days a week or two, you must have a rational thought behind it. Otherwise, you’re going to run out of candidates. Plenty of other workplaces have embraced this new world, and they’re seeing a massive flow of incoming applications because of it.

So, ditch the mandatory RTO policy. Embrace flexibility. Because we the employees are ready for it.

I originally published this writing on Medium. Follow me there today.

#business #rto #return to office #remote work #working from home #wfh #opinion #writing

[dailydoubletake]

Uncertainty and Still Being Curious

PASSION

Why not shut down? There is so much out there that could go wrong as the universe is really just a game of chance (physics speaking here). Quantum mechanics is weirder, even than me, so I don’t understand it well enough to dwell on this for too long. But I will say that, at the very tiny/basic level, the universe does operate probabilistically. So it only makes sense then that it would be the same in our shared reality, right? Truth is, it might as well be because we can’t know the future anyway. So either way, we’re still rolling the dice. Having said that, let’s dive even deeper into what shutting down actually means and what you can do to minimize it in yourself.

Every single person is capable of having a passion, or even multiple. Therefore, every person is capable of being curious and delighting in knowing more than they already do, whether it’s on one subject or many. This doesn’t have to be even remotely related to work or school. It could be bowling or underwater basket weaving or anything else. It doesn’t matter what it is. Every person is able to be passionate about something, no matter how big or small, smart or “stupid” their passion is.

I’m going to make a statement that may be disagreed with…. but maybe not. People are terrified to be curious. Not even to ask questions at work or in school, but just to wonder what could be if more information was known.

If my intuition is right, most people who read through the first sentence in this article don’t believe that they shut down and so maybe don’t know what happens when a person chooses not to. Sure, no one is able to maintain an open, positive mindset throughout all of life’s struggles. And even then, if you’re “mostly” open, you’re probably still a little hesitant to embrace change. All of that is completely normal.

People are interesting in how they work. This is known. A lot of what I’m referencing right now are what psychology calls “defense mechanisms.” So how does all of this relate to curiosity and being free to use one’s imagination and curiosity? You would be surprised.

Quick anecdote: I have a friend who was told almost their entire life that they were dumb. They came to believe it, and accepted it as fact until some life changing events happened. Watching him come out of that negative mindset blew me away. In those times talking to my friend, I realized he didn’t really want to listen to what I was saying to him. Not really. He had been told something (looking at you underfunded K-12 schooling system) that simply wasn’t fact, and the truth was swept under the rug. People like this are a large reason why I am writing this article.

Curiosity, though. To be fair we’ve all had different biases or judgments placed on us inaccurately throughout our lives. That’s just how people work. We judge because spending all that time to make a truly informed decision is far too difficult while balancing other mental priorities. Or in the case of my friend, teachers balancing other students all at the same time (underfunded, I know).

Imagine how much more productive a happy, fulfilled work force would be? What if students knew that, just because they don’t do well at filling in bubbles on paper (Hello Scantron), they aren’t dumb? How about inmates finally being able to work on a craft or a trade inside the prison so as to reduce recidivism?

All of these policies that we have through government and employers don’t do nearly enough to find the true talent that lies in each of us.

THE AFTERMATH

All of this is to say that each of us is capable of having a passion. This by its very nature means every person is capable of being curious and maintaining that mindset. This situation then becomes one of motivation and choice.

Find your passion. Even if you don’t get paid for doing it, directly, it will pay off in higher work performance anyway as you will be much happier. Call that a win-win.

Finally, just because you have your dream job, doesn’t let you off the hook of finding a passion outside of your work. You will be a healthier, more rounded person for following this piece of advice.

Choose to be curious. Choose to imagine a better life for yourself and those you care about. Then go make it happen.

Thanks for reading.

#curiosity #successmindset #positivity