#How to Hire a Siding Contractor?

[spacebell]

I heard two very interesting things at work today

[maaarine]

'We Can Bury Anyone': Inside a Hollywood Smear Machine (Megan Twohey and Mike McIntire and Julie Tate, The New York Times, Dec 21 2024)

"Last summer, as the release of “It Ends With Us” approached, Justin Baldoni, the director and a star of the film, and Jamey Heath, the lead producer, hired a crisis public relations expert.

During shooting, Blake Lively, the co-star, had complained that the men had repeatedly violated physical boundaries and made sexual and other inappropriate comments to her.

Their studio, Wayfarer, agreed to provide a full-time intimacy coordinator, bring in an outside producer and put other safeguards on set.

In a side letter to Ms. Lively’s contract, signed by Mr. Heath, the studio also agreed not to retaliate against the actress.

But by August, the two men, who had positioned themselves as feminist allies in the #MeToo era, expressed fears that her allegations would become public and taint them, according to a legal complaint that she filed Friday.

It claims that their P.R. effort had an explicit goal: to harm Ms. Lively’s reputation instead.

Her filing includes excerpts from thousands of pages of text messages and emails that she obtained through a subpoena.

These and other documents were reviewed by The New York Times. (…)

Mr. Baldoni was best known for the CW satirical romantic dramedy “Jane the Virgin.”

Wayfarer provided the resources for bigger ambitions. It was bankrolled by the billionaire Steve Sarowitz, who is co-chair of the studio with Mr. Baldoni.

They and Mr. Heath, the chief executive, are all deeply involved with the Baha’i religious organization, which promotes unity, peace and gender equality.

Mr. Baldoni has presented himself as an ally to women, writing books, co-hosting a podcast with Mr. Heath and giving talks on toxic masculinity. (…)

She claimed Mr. Baldoni had improvised unwanted kissing and discussed his sex life, including encounters in which he said he may not have received consent.

Mr. Heath had shown her a video of his wife naked, she said, and he had watched Ms. Lively in her trailer when she was topless and having body makeup removed, despite her asking him to look away.

She said that both men repeatedly entered her makeup trailer uninvited while she was undressed, including when she was breastfeeding. (…)

As the film release neared, Ms. Lively and other cast members informed Sony and Wayfarer that they would not do any appearances alongside Mr. Baldoni.

So did Ms. Hoover, the author, who had her own dissatisfactions with him and had become more upset after he told her about Ms. Lively’s allegations, according to text messages from Mr. Baldoni and Mr. Heath.

By the first week of August, Wayfarer and Mr. Baldoni had retained Ms. Nathan, who had worked with high-profile clients including Mr. Depp, whose ex-wife, Amber Heard, accused him of physical abuse. (…)

Three days later, Mr. Baldoni texted Ms. Abel, flagging a social media thread that accused another celebrity of bullying behavior and had generated 19 million views. “This is what we would need,” he wrote.

Ms. Nathan soon floated proposals to hire contractors to dominate social media through “full social account take downs,” by starting “threads of theories” and generally working to “change narrative.”

“All of this will be most importantly untraceable,” she wrote. (…)

When Ms. Abel wrote to her Aug. 4 that “I’m having reckless thoughts of wanting to plant pieces this week of how horrible Blake is to work with. Just to get ahead of it,” Ms. Nathan replied that she had spoken off the record to an editor at The Daily Mail.

“She’s ready when we are,” Ms. Nathan wrote.

A flurry of articles followed the Hollywood Reporter piece. Many made it seem as if the only rift was over creative control.

Some journalists had gotten wind of complaints about Mr. Baldoni’s behavior, but none of the most serious ones were published.

“He doesn’t realise how lucky he is right now,” Ms. Nathan texted Ms. Abel. (…)

It is unclear exactly how Mr. Wallace operated.

There are references in emails to “social manipulation” and “proactive fan posting,” and text messages cite efforts to “boost” and “amplify” online content that was favorable to Mr. Baldoni or critical of Ms. Lively.

“We are crushing it on Reddit,” Mr. Wallace told Ms. Nathan, according to a text she sent Ms. Abel on Aug. 9.

The next day, one of Ms. Nathan’s employees texted, “We’ve started to see shift on social, due largely to Jed and his team’s efforts to shift the narrative.”

Ms. Nathan wrote to Ms. Abel: “And socials are really really ramping up. In his favour, she must be furious. It’s actually sad because it just shows you have people really want to hate on women.” (…)

On Aug. 16, Ms. Nathan shared the Daily Mail article headlined “Is Blake Lively set to be CANCELLED?” with references to ‘hard to watch’ videos and a ‘tone deaf’ promotional Q. and A.

“Wow. You really outdid yourself with this piece,” Ms. Abel responded.

“That’s why you hired me right?” Ms. Nathan replied. “I’m the best.”"

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter four: Beneath the Surface

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

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Series Masterlist

Mornings were always the worst; waking up to the cold, sterile room with only the faintest trace of his presence lingering in the air. He was always gone before you even stirred, disappearing into the depths of the compound to handle whatever dark business his role demanded.

You had yet to share a meal together, much less have a conversation that didn’t feel forced or terse. The tension between you was thick like a string pulled taut, just waiting to snap. And yet, nothing changed.

But today felt different.

You heard a knock at the door, and your heart pounded as you made your way through the common room to the entrance.

You muttered under your breath, “Since when did he knock before coming in?” Convinced it was your husband on the other side, there was an unfamiliar stillness in the air, an almost tangible sense that something was on the verge of shifting.

You opened the door, coming face to face with a man in a pink suit. He wore a black mask with a large white square painted across the front, adding an air of mystery to his appearance.

“Mrs. Frontman,” he addressed you, handing over a small stack of neatly arranged white papers with elegant black lettering. “These are the documents you’re expected to review regarding the VIP room.” His voice was rough through the mask, betraying the fact that he clearly didn’t want to be the one to deliver them. He would much rather be doing something more interesting than talking to his boss’s wife.

You nodded politely. “Thank you.”

You watched as the man retreated down the vast hallway, his footsteps echoing in the distance.

The silence that followed felt heavy as your own footsteps echoed across the room, the sound unnervingly hollow as you crossed the threshold into the sitting room. This room has quickly become your favorite. It was the one space in the complex that felt almost warm. The view outside the large windows was serene, and the only color in the otherwise monochrome apartment came from the beautifully patterned brown and beige rug.

You sank into the cushioned chair by the small table in front of the windows and peeled the paperclip off the stack of documents. You glanced down at the first page.

VIP Room (Very Important People)

This document outlines the private quarters of the VIPs and the central room.You will decide the theme of the room. You will choose the furniture. You will ensure that all the needs of the VIPs are met.

You flipped to the next page, which listed the current contents of the room. From the light switch covers to the diamond chandelier, everything was detailed. The following pages were filled with names of contractors who could be hired to renovate the space, should you decide a change was necessary.

You frowned as you scanned the list. The gold-and-black jungle theme had always felt suffocating, and you especially hated the naked models that stood on display in the corners of the room, meant to entertain the twisted men seated in the center. You thought it was disgusting.

Your mind began to run wild with ideas. How could you change it without being ridiculed? You didn’t know if you could stomach another round of the garish gold accents on the walls.

You muttered aloud to the empty room, “Maybe I could add more plants… Or maybe introduce some new architectural elements…”

You sat at the table for a few hours, brainstorming, sketching out ideas on the margins of the pages. Eventually, you sighed and set the papers down, walking toward the window. The incoming storm was slowly swallowing the sun, and you stood there, staring out into the gathering dark. Even though it was still mid-day.

———————

You were still standing by the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass, when you heard the door creak open behind you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—an echo from the distant hallways. But then you heard it again: the soft sound of boots on the polished floor.

You turned, and there he was, The Frontman, stepping into the room. His posture was rigid, but there was something different about him today: an edge to his movements, a subtle exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.

“Didn’t expect you home so early,” you said, the words slipping out sharper than you had intended.

He met your gaze, but said nothing for a long moment. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment of your biting tone. He simply walked toward the side table, setting his mask down with deliberate precision.

“I had a few things to take care of,” he replied quietly.

You nodded, unwilling to let the silence stretch between you. “And?”

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to say. The stillness hung thick in the air, and you found yourself stepping toward him, closer than you’d planned.

With a huff, you muttered, “You don’t need to explain yourself.” You turned away, but there was a crack in your voice you hadn’t expected. “It’s none of my business.”

He was silent for a moment, before speaking, almost too softly to catch.

“It’s all your business now, whether you want it to be or not.”

Your breath hitched in your chest. His voice, raw and unguarded, struck you. You turned toward him, wanting to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability he’d let slip. But by the time you reached the entrance to the common room, it was gone. He had returned to his usual mask of stoic detachment, his eyes cold.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, your voice low, harsh. “I didn’t ask to be part of this twisted… thing you’ve built.”

He locked eyes with you, and for the first time in a long while, you saw something in his gaze that wasn’t just resignation or indifference. There was an ache there, something deep, something that mirrored your own. But before you could latch onto it, he shut it down.

“I know,” he replied simply.

———————

Fourth chapter!! Get ready cause more are coming!!! :) Thank you for all the support 🫶

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[so-i-did-this-thing]

An update from my seat inside federal civil service (I am a contractor and report to feds, but am not a fed myself). I am seeing the federal workforce being galvanized to resist the recent strings of Executive Orders and attempts to fire people. If you want to feel heartened by your fellow Americans following through on their oaths to protect this nation, here's a Reddit thread:

On the flip side, where I am seeing people capitulate in advance is on the contractor side.

I have seen contractor companies already scrub their sites of DEIA mentions, as well as pull employment offers from people they were about to hire for contracts that now seem uncertain.

For those not aware, many federal contractors only hire for active contracts. And even if you already have been working for a company for years, if your contract ends, or is cancelled, you are put on a "bench" which eventually leads to being terminated if a new contract is not found for you to work on.

So, even while there is a strong and just call for federal employees to resist, there is a lot of collateral damage happening now at the contractor level that has already left many on their own without jobs.

If you are a federal civil service contractor, I hope you have been following how your company is responding to the EOs and I hope you have a plan for what to do if you are benched soon. I also hope you have a union at your company that can help you. If you are additionally trans, I'd consider the possibility of not passing any public trust or clearance checks in the near future and have a backup plan if federal work suddenly becomes untenable. State or municipal work, if you still feel strongly about civil service.

Resist, but have a backup. Some of us are in pretty shaky positions right now due to our contractor status.

[quirkwizard]

What do you think the relationship between Pro-Heroes and the government is like?

So this is actually explained a lot during the early parts of the series when the kids go and become interns, but we can pick up on other facts through out the series. We know that Pro Heroes are licensed and supported by the government. If you haven't been empowered to hero work, none of it is official and you are considered a vigilante. They are also paid by the government and are technically civil servants. However, it's a little more complicated then that. They need to do a lot of work to prove their merit. They more work they do whether they by in the number of criminals they catch or public services they do, the more money and opportunities they get. And if you screw up the job somehow, such as causing a needless amount of damage or stop doing jobs for whatever reason, then you lose the money you would have made. Effectively, they work on commission and are "hired" by the government to help deal with super powered criminals.

Then there are organizations like the Hero Public Safety Commission. They are the government body who works with the heroes. Their job is to organize the heroes. Things like potentially handing out jobs to certain heroes to deal with, organizing raids like what was done with yakuza, or deciding the who and how of people getting licensed to be heroes. They also work as a middle man between the heroes and society at large. Specifically, they are meant to help handle the optics of heroes and how they work. However, they don't have any direct control over heroes and need their own heroes to follow orders, like Hawks and Lady Nagant. Because the heroes have a huge amount of independence in how they work. Both in how they operate as heroes and what exactly they tackle as law enforcement. They can even find their own means of making money, whether they be a side business, money made from personal products, or royalties from things like action figures. I think the best thing to compare them to is government contractors. They are effectively a private business, but are empowered to do their jobs by the government.

[vodika-vibes]

Workplace Relationship

Summary: When an already long deployment gets even longer due to ship damage and an excessive amount of injuries, any chance of Bly having a good day plummets to 0. Luckily, he works with someone who can make things better.

Pairing: Commander Bly x F!Reader

Word Count: 1448

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping

A/N: I had an idea so I decided to write it instead of any of my requests. I hope you all like it! This story is brought to you by the fact that I watch way too many crime dramas when I don't feel good. Like Criminal Minds.

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

A muscle works in Bly’s jaw as he scans the reports on the amount of damage his ship has suffered in the most recent attack. A moment later, when a report comes through from his Chief Medical Officer listing the names of all of the injured vod from the most recent attack, Bly clenches his jaw so tightly that pain shoots up to his temple.

He tries to relax, the last thing his brothers need is him in the infirmary due to a broken jaw, but as more and more information comes across his datapad, his already foul mood plummets even lower and the amount of tension shooting through is body shoots up.

When another report slides across his datapad, reporting damage to the ship’s hyperdrive and life support systems, Bly just drops the device and pushes to his feet.

Sitting here and obsessing isn’t helping. He needs to do something.

His first thought? Go and check on the infirmary and make sure that they have everything they need.

But, as he heads towards the medical bay, he hears the familiar sound of his CMO yelling at someone, and decides that he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

His next thought is to go and check on the General. But when he reaches the Bridge he catches General Secura in deep talks with the Jedi Council, likely reporting on the damage to the ship. She clearly doesn’t need any help.

So he makes his way down to the lower most level of the ship, where the ship mechanics and engineers are doing everything they can to repair the ship with what they have on hand.

Bly keeps to the side as he watches his brothers dart this way and that, different voices shout information to each other from different places around the large room. The Civilian contractors, mechanics and engineers, work with the clone engineers with the ease of long familiarity.

It’d be nice to look at, if there wasn’t the undercurrent of barely concealed panic filling the room.

“Commander?” A familiar voice drags his attention from the organized chaos he’s watching, and Bly glances to his side. “Everything alright?” She looks up at him, concern crossing her face.

This woman came to his ship by sheer happenstance. After the war started, she quit her high paying job as an engineer at one of the most well respected ship designing companies in the galaxy, and got hired by the GAR.

Having her on his ship has been a boon many times over.

The fact that she’s also his girlfriend is an added benefit.

“Just checking on things,” Bly allows his gaze to linger on the bandage against the left side of her face, the white material already stained with red, and then his gaze flickers to her arm, which is wrapped in a split, “You’re hurt.”

Her smile is a little wry, “Well, when someone targets engineering, it is usually the engineers who get hurt.” She reaches out and lightly touches his elbow, “Walk with me?”

“Of course,” Bly would walk through fire if she asked, never mind the fact that their relationship is meant to be a secret. “How are things down here, really?”

“Have you not been getting our updates?” She asks as she steps over a fallen pipe and then raises a hand to indicate that someone needs to handle this now.

“I was getting them,” Bly steps back as three of his brothers and a natborn rush over to them and wrestle the massive pipe to the side, and then he steps closer to her again, “I didn’t understand what I was reading, though.”

She laughs, “Well, cliff note’s version, we’re not as bad off as we could be.”

“I would love a little more detail than that, princess.”

She tosses him a grin, “The hyperdrive is fucked. It needs to be rebuilt from the ground up. And life support will be up and running within the hour.”

“What about the main engines?”

“Eh,” She wobbles her hand between them, “Engines 1 and 4 are untouched, engine three is fucked, and engine 2 needs some work.”

“So the attack targeted engine three?”

“It’s where I would have put a bomb, personally.”

“...sorry, bomb?”

“Yeah, it looks like someone rigged a shit-ton of explosives to engine three. Which allowed them to damage the hyperdrive and life support systems.” She leads him down a less busy path, “As soon as I figured out that it was an act of sabotage, I had the explosive experts start a full sweep of the ship.”

“I haven’t gotten a notification about that, yet.” Bly says, a frown pulling down his lips.

She clicks her tongue and reaches out to smooth her thumb across the lines on his brow, “They probably haven’t finished yet, Bly. It’s a big ship.”

“We should evacuate the ship until they finish—”

“No.”

Bly pauses and shoots her a bemused look, “No?”

She stares at him for a moment, “Okay, look. Before I went to school for engineering, I went to school to become a criminal profiler.”

“...uh, weird conversation segue, but go on.”

“One of the things that I learned in my profiling classes, is the thought process of a terrorist.” She motions towards the back of the ship where the bombs were set off, “All things considered, this wasn’t a bad attack.”

“Three people are dead, and another two dozen need medical attention. Yourself included.”

“With bombs placed in the right places, the death toll could have included everyone on the ship.” She says flatly, and Bly pauses. Because she’s right. “I think the bombs were placed like this to make the ship helpless.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“Well.” She pauses, “Force sensitive female twi’leks will get someone a lot of credits on the right markets. Not as much if she was untrained, but still a lot of credits.”

Bly stares at her, and then he shakes his head, “No way. She’s a Jedi Knight.”

“And you know as well as I do that Jedi aren’t infallible. Or invincible.” She pauses in thought, “If I had to guess, I’d say that General Secura probably came to a very similar conclusion.”

Bly sighs and runs his hand over his head, “Okay. So now I have something else to worry about.”

“Let General Secura worry about herself, Bly. You have so many other things you need to focus on.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he lightly sets his hands on her hips and draws her to him, so he’s able to lean in and press his forehead against hers, “I’m ready for this deployment to be over.” Bly admits, his voice hushed so only she can hear him.

Something softens in her gaze, “We’ll be out of here as soon as we can.” Her hands come up to cradle his face, “Promise.”

“You just said the hyperdrive is fucked, princess.”

“Yeah. But I’m very good at what I do.”

Bly laughs, “And you’re so very modest too.”

“Modesty is for people who aren’t as good at they think they are.” She tilts her head, just enough, to brush her lips against his, “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t—”

“You know, I suddenly can’t remember why hiding our relationship was so important to me.” Bly mumbles against her lips.

“Because you didn’t want Cody to bitch at you.” She replies lightly.

“Fuck Cody.” To be completely honest, in spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, Bly is drunk on her. Her lips and her scent and she’s not nearly close enough.

“Mm, hard pass.” Her fingers glide across his tattoos, “I have you and that’s all I need.”

“I’m a lucky man.” Bly says, right before he catches her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. And he only pulls away when something sparks a little to the left of him.

“You are a lucky man,” She agrees, her eyes soft and dewy in a way that makes him want to lock her in his room for the next couple of hours, “But I have work to do, Commander.”

“Come see me tonight?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” She kisses the corner of his lips, “Love you.”

“Love you more.” Bly steals one more kiss, and then he releases her so she’s able to vanish deeper into the engine room, and he releases one love-sick sigh, the only thing he allows himself, and then he puts his Commander boots back on and he stalks out of engineering.

If this is an attempted kidnapping, he needs to get information from the General. Maybe she won’t lie about it this time.

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[themaclean]

We Don't Have To Be Friends (1/2) Characters: Cooper Howard/Lucy MacLean. Summary: 3,507 words, Post Season One -- character study that was meant to be PWP, but then ended up being entirely plot. Part two will be smut or I will krill myself. Warnings: Nothing you wouldn't see in the show. ( Ao3 ) > Part One | Part Two | Part Three <

Cooper never thought much about Hollywood anymore.

He had no reason to and no time either— but the thoughts bubbled up when he saw how the gold thread of his shirt dulled and familiar street signs melted into slack arches. Sometimes, he’d catch sight of a tattered newspaper with names he recognized or faces of people long since dead.

But nothing made him think of Hollywood the way Lucy did.

It hit him one afternoon with a nasty churn, that flash of the old world that locked his knees mid-stride. It was pathetic, really, when he thought about it now.

It was the flash of Lucy's Vault-Tec-sponsored smile over her shoulder, her thin hand with a necrotized finger pointing ahead of them at some landmark she’d heard of. With her head turned at just the right angle, and the sun was low as it caught the edges of her cheeks and lashes…

She had the sort of face girls in the movies had: clear skin, big eyes, and neat hair. Pretty — beautiful, actually, but not as a matter of compliment. Beautiful in the way she’d make a good price at any given market if he was inclined to sell her. Beautiful in the way people loved to exploit.

That’s the lifeblood of Hollywood—that churning mass of young talent desperate to prove they had what it takes. They’d sweet talk whoever they needed to, go to the parties, and chat his ear off about how amazing he’d been in whatever movie had come out lately, about the sponsorships they’d been offered, and about the dresses they got sent. They’d slip him their number and hold his bicep too long like they’d been taught to by managers and mothers alike.

Dozens of pretty women rushed to audition for the role of arm candy. They’d audition to play the mayor's daughter, the farmer's daughter, or so-and-so’s daughter. They’d always been the damsel. Then, whatever cowboy he’d been hired to play would toss the pretty woman onto the back of Sugarfoot and ride off into the sunset. The sort of girl who'd be gone by the next movie or end up married to a director, so she'd quit acting.

And, much like all the girls in Hollywood Cooper had spent time with, Lucy had changed. She had the same optimism, but it’d dulled; her marketable face now held tired, empty eyes. It was like she finally caught onto the world’s current: no sunset and no next movie.

Cooper couldn’t fault her. It's a strange journey to discover what to do to survive.

“Hey Cooper — is that it?” Lucy asked, repeating herself. The sprawl of buildings ahead was dotted with torches and candles.

Cooper nodded, his hand firm on Dogmeat’s collar.

A short strip of buildings stood out against the expanse of desert and dry shrubs. Each building leaned towards another, with sheet metal fastened with unskilled welding. Several turrets puttered away, seeking whatever wasn’t humanoid enough. Strips of fabric and tin cans garlands peppered the buildings' front. The smaller buildings on either side were your standard fare: a repair shop, a medic, a trader with a little diner area.

But the one Cooper was after stood out for its neon sign—Hell’s Oasis.

Hell’s Oasis served its purpose—it was a decent place to get information, and the people minded their business. They weren’t too bothered with ghouls or mutants as long as you had caps. The place often served as a meeting ground for bounty hunters and their contractors. It was also one of the more upscale places, as they wouldn’t harvest organs unless you died of natural causes.

And, if you couldn’t fight or forage for survival, you could fuck for it.

(Not that Cooper ever wasted caps on the whores who took residence within Hell’s Oasis. He’d sooner pay people to fuck off than spend the night with him.)

Cooper grabbed Lucy by the nape of her neck to yank her close and keep her firmly by his side. Most people he brought here, he left here — call it a force of habit to handle her so roughly.

“I can walk, y’know,” Lucy hissed.

“Stick close,” Cooper clicked his tongue at her, and a slight hiss followed. His grip flexed to further the message that she’d do well to follow his guidance.

They made their way through the hotel lobby, the moldy carpet slick against the floor with dirt and grease from the world outside. A few people chattered away in the attached bar, laughing at jokes Cooper couldn’t make out. Casino chips clattered on the table as they played made-up card games.

Long dead plants clung to arid dirt, the sticks of old ferns wilting against one another. Metal crates were lashed together in each corner of the alcove where the front desk sat, providing a makeshift cage between the staff and the patrons. Several girls rushed past Cooper and Lucy, jeering and cackling as they approached the bar. They were clad in lacy nightgowns. He couldn’t tell if they knew they were lingerie rather than clothes or if they’d even care.

“It’s so lively here,” Lucy said, a pang of something in her face.

“It happens in pockets,” Cooper said with a shrug of his shoulder. Little uh… spots of life.”

“Must be why they call it an oasis.”

Cooper rolled his eyes as they reached the front desk. Magazines sat in thick stacks with information about local tours in the area and a guide to the national parks. An abandoned handbag was tucked against the desk, which Lucy eyed with curiosity.

Cooper slapped the front desk bell a few times, a gargling growl low in his throat.

They needed this break after a couple of weeks on the road together. Water was getting sparse, and he wanted to be ready to meet with whoever the fuck Hank had run off to. And in such an open desert, there’s no sense traveling at night, and all manner of dumb shit came up along the way.

It was always something. People needed help or some dumb cunt trying to pick a fight, resupplies, rest… He didn’t like helping people much, but Lucy argued with him whenever they tried to go on without at least trying. And whether the people lived or died, at least they tried. That was her argument.

But Lucy listened to him a little more now, and he was as patient as he could be with her.

Cooper rang the bell again. He wanted a room, and the chattering laughter in the bar was only making his aches worse.

Priscilla appeared from behind a moth-eaten velvet curtain. Her hairline was hidden beneath a thick headscarf with puffy blond curls bouncing beneath it. The last time he’d been here, her hair had begun to rot out of her skull. He guessed it’d only gotten worse. She’s still pretty, mirroring that old-world red lip with pin curls.

“Oh my God, is that you, Coop? I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Priscilla said in a slow, low voice. She had a rasp to it, always had, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the radiation or a smoking habit.

“Was underground,” Cooper said with a lazy smile. He wouldn’t mention that he’d been underground in a literal sense, trapped in a coffin.

“Well, it’s nice for you to come to see us and…” Priscilla’s gaze slid to Lucy, that usual surprise swelling up at the sight of a genuine Vault Dweller. They weren’t hard to spot. “Ah, you turning her in for a bounty?”

Lucy’s head snapped towards him, a mixture of shock and disgust.

“No,” Cooper shook his head, his grip firm on Lucy’s neck to turn her head away from him. His fingers tensed before they dropped away altogether, brushing across Lucy’s shoulder. “Tag-along. Helpin’ her uh…” He picked through the words that came to mind, cautious not to share too much. “Adjust to the surface.”

Priscilla’s jaw squared as she stared Lucy down.

“We’re just lookin’ for a room, some food,” Cooper said before she could pry further. “Usual fare.”

“Please,” Lucy said, like Cooper had forgotten, and it was important to say. “The usual fare, please.”

“She speaks,” Priscilla said in a purr.

Cooper had to give Lucy credit. She’d stayed quiet much longer than he’d expected.

“Oh, we’ll also need water,” Lucy said, looking up at Cooper. “For cleaning and drinking. I’m not sure if you separate it that way or if you reuse it unless you have showers.”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “Running water? We can get you a bucket of water, sweetness. That alright with you?”

“It works great for me. Big fan of buckets. They’re the backbone of agriculture and cleaning, really, if you think about it…” Lucy agreed, her smile as bright as the neon sign by the front window.

Priscilla looked at Cooper and then at Lucy, repeating the loop before she sauntered behind a moth-eaten velvet curtain strung up with zip ties. The distant hum of a generator underscored the silence as Cooper picked over the board of caricatures. Plenty of people were banned from the premises or with a bounty on their heads — no one stood out on the board, at least.

“She was giving us a weird look,” Lucy leaned closer to Cooper, feigning a swipe of her hand through her hair. The floor creaked as she shifted her weight closer to him. “Is it the bucket thing? I panicked.”

Cooper scoffed from the back of his throat.

“It is safe here, right? You trust her?”

“It’s safe,” Cooper bared his teeth at Lucy, begging her to return to the docile silence she’d thrived in.

“Then why — ”

Cooper hissed for her to shh through clenched teeth.

Priscilla pushed past the curtain. She gripped a little blue card with faded gold edges. A key with a golden ball chain was attached to the edge. It felt strangely archaic to be so formal about lodgings, but it was why he liked this place.

“I guess it makes sense,” Priscilla said as she slid the key to Cooper. She nodded to Lucy. “You wanting a girl who’s more… Old—world flavor. It reminds you of the golden years, hm?”

“Six, right?” Cooper ignored her question, his gaze fixed to the card.

“Six,” Priscilla repeated, her gaze on Lucy.

Cooper tossed a few caps onto the front desk, the clatter of metal their own punctuation. He notched his head towards the stairs, and Dogmeat and Lucy followed in stride. He was eager for the simple things — water, food, and a moment to let his bags rest.

“Wanting a girl…” Lucy smiled, mumbling more of Priscilla’s words under her breath.

After several flights of stairs and a few hours, Cooper felt all the better. He’d eaten his fill and enjoyed the peace of an enclosed room. He didn’t often allow himself such a luxury, as being in a settlement put a target on your back for any larger groups. But it’d been two weeks since they’d had proper rest out of the elements.

Tracking Hank wasn’t easy, either. That suit meant he could skip over all the pocked landscape and roaming threats. What would take him an hour to travel by air was a day for them sometimes, a fact that spurred Cooper on. But they couldn’t rush, as rushing would only get them killed.

One wrong step and you were deathclaw chow.

“God, more, please!”

And there went the silence. Cooper’s eye twitched; his lipless mouth sneered at the screeches.

Whoever had taken up residence in room five was making the most of their money — an hour straight of screams and moans, an hour straight of Lucy pretending to read. She’d picked up a holotape at the last outpost they’d stopped at; something about a sequel she’d always wanted to continue reading.

By the second hour, it wasn’t so much that room five stopped fucking. But they at least got a lot quieter about it. The occasional shriek or moan rattled through the air vents, but it was far and few between.

Lucy lay across the double bed, her boots discarded beside the door. Her vault suit hung from the defunct radiator. Her washing was all done, and she’d freshened up, the usual Lucy shit. She’d helped herself to the water and changed into some pajama set she’d pilfered from a house a few days back.

“I think it’s nice,” Lucy said into the open air of the hotel room.

Cooper looked up from his shotgun, teeth bared like he was trying to smile. “The quiet?”

“No,” Lucy smiled at the wall between them and room five. “That people can find love, even now.”

Cooper couldn’t stop himself from laughing at that. The cackles shook from low in his lungs and caught him so off-guard he hacked up some foul muck into his palm. He hissed through a wheezed breath as he fumbled with his RadAway puffer.

“I mean it! It’s not funny!”

“That ain’t love, Vaultie,” Cooper coughed out, his eyes narrowed as drool and tears mingled on his cheeks. He wiped his face, fine skin catching against the scarred, leathery mess. “That…” He pointed to the wall. “S’probably a whore and her John making the most of the caps.”

Lucy’s eyes darted as she picked apart what he’d said. “John..?”

“John’s a term for uh…” Cooper’s jaw strained against a smile, though it was far too cruel to be kind. “A guy who pays for sex.”

“Ah, wasteland slang,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it made sense she hadn’t caught on immediately.

“Old world slang,” Cooper corrected.

Lucy looked around the hotel room anew, like she’d finally caught on to what this place really was. She scooted to the edge of the bed, to sit with her legs angled towards him. “That woman at the front desk said you’d want a girl who’s old world — she thought I was a prostitute. ”

“Maybe.”

Lucy crossed her arms as if she had more to say on the matter. But then she remained quiet, uncharacteristically so.

“S’waste of caps.”

“Hiring me to have sex with you? Actually, I know all about sexual gratification, so I think it’d be a great use of money — caps.”

Cooper stared Lucy down as if he couldn’t parse what she’d just said. “Paying anyone money to fuck you is a waste.” Cooper tongued his lips apart. “Bullets. Meds. There’s shit worth paying for. Sex is — ”

“Important.”

“Sex ain’t worth much.”

“To you, maybe,” Lucy frowned. “It’s an act of love and intimacy, and… It’s how humanity continues, and it’s — fun if done well.”

“You wanna waste your caps on some cock?” Cooper snapped, his hand flapping at the door. “Be my guest.”

“No,” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t want to, but I’m saying that I… I think killing people is probably worse than sleeping with people for caps. If it’s to survive, I think it makes sense. Morally speaking.”

“Don’t,” Cooper snarled.

Cooper didn’t like how Lucy spoke to him most days, but this was a new, worse permutation. Her Vault-addled morality was sickening enough on its own, as she embodied whatever bullshit had been drip-fed to her by the company who’d bought her vault. Not that he was without sin, given the shit he’d done to survive this long.

But sex and love and all that shit was not front of mind. He needed to find his family and to know what happened to them. He didn’t need a two-cap blowjob from a stranger in the dim light of some bar. Though, in all honesty, his drug habit mixed with the amount of alcohol he’d drowned himself in, some nights got hazy.

There’s that animalistic, self-destructive part of him that won on his worst nights. The same part of him that kept him alive, the same part that let him do all the miserable shit he needed to do to survive.

But it’s certainly never been love. Not since Barb.

Never again, he’d wager.

"I had sex once," Lucy said this like it was a point of pride, now on her feet. She idled beside the bed, her gaze settled onto the empty space she’d been lying. "With my husband, but…" Her face twisted with this delayed amusement. She turned towards him, closing the gap between them.

Lucy’s eyes remained unfocused as she stared at the marked table between them, where his shotgun lay across a dirty cloth. "Does that make us both widows..? You said you have a family, right? So, you were probably married and had at least one kid. Not trying to presume, so tell me if I’m wrong, but… You said that in the observatory. That’s what you’re after."

Cooper parted his lips, a nasty tilt to his hairless brow.

Lucy gave a tight smile. "I was married. Only for a few hours, but… It was an arranged marriage, I didn’t meet him until the wedding. It turned out he was a raider from the surface posing as my match from Vault 32 and…" At this point, Lucy caught herself. “I feel for you, if you lost someone. That’s all.”

“You ain’t a widow.”

“Technically — ”

Cooper stood up, unable to stay seated. “You say you’re a widow like it’s a fact outta some book. The shit you went through — you’re an experiment gone wrong, not a damn widow,” Cooper said, his voice flat.

Lucy’s face twitched at his words as if she struggled to keep her smile. “Well, guess what? We’re all an experiment gone wrong, whether you’re in a vault or not.”

Cooper’s eyes twitched, narrowing in the dark of their hotel room. Room five was quiet, which made this moment all the worse. He didn’t like how she spoke about him, as if she knew what was happening in his mind. He wasn’t some wounded man looking for sympathy.

He wasn’t anything.

“Go back to your holotapes,” Cooper said with a jut of his chin. “You’ve been up here a few weeks, acting like you know how it is.”

“Well, I know we’ve all been screwed over by people hundreds of years ago, and I’m sorry if I’m not as beaten down by it as you, but — I’m just trying to share things with you, to…” Lucy struggled through her words, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “We don’t have to be friends, but we have to be — something.”

The couple in room five screeched. Cooper tensed out of habit but relaxed again when he reasoned what the noise was. It didn’t solve the fierce look on Lucy’s face as she stared him down, her fists clenched by her pajama-clad thighs.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Lucy said, shaking her damp hair out of her face. She stood idle by the table as if she had just realized she had stepped towards him in their argument. There was a bird-like shake to her chest, her heart and lungs quick beneath bone.

It was moments like this that made his nature crystalline to him — that thin line she couldn’t perceive of how easy it’d be to string her up by the ankles and bleed her dry. Of how easy it’d be to slide into that ache for warm flesh between his teeth and blood down his throat.

Ghouls aren’t welcome in most settlements for a reason, and Lucy is too damn optimistic to learn that lesson.

Cooper tongued the inside of his cheek, and his teeth gnashed at the frayed edge of his lip. “We have to be something, huh?”

Lucy’s brow twitched, and her jaw strained as she tried to stand taller. She nodded as something like hope softened her stern expression.

It wasn’t hard to close the gap. It was even easier to grab that ponytail she always wore and yank her head close, fist tight in her hair as he brought her close. Her hand scrabbled against the table, and nails dug into the wood as their eyes met.

“Don’t you ever talk about my family again,” Cooper said, his voice level. “We clear?”

Lucy’s breathing redoubled, but she nodded. Her nostrils flared as he let her go with a firm shove. There was a real sense of satisfaction as he felt her perception of him shift as if she’d forgotten she was dealing with a monster rather than a man. As if the rotted skin and exposed tensions, or the gaping hole where his nose had once been, weren’t enough warning.

Pretty girls in Hollywood were overlooked as much in his time — all in the name of survival in a race that no one really won. You took your part and played it until the work dried up. Then, you prayed for sponsorships, deals, and other things to spare you from the real world.

He watched it with co-stars, time and again. It wasn’t much different now, just less rhinestones and more rads.

[djarins-cyare]

Din Djarin: The Contractor

I had no access to my WIPs for a few days this week, so my brain started inventing scenarios… ‘imagines’, I guess? This (totally unedited) one came about when I happened to scroll past the first two pics of Din on Pinterest, and the memory of Joel telling Ellie he used to be a contractor sprang to mind…

Well, your [SWU-techno-thingy] is broken. Great. Trying to keep your irritation in check, you call the repair company, who politely assure you they’ll send over their best guy immediately. It’s late in the day, and dusk is approaching fast, so you guess you should be happy they’re willing to send anyone out at all.

After a lengthy wait, during which your irritation seems to grow exponentially, your repairman pootles up to your home on his banged-up speeder, parking outside. Unhurriedly, he grabs his tools and trudges into your home, nodding a greeting but remaining suspiciously quiet and not even giving his name.

Perhaps doing a late job has made him grouchy. Yeah, well, not having a working [SWU-techno-thingy] has made you grouchy, too. Get in line, pal.

You show him the problem, and he spends a while trying to get a better look at it, peering into the inner workings and sighing. He mumbles “hmm” an awful lot, sometimes tutting and shaking his helmet at what he sees, and he takes plenty of readings with various tools.

Eventually, he concludes his analysis and tells you it’ll cost double what you were quoted when you called earlier because your [SWU-techno-thingy] is entirely dead. Apparently, he needs to replace your [thingamajig] in order to realign your [whatchamacallit] and get it running again, which requires brand-new parts and a lot of labour.

When you baulk at this, he simply shrugs and says he doesn’t set the rates; they’re determined by the Guild. Then he stands there, looking annoyingly smug, waiting for you to authorise him to start work.

You reluctantly agree and leave him to it, stomping off in the hope that you can find something to occupy yourself while he works.

Frustratingly, you can’t, and when you return shortly thereafter to check how it’s going, you find he’s taking a break. What the hell? A break already???

As much as you try to keep your anger in check, you virtually yell that he’s supposed to be on the clock and he’d better not be charging you for the time he’s spending sitting around doing nothing!

He grumbles something about missing dinner (with a womp rat, of all things!) for this, puts down the bowl he was drinking from, and huffily grabs his tools to get to work.

Finally, he starts the job you hired him for, and you stick around to monitor him, slightly worried he might try and push his luck again. But it seems like he’s pulling his weight at last — tools a-turnin’, sparks a-flyin’. He seems to know what he’s doing.

After a while, you start to realise that what he’s doing is actually pretty impressive. You can’t deny he looks skilled and competent — almost badass — as he expertly fixes your [SWU-techno-thingy].

Satisfied he’s now earning his fee, you leave him to it for a while, once again trying to find something else to occupy you.

But it’s not long before you find yourself back again, keen to know how he’s doing. For a moment, you think he might’ve fallen asleep because he’s lying down, and the bitter taste of annoyance returns, but… oh nope, he’s just getting a better angle for the repairs.

He keeps working diligently, so you let him continue without disturbing him.

After what feels like a lifetime, he finally tells you he’s all finished.

As you inspect his work, you notice him standing off to the side like a kid waiting for the teacher to grade his class project. It’s sort of sweet, in a way.

It seems like he did a decent job, and you tell him so, handing him payment with a smile, which he accepts with a nod. He then collects his stuff (an impressive display of strength), bids you goodbye and turns to leave.

You escort him to the door, thanking him again and watching your taciturn repairman walk away from your home.

Now that you have a working [SWU-techno-thingy] once again and have recovered from being quoted an extortionate price for its repair, you revise your opinion of your contractor. He’s skilled, and aside from being a little huffy to start with (though you concede he was probably just hungry), he seems like a nice guy.

Plus, as he walks away from you, you can’t help but admire his perfect ass, remembering how good it looked earlier when he bent over to grab his toolkit.

Almost as if he can feel your gaze, when he gets to the edge of your property, he turns back to look at you, lingering for a moment, meeting your stare in that intense way of his.

Your pulse picks up, and for a second, you think he might come back — that he might push you inside and have his wicked way with you, give you a decent seeing to with those skilled hands of his.

The moment you share is electric, and you imagine a plethora of debauched scenarios as you stare into his T-visor with hope…

…but it passes as he tears his gaze away, hurriedly loads up his rusted speeder bike, and climbs on. He gives you a final nod as he pulls away, departing from your life as swiftly as he arrived.

Oh well, it was surely a ridiculous thought anyway.

You return inside and try to get on with your evening, but your thoughts keep drifting back to your contractor. Why can’t you stop thinking about him? He barely even spoke to you.

Eventually, you cave and admit it. You’re attracted to him. He has a magnetism you don’t understand, yet you can’t deny its pull on you. But there’s nothing you can do about that… is there? And he might not feel the same anyway.

You keep thinking about the look he gave you when he left. There was something there, you’re sure of it.

So… okay. Are you really going to break something else to get him to come back?

Yes. Yes, you are…

[megamindsupremacy]

Relativity Falls AU Outline [Part 1] Part 2 [Part 3] [Part 4]

-Dipper and Pacifica hire some contractors and they start building an interdimensional portal in Dipper's basement. Dipper is currently living in an abandoned hunting lodge that he broke into and decided was his now. Since nobody has contested this so far, it is more or less actually his now.

-Building the portal is 90% Bill telling Dipper what to do, Dipper trying to write all of his notes down in a panic, and then trying to transcribe these notes into something for the contractors to build an actual portal out of. (Everyone say "thank you Head Construction Manager Wendy, The Actual Only Reason This Thing Is Coming Along As Well As It Is)

-Or don't, all things considered.

-I just think it's endlessly funny that Dipper (JOURNALISM MAJOR) now has to build an interdimensional portal in his basement. Bill chose correctly in the sense of "someone desperate for validation and gullible enough to follow Bill's instructions" but didn't luck out with "has the technical know-how to actually make the damn thing"

-Dipper takes all of his notes in some journals Mabel recently sent him. She decorated them all like their old scrapbooks, and told him to "Write something cool in them!" Dipper figures, hey, supernatural mysteries and instructions for an interdimensional portal are pretty cool.

-They all have a Big Dipper symbol on the front cover. The pine tree symbol in the zodiac is similarly replaced with a Big Dipper constellation.

----

-The portal's construction takes over a year. In this time, Dipper and Pacifica grow a lot closer. They go from nemeses, to allies, to friends, to... something more than friends? 👀👀👀

-Pacifica gets pregnant.

-She doesn’t tell dipper. She doesn’t know.

-Unfortunately for her, Pacifica accidentally gets sent through the portal during a test run. Dipper drags her back, but whatever she saw (and she sure as fuck isn't saying what) on the other side has her FREAKING the FUCK out. It's like that "ant trying to process momentarily comprehending the soul of Cuthulu and going insane" post. It's overwhelming.

-She tries to convince Dipper that they need to shut the portal down and stop everything, but he refuses to listen. Dipper's obsessed. Over the past year of working on the portal, he, with the help of Bill's manipulations, has gotten fixated on finishing the portal and "discovering the mysteries of Gravity Falls". He won't hear a word about shutting the thing down.

-Actually, he's interrogating Pacifica about what she saw on the other side of the portal, asking her all of these questions, and generally being not as gentle and sympathetic with someone who just Experienced The Cosmic Horrors as he should be. He's demanding to know what was on the other side and refusing to take "stop asking" for an answer, meanwhile Pacifica is still shaking on the floor trying to process everything that just happened to her.

(Sorry, Paz)

-Dipper doesn't stop her when she runs away, back to her home.

-They... stop talking after that.

Part 1 | Part 2 |

[thelibrarian1895]

Justice League Funding

Yes Wayne Enterprises via Bruce Wayne aka Batman handles the money aspect of everything and hiring contractors and builders and engineers and janitors and whoever else after EXTREME background checks and general screening. But at least a handful of the Justice League want to try to contribute a little.

Mostly so certain people (usually Lois to Clark) stop calling them Bruce Wayne's sugar babies after it gets leaked that Wayne Enterprises is responsible for essentially funding the Justice League.

(It doesn't work)

Aquaman find lost wrecks on the ocean floor and brings them up to be sold as salvage or treasure. He and Diana coordinate regarding the things that are of archaeological significance. They give Batman the resulting funds from the salvage or the straight up treasures that have been found. Diana usually manages to handle most of the paperwork involving anything of historical and archaeological significance but Bruce still has to deal with the financial side of the paperwork and it is a headache and a half. He does appreciate when there's something cat themed or extra shiny for Gotham museums so Selina can steal it as part of their weird courting rituals.

The other primary method of contribution? Asteroid mining. Green Lantern and Superman work together to first gather water via ice in space for the use of the Watchtower. They then break down asteroids for the minerals they contain and essentially give the valuable materials to Bruce for him to do with what he will. What is wills is to not have the headache of trying to figure out the paperwork for the sudden influx of gold, nickel, platinum, and other minerals that he has to figure out how to declare, pay taxes on, and figure out how to use without wrecking the current economy by devaluing the minerals mined from earth. He also doesn't appreciate how the influx of materials helped to push him from billionaire to trillionaire and is significantly put out at having to try to figure out how to get rid of more of his money when he was already failing to go from billionaire to millionaire.

The various Flashes usually just run around the world and look for loose change when they have the time. This generally just ends up being part of the JL Feed the Flash Fund. It causes Bruce the least hassle and smallest headache.

[livingdxadwriter]

Twisted Love

Billy Russo X Latina!Mercenary!Reader

Summary: based on this moodboard murder date with Billy made by the love of my life @fluffyprettykitty thank you for the inspo

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors yall better dnfi, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, fingering, blood kink, choking, hair pulling, degradation, he calls her a whore and she likes it, allusion to gunplay & knife play, Billy and reader get turned on by questionable acts, def dark themes, dark!Billy, dead bodies, actual murder, many acts of violence, and Billy canonically likes it rough and painful, they're both just unhinged

Reader is referred to as she/her, speaks Spanish here and there and is described to have long hair. If this is not you, that is okay. This is solely based on the moodboard. I use no further specifications so you can enjoy it regardless :)

WC: 4k

A/N: I'm sorry in advance for the person that I am, I blame selene for encouraging this. You have been warned, you read under your own responsibility. I missed Billy and his murderous questionable kinks, so here we are. (If you actually enjoy this you I guarantee we will see each other in hell)

"Billy." You groaned quietly, the voice in your earpiece shutting up at the sharpness of your voice. 

"Yes darlin'?" 

"I can't focus on shooting your target if you keep saying how you're going to fuck me stupid tonight. Or how you've been really wanting to fuck me with your gun." You said the last part through your teeth as you did your best to remain professional and stay focused. You were a mercenary, sure, but you were a professional one. 

"If you keep talkin' back, I will do so much more than that. You like knives, don't you?" You could hear the smug smirk he probably had on his face through his voice, even through your earpiece.

You couldn't help but groan, your skin growing burning hot under all of your gear, and it was getting hard to control your breathing the longer he kept spitting filthy words at you. 

"This is your op, Billy. So we can either have phone sex or I can shoot your target. Can't do both." You rolled your eyes, adjusting your grip on your handgun as you tried to ignore the heat between your legs. You heard him chuckle. 

"You're gettin' paid either way darlin'," he reminded you. "But if you get a headshot, I'll give you your bonus." 

You actually laughed at this, a smirk of your own falling on your lips, "You know I never miss. Don't gotta double tap if I shoot 'em in the head." 

This was like a little game of yours. Any time Billy called you— for anything other than a good fuck— it was for a target mission off the books. Legally, he was just a private contractor. Private security was his main gig. But off the books, he was still getting paid to take out targets for his old military superiors. When someone pushed at his buttons too much, he called you. Because you were like a ghost, in and out, no one even knew you were ever there. And he thought your post-op adrenaline made for killer sex. You getting paid was just a courtesy on his end. You had honestly stopped caring about the money a long time ago. But he paid you your part anyway. So it was a win-win situation for everyone involved. 

"Mhmm,  I love it when you talk dirty." He sighed a long breath and you smiled to yourself, holding your gun close to your chest as you quietly walked through the dark, otherwise empty house. You could hear movement and indistinct voices on the other side of the wall

"I hear voices in the next room. Two targets so far. Standby for confirmation." Billy laughed at how official you sounded. You truly never did get rid of that military part of you. 

You peeked your head through the crack on the door of a large study. You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to identify the targets. One was the man Billy had hired you to kill, a Marine Colonel that had gotten too greedy and was making threats. That didn't exactly sit well with Billy or anyone else involved. The other man, though, you weren't sure, but he also seemed to be military. 

"I'm looking at your target. But I'm not sure who the other one is. Looks military, though. What do you want me to do?" You whispered the question to Billy. He stayed silent for a few seconds. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, growing inpatient at his silence. But he spoke before you could yell at him. 

He groaned first, clearly something hadn't gone according to plan. "Just take both of them out. I don't need witnesses." 

"Whatever you say, pretty boy." You took in a deep breath, your heart starting to race as the adrenaline started to pump in your blood. 

"Remember, I want you in and out, don't worry about nobody else. That's what I'm here for, baby." 

"You're such a romantic, mi cielo." You bit your lip, you heard him chuckle in response. 

You waited another second, long enough for them to be close enough for you to take them out both at the same time before the other could draw their gun. Stealth was your specialty anyway. You were thankful the large doors didn't creak when you opened them further. Both men were facing away from you. Good. You took a step inside the study, and with a grin, you pulled the trigger. 

One. 

Two. 

Both men dropped to the ground with a thud. You sighed out the breath you had been holding and you slowly approached the two bodies. And you smiled at your work. 

Headshots. 

"I'm done here. Getting out now." You said to Billy. You heard him give you a quick hum of confirmation. 

You nodded to yourself, picking up your shell casings before you hurried out of the study. You went around through long halls for what seemed to be an eternity, until you came to the hall that led to the foyer of the house. 

Almost there. 

"Don't you fucking move." A voice rasped beside you. You saw out of the corner of your eye the barrel of a handgun. Well so much for Billy taking care of everything. 

You closed your eyes, slowly raising your hands to show your handgun. You turned your head enough to look at the man. More military. Great. This was going to be shit show. 

"Who the fuck are you? Why are you here?" The man screamed at you, his gun still on your face. You said nothing, you simply stared at him. He couldn't really see your face, not through your balaclava. Only your eyes were visible. "Give me that fucking gun and get on the ground. Now!" 

You stared at him, not moving a muscle. The only man you would ever get on your knees for was Billy. This one could shoot you for all you cared. 

"I said get on your knees or I'll shoot!' 

"Shoot me then." You said dryly, hands still in the air. 

Just get a bit closer, you thought. 

The man seethed at your response and stepped closer. Your lips irked up. You turned your body, your free hand gripping his gun and diverting it away from your head. The man squeezed the trigger. You grunted loudly, your ears ringing, but you didn't care. You wrestled with the man, landing a punch on his face that made his nose gush with blood. He stumbled backward but didn't fall. If anything, that made him more angry, and he lunged at you. He reached for the braid that stuck from under your balaclava and he pulled, really fucking hard. You grunted out in pain when he tugged your hair to drag you close enough for him to grab you. You fought against him, but you could only do so much against a man twice your size. His fist hit your jaw with enough force to make you dizzy for a second. And he took that opportunity to grab your vest and threw you over a nearby coffee table. Your body slammed so hard against it you ended up on the floor, with it in pieces. 

You weren't a religious person, but goddamn, you were seeing God right about now. You groaned in pain as you tried to push through. You tried to sit up as fast as you could, but the man was already towering over you, and a large boot forced you down by your chest. You forced down the cry of pain you wanted to let out, only breathing out sharply instead. You couldn't find your gun, and you had one, pointed right at your face now. 

"Fucking bitch." The man spat, leaning down to tear your balaclava from your face. You grunted, your face twisted into a scowl as he pulled it off. He scoffed. He was about to say something into his walkie when a voice you were all too familiar with caught his attention. 

"Hey." Billy stood a few feet away, having heard the gunshot and ran in. He didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger. The man dropped dead a second later. 

You blew out a breath of relief, and you laughed, running a hand over your face. Well shit. You were hoping you wouldn't get any blood on yourself tonight. 

Billy was beside you in a split second, a large hand pulling you up to your feet. His eyes were big with a mixture of panic and anger, and he scanned your body for injuries. His hand landed on your lip, split and bleeding. His jaw ticked but you shook your head at him. 

"You okay?" He asked with a heavy breath. You nodded at him, your own hands touching his face. Blood stained his neck and part of his face. But you had a feeling it wasn't his. "Si?" 

You nodded again, "Si." 

Billy plastered a hard kiss on your lips, his hand holding the back of your head. You hummed against his lips, gripping his own vest. He pulled back after a few seconds, and his eyes landed on the dead man lying next to him. His neck twitched, and his jaw tightened as he pulled the trigger two more times. The man was already dead, Billy had shot him in the head the first time. But he needed to get that out of his system. 

"That was by far the hottest thing you've ever done for me." You breathed out, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You kissed him this time. Much harder. He groaned into your mouth, the side of his handgun brushing your hip as he gripped them with both hands. 

"Did you do what I asked?" He muttered against your lips. 

"Headshots. As always." You smirked against his lips, your skin growing hot just as the ache between your legs grew. 

"Mhmm, that's a good girl." He pressed another kiss to your lips. "Come. Gotta get outta here." 

You nodded, looking on the ground for a second for your handgun. Your eyes skimmed around for a bit before you smiled and you happily picked it up from the ground. When you looked up, Billy was looking at you with an irked eyebrow. 

"Que? It's my favorite gun. I wasn't gonna leave it here. It's got my fingerprints all over it." You shrugged, casually walking past Billy towards the kitchen. You came through that backdoor. It'd probably be easier to leave that way as well. 

Billy watched you with a raised eyebrow. It did always turn him on to see you in your tactical gear. He laughed to himself and followed you. He stayed close behind you, within hand reach at all times. He was so close that he actually bumped into your back when you stopped abruptly. You turned around, and one of your hands came to grip his vest while the other held up your handgun. He frowned, about to question you when you forcefully moved him to the side an inch or two. 

"Agh shit!" He grunted out, a bullet still catching the plate on his back with enough force to make him stumble. 

You kept your grip on his vest as you pulled the trigger twice and he heard a loud thud a second later. When he turned his head he saw a guard on his back, writhing in pain as blood gushed from his chest. Shit, he must have missed the guy when he was clearing the outside of the house. 

He draped a hand over his shoulder where the bullet hit, eyes never leaving you as you quietly walked over to the guard, gun held up. The man began to stammer, coughing up blood as he tried to crawl away. You blinked, head tilted and jaw tight as you pulled the trigger two more times. The man stopped moving with that second bullet. Your face twisted with disdain when you felt blood splatter on your face. Again. 

"Agh, puta sangre de mierda." This fucking blood. 

You harshly wiped your hand over your face, probably making a bigger mess than there already was. You flinched, your gun held up and stopped at Billy's chest. He had a wide smirk on his face, his hands raised, but he was just mocking you. 

"You wanna point that gun somewhere else, pretty girl?" He taunted with a smirk. You gritted your teeth and clenched your jaw. 

"Estás fucking sordo?" Are you fucking deaf? Billy couldn't speak Spanish. But he had learned to pick up on your angry Spanish over time. His smirk only grew wider when you holstered your gun and slammed your flat hands against his chest, attempting to shove him, but he didn't move much. "Did you not hear the motherfucker coming? Are you okay? Did the bullet go through the plate?" 

He found your angry concern amusing, endearing even. But the mocking smirk on his face only made your blood boil more. 

"Aw, my pretty mercenary is worried about me?" He taunted you more, and the fire in your eyes made him completely forget about the throbbing on his shoulder blade. Though he felt a different kind of throb when he felt your flat palm collide with his cheek. 

His eyes widened for a second as he processed the heat spreading through his cheek. He breathed a laugh, but it wasn't a humorous one. Not in the slightest. He ran his tongue over his lips, he could taste the smallest bit of blood. He counted in his head. Six guards altogether, three Marines inside. There were five dead bodies outside. Four inside. Good. 

He didn't say a word as he reached out to you, he grabbed the back of your braid and crashed his lips against yours with so much force it gave you whiplash. You didn't protest though, you welcomed it, actually. You gripped his vest tightly as he slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He hummed with satisfaction as you clung to his vest. He gripped your hair tightly as he made you back into the kitchen island behind you. 

You gasped into his mouth when you felt him hoist you up on the counter. 

"The fuck are you doing?" You pulled back enough to speak, not that you were arguing with him, you had been wanting him ever since you got here. He flashed you a sadistic grin as he gripped your vest and pulled you to the edge so that he was standing between your open legs. 

"Gonna fuck you stupid. That's what." He replied in a heartbeat as his fingers unbuckled the clasps of your vest. He tossed it aside and his eyes instantly landed on the blood splatters staining your jaw and neck. 

"Right here?" You gave him a wide eyed look, lips slightly parted as he ridded himself of his own vest, leaving him a plain black long-sleeve compression shirt. 

"Right here. You did everythin' I asked, and more. And you know I'm a man of my word." Your long-sleeve black shirt was gone next and his lips immediately attached to your jaw. "You don't gotta play innocent with me darlin'. Bet if I touch you you’ll be soaking wet." 

Fuck, you wished he didn’t know you so well. You were real fucking good at pretending with the whole world. But you couldn't pretend with him. And you couldn't deny that you had been wanting him to fuck you senseless the second you saw his face that day. And that tactical uniform of his, fuck it didn't help your cause in the slightest. 

"You know I always want you, doesn't matter when or where." You answered through a ragged breath, your eyelashes fluttered as he ran his tongue over the skin of your neck, and at the same time, he shoved his hand into your cargo pants, right past your panties.

"Yeah, you want me? You want me right now? Covered in blood and everythin'?" He pulled back enough to watch your face as his finger brushed over your cunt. And he was pleased by how right he was. You were so wet. Your mouth fell open as he slipped a finger into you with ease. "You are such a fuckin' whore. You've been this wet this whole time, haven't you? You just killed three men for me, and you're wet?"

God, you should feel disgusted with yourself, with him, but you felt nothing of the sort. If anything, it aroused you more. You ground your hips against his hand, desperate for more as your shaky hands fumbled with the belt of your cargo pants. You tugged until you ultimately got them off one leg once you managed to kick off one of your combat boots. Billy only watched with amusement as you struggled. But he otherwise didn't help you. He liked watching you struggle.  

"Goddamn you're so needy. Such a needy whore." He mocked you with a laugh, but he rewarded you with another finger nonetheless. 

"Yes, yes I'm a whore." You whined, holding yourself upright by gripping his shirt. "I'm your whore. Fuck— Please, I did good." 

Billy nodded at this, the pathetic pleads coming from your mouth making his cock strain against his cargos even more. How such a fierce and vicious mercenary like yourself could give in so easily to him he had no idea, but he sure wasn't complaining. Not in the slightest. 

"Yeah. Yeah, you did. I'm gonna give you exactly what you deserve, don't worry." He spoke through a groan, he rutted his palm against your clit, brushing against it as he curled his fingers against that one spot that made your thighs shudder. 

You bunched his shirt around your fist as your mouth fell open in a silent moan, your hips involuntarily grinding against his hand. Billy watched with amusement as you desperately rocked yourself back and forth on the counter while he undid his pants with his free hand. 

His fingers left you abruptly, leaving your chasing and jaw slacked. You whined, your mouth opening to curse at him but he was gripping your braid with one hand as he brushed his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick. 

"Yell at me again and I will fuck you with my gun until you cry." He spat, his jaw twitching as he forcefully slammed into you with a snap of his hips. 

You actually cried out this time, your toes curling and your nails dug into his chest. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your legs hung loosely over his hips. He wound up his hand around your hair, pulling your head back as he rutted himself against you. He held your neck on full display as he dipped his head and ran his tongue over where blood stained your skin. 

"Fuck baby— you always feel so good. But goddamn, you fuckin' taste like heaven." He breathed against your skin, dragging his tongue from your pulse point to your jaw. 

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tangling around the chocolate locks to the root. And you pulled, and you pulled so hard he actually grunted in pain. 

"Dios Billy." You moaned, your lips against his ear, and he slammed into you so hard then he made you slide back on the counter. 

"Not God, baby. But I can be." He breathed out a laugh, his face pressed against your cheek as he wrapped his long fingers around your throat. "Trust me, darlin', when I'm done with you, not even God is gonna make you get outta bed tomorrow." 

You choked out a cry as he brought you closer against him— if that was even possible— and threw one of your legs over his shoulder. His cock hit so deep it actually made you roll your eyes back this time. 

"O-oh shit— shit Billy. I'm gonna come. Please, I wanna come." You spoke in between pants, what you could manage to say with his hand on your throat. You were holding on to him for dear fucking life, both arms thrown over his shoulder as if he was the only thing keeping you from slipping off the countertop. 

"You wanna come? My pretty mercenary wants to come? You earned it, didn't you?" He pulled back enough to watch your face, and he released the grip on your throat so you could respond. 

"Yes! Coño I earned it, please." You sounded so desperate but you didn't care, if there was one man in this world you could let yourself be vulnerable for it was Billy. 

"Mhmm, of course you did." He slipped his hand between your bodies and his thumb rubbed harsh circles on your clit and he drilled into you, pretty much holding you in one place with a tight grip on your ass. "Yeah, like that? Yeah just like that, come for me. You're good at following orders, so come." 

You were seeing white the second his thumb was on your clit and your fingers tugged at the roots of his hair as you came with a silent cry. You eyes were screwed shut and your mouth was hanging wide open as you gripped him tight enough to make his cock twitch. He breathed out a sigh of satisfaction and his lips curled up as he felt your wetness coat his cock. He looked down, and the sight of his cock slick with your come almost made him lose it. 

With a grunt he held you to his chest with a tight grip on the back of your neck and his fingers dug into your ass, holding you still for him as he fucked you. 

"Yeah, you take it just like that. Fuck— fuck that's a good girl." He moaned out the words, his head falling back ever so slightly. Enough for you to press your lips to his neck. But what made him completely lose it was your tongue, on his neck, similarly licking up the dry blood on his skin. "Ooh fuck me." 

His fingers dug deep into your scalp, enough for you to feel a slight burn, but you didn't fucking care. You dragged your lips up to his jaw as he fell still and you breathed out a laugh of satisfaction when you felt him spill himself inside you. He dragged his hips lazily, once, twice more before he just stood still. His fingers were deep rooted in your hair and his eyes were closed. You closed your own eyes as you pressed your forehead against his chest with a lazy smile on your face. 

Billy was silent, his fingers loosening on your hair until only his fingers were lazily dragging his fingers through the now loose strands. You kept your face on his chest, simply listening to his rapid heartbeat that matched your own. It slowly went steady, back to its normal rhythm. Only then Billy pulled back enough to look at your face. His dark eyes watched your face with something much softer and his fingers brushed over your bruised lip. 

"'M fine Billy. You've done worse." You sighed softly at him, your hand coming up to hold his wrist. He furrowed his eyebrows at you. 

"That's me, though. I've never hit you— without your permission anyway. But I've never bruised your face. It ain't the same." He frowned, and you couldn't help but grin at his protectiveness. 

"I said I'm fine, mi cielo." You squeezed his wrist and shot up your eyebrows at him with a suggestive smile on your face. "Does this place have a master bathroom?" 

Billy thought for a second, he had been here once at least before. He figured a house this big probably did have a large bathroom. 

"Probably, why?" 

"Wanna wash this blood off me?" 

Billy's scowl was quickly replaced by a wide smirk of his own and he could feel his cock twitch the slightest bit as your suggestive tone. 

"For this pussy? Baby, I'd kiss the fuckin' ground you walk on." 

Billy was a fucked up man that had met his fucked up match. And he'd be damned if he ever denied you anything.

[unrefinedmusings]

no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader headcanons

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, nasty situations, age gaps, dirty talk, strip clubs, threesome, mentions of infidelity, sexually forward behavior?, not proofread very well

a/n: blaming this one on ovulation and listening to hot stuff by donna summer on repeat. only one of the scenarios is told in second perspective, but feel free to think of all of them as you.

currently obsessing over a joel miller slut era

the outbreak never happened and sarah is off at college. being a father has been his greatest joy. he would not trade a second of his time with sarah for a more rebellious youth. but when joel is almost 45 and living in an empty house, he gets lonely. and bored. that's when he starts to notice. the fleeting glances. the overt stares. he never realized how much attention he got. so he lets his dick do the thinking for a while. who could blame him? people were throwing themselves at his feet. who could blame them?

some standout moments:

while shopping for a birthday present for sarah, joel walks into a boutique at the mall. it's a small store and a slow day. the girl at the counter perks up at the sight of him. she's not subtle, nearly salivating when he walks over to ask for help. she touches him way more than what is appropriate while giving an opinion on earrings. all he does is lick his lips in her direction before she's locking the front door and turning the shop sign to closed. he drags her into a changing room despite her suggestion of the back office. joel doesn't mind the size of the stall when it means he can watch her face while he pounds her from behind. when he finishes, he kneels to make her finish one more time on his tongue. "make sure to watch yourself, honey. look so pretty when you cum."

joel miller is neither stupid nor cruel enough to get involved in someone else's marriage...but that doesn't mean he can't have some fun. since entering the business, he's found that every bored housewife loves to flirt with the contractor. now he just lets himself flirt back. watch their cheeks flush when he winks across the room. see them turn their weddings rings around, as if not seeing a diamond will make him forget their husbands hired him. it gives him an ego boost knowing they'll think of him in their marital beds that night.

hank, one of the younger guys on his crew, is engaged and invites joel to his bachelor party. tommy insists he go, at the least so as to not come off as an unfriendly boss. the strip club is loud, and his beer is overpriced and watered down. none of that matters when he sees the little devil come out on stage. she's wearing a lacy red corset that's pried open, letting her tits bounce free. he palms his cock under the table when she spreads her legs wide for the audience, and chuckles when her horns don't fall off even when she's upside down. joel had always been impressed by the fancy spins and twirls, but what he loved most was watching a woman make love to the pole. she's gyrating against it like a cat in heat, even turning around and letting the smooth metal slide between her asscheeks. she saunters over after her show, slides into his lap and offers him a dance in a private room. the horns fall off while she's bouncing on his cock, chasing her orgasm as his fingers work her clit.

the one he should probably feel the worst about it is the least his fault. those girls were so eager. they zeroed in on him before he realized. joel wanted to get a beer after work, the two seniors from Texas A&M wanted to sow their wild oats. joel knew they were a little too young for him, but they insisted since neither had been with an older man or had a threesome before. both girls sidled up on either side of him at the bar, each slipping a hand onto his thighs. he can't feel that bad when he remembers what having two pretty young things kissing on his cock was like. what it was like lying in his bed, one on his cock and one sitting on his face. hard to feel bad about that.

his favorite occasion is the night he meets you. it's late. he's had an awful day. two guys on his crew called in sick and he had no time to eat. he stops at an old school drive in for a couple burgers. in his side mirror he sees you, sees your uniform: cropped white tee, short black skirt, and, oh fuck him, rollerskates. your tits jiggle as you come to a stop by the driver's side window of his truck. you catch him staring. he can't muster the energy to be inconspicuous. joel's gaze lifts to meet yours and sees the flirtatious smile you've got on. leaning against the door, you ask to take his order. "I'll get two burgers, some fries, and two shakes if you've got time, sweetheart. Only one if you got somewhere else to be." You take your break in his back seat sipping on a vanilla shake with his head between your legs. After you cum, he lifts your shirt up and jacks off on your tits. He makes sure to grab the panties hooked on your skates and tuck them into his jeans. When you ask for them back, he spanks your ass. "I'm coming back for another pair. When's your next shift?"

💕💕💕💕💕

Thanks for reading!

[wander-wren]

every once in a while i like to poke my head into "anti [x]" tags just to see what the other side thinks. recently i was looking through "anti ao3" and found a really funny post claiming that ao3 is not anticapitalist, but actually the Definition Of Capitalism, bc it relies on volunteer labor while supposedly having the money to pay a staff.

oh, honey.

but i am not going to make unsubstantiated claims on the internet, no, and this gives me an excuse to look at ao3's whole budget myself, which i've been meaning to do for a while. these numbers are taken from the 2022 budget post and budget spreadsheet.

ao3's total income for 2022, from the two donation drives, regular donations, donation matching programs, interest, and royalties was $1,012,543.42. less than $300 of that was from interest and royalties, so it's almost all donations. and that's a lot, right? surely an organization making a million dollars a year can afford to pay some staff, right?

well, let's look at expenses. first of all, they lose almost $37,000 to transaction fees right away. ao3 and fanlore (~$341k and ~$18k, respectively) take up the biggest chunks of the budget by far. that money pays for, to quote the 2022 budget post, "server expenses—both new purchases and ongoing colocation and maintenance—website performance monitoring tools, and various systems-related licenses."

in some years, otw also pays external contractors to perform audits for security issues, and for more servers to handle the growing userbase. servers are expensive as hell, guys. in 2022, new server costs alone were $203k.

each of their other programs only cost around $3,000 or less, and otw paid around $78k for fundraising and development. wait, how do you lose so much money on your fundraising?? from the 2022 budget post: "Our fundraising and development expenses consist of transaction fees charged by our third-party payment processors for each donation, thank-you gift purchases and shipping, and the tools used to host the OTW’s membership database and track communications with donors and potential donors."

then the otw paid an additional $74k in administration expenses, which covers "hosting for our website, trademarks, domains, insurance, tax filing, and annual financial statement audits, as well as communication, management, and accounting tools."

in case you weren't following all of that math, the total expenses for 2022 come out to $518,978.48. woah! that's a lot! but it's still only a little over half of their net revenue. weird. i wonder what they do with that extra $494k?

well, $400k of it goes to the reserves, which i'll get to in a second. the last $93k, near as i can tell, gets rolled over to the next year. i'll admit this part i'm a little unsure about, as it's not clear on the spreadsheet, but that's the only thing that makes sense.

the reserves, though are clear. the most recent post i could find on the otw site about it were in the board meeting minutes from april 2, 2022: "We’re holding about $1million in operating cash that is about twice the amount of our annual operating costs. There is another $1million in reserves due to highly successful fundraisers in the past. The current plan for the reserves is to hold the money for paid staff in the future. It’s been talked about before in the past and we’re still working out the details, but it’s a rather expensive undertaking that will result in large annual expenses in addition to the initial cost of implementation."

woah....they're PLANNING to have paid staff eventually! wild!

so let's assume, for easy numbers, that the otw currently has $1.5 million in reserves. before we even get to how to use that money, let's look at the issues with implementing paid staff:

deciding which positions are going to be paid, because it can't be all of them

deciding how much to pay them, bc minimum wage sure as hell isn't enough, and cost of living is different everywhere, and volunteers come from all over the world

hiring staff and implementing new systems/tools to handle things like payroll and accounting

making sure you continue to earn enough money both to pay all of the staff and have some in reserves for emergencies or leaner donation drives

probably even more stuff than that! i don't run a nonprofit, that's just what i can think of off the top of my head.

okay, okay, okay. for the sake of argument, let's assume there is a best-case scenario where the otw starts paying some staff tomorrow. how much should they be paid? i'm picking $15 an hour, since that's what we fought for the minimum wage to be. by now, it should be closer to $20 or $25, but i'm trying to give "ao3 is capitalism" the fairest shot it can get here, okay?

ideally, if someone is being paid to help run ao3, they shouldn't need a second job. every job should pay enough to live off of. and running a nonprofit is hard work that leads to a lot of burnout--two board members JUST resigned before their terms were up. what i'm saying is, i'm going to assume a paid otw staff is getting paid for 40 hours of work a week, minimum. that's $31,200.

at $400,000 per year, the otw can afford to pay 12 people. that's WITHOUT taking into account the new systems, tools, software, etc they would have to pay for, any kind of fees, etc, etc.

oh, and btw, if you're an american you're still making barely enough to survive in most places, AND you don't have universal healthcare, vision, or dental. want otw to give people insurance, too? the number of people they can pay goes down.

it's. not. possible.

a million dollars is a lot of money on the face of it, but once you realize how MUCH goes into running something like the otw, it goes away fast.

just for reference, wikipedia also has donation drives every year. wikipedia, as of 2021, has $86.8 million in cash reserves and $137.4 million in investments. sure, wikipedia and ao3 are very different entities, but that disparity is massive. and i should note that if you give $10 to wikipedia they don't give you voting rights, i'm just saying.

by the way, you may have noticed that i didn't mention legal costs at all here. isn't one of otw's big Things about how they do legal advocacy?

yes, it is. they have a whole page about that work. and i can't for the life of me find a source on otw's website (and i'm running out of time to write this post, i'll look harder later), but i am 90% sure i learned before that most, if not all, of otw's legal work/advice/etc is done pro bono. i've also seen an anti-ao3 person claim their legal budget is only $5k or so, but they didn't have a source. but keep in mind that if they don't have a legal budget, all the numbers above stay the same, and if they do, there is even less money available for paid staff.

you can criticize ao3 and the otw all you want! there are many valid reasons to criticize them, and i do not think they're perfect either. but if you're going to do so, you should at least make sure you can back up your claims, bc otherwise you just look silly.

[entishramblings]

The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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[rassicas]

I don't think this nuance carries through in my posts all too well with how much i criticize splatoon's english localization. But I believe the fault is less so on the localizers themselves and more so on the higher ups and whoever is managing the localization team. For one thing there needs to be better communication between the Splatoon team on the JP side and the localization team to convey whats going on with the worldbuilding. I'm not all that involved with the Kirby series, but I am aware that there have been some localization choices that seriously contradict with the JP version in a way that affected the lore. I don't know how well the localization of Kirby and the Forgotten Land turned out, but one of the developers mentioned that there was collaboration with the localization team to ensure they got the lore right.

And with some of the choices made in Splatoon 2 especially, (like pearl making all the octopus jokes about marina and references to the destructive power of pearl's voice being cut, both of which ended up being really important for octo expansion) this level of communication about Splatoon's world and story was definitely not happening for the writing Splatoon and Splatoon 2. Splatoon 3 it's hard to say, but there's were certainly some questionable choices in the Squid research lab posts leading up to Splatoon 3, and also whatever happened with Mr. Grizz's characterization...We'll see how Side Order turns out.

also according to this article (from 2022), nearly half of NOA's localization team are contractors rather than full time employees, and there were no full time hires over the past 3 years. It sucks for the contractors who don't get those privileges of fulltime employees, and it sucks for fulltime employees who have to reorganize workloads to compensate for those whose contract expired. I'd imagine this also leads to less time for some of the localizers to really get to know the source material of what they're translating.

One other weird thing about this is that the majority of weird localization changes are from NOA, while NOE localizations tend to be more accurate to the source material. There's probably a variety of factors at play, like what philosophy NOA takes in localization practices + the other factors mentioned above. anyways just getting thoughts out there. what the hell is happening at nintendo treehouse