fcrtunesoldier-blog - Tumblr blog

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big major important addition to this pretty much dead blog i might breathe life into: 

adam is bi as hell

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ooooh my godddd i can’t believe i still have this blog ksdljgwoiedsd

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mike stripping again

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He doesn’t have a clue what she said, but that sickly sweet has got to be fake. It’s a good thing most insults--understood or not--roll right off of him. “Because I hate drinking alone.” 

<I feel bad for her.> She says in Romanian, before taking a swig of her drink. Feigning innocence with her smile. Good thing about speaking a second language is that you can a lot of things without people knowing what you’re really saying. “Oh, I’m sure they do. Why’d you bring me along again?” 

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He is not here on behalf of the company he is contracted to. He is here on behalf of The Company, the one he is semi-regularly loaned out to. Shady dealings do not just happen between criminals in back rooms. They happen between men in suits from private military companies and men in suits from the Central Intelligence Agency. He is a part-time spook. Hilarious. He has killed for them before, and he’s sure that he will do it again after today. He’s sure that he will do it for a long time. As long as they want him to because you do not say no when the CIA comes knocking on your door. There is a pistol hidden on his person, but he is not going to use it. They do not want him dead. They want him disappeared, and he is tasked with the disappearing. Adam is patient. He will wait. His handler--his part-time handler for his part-time job--said they were unable to procure an itinerary. That’s frustrating, but he is patient. He can wait. He lingers. He watches. He can wait for just the right moment. 

Operatives exist in discrete moments, heartbeats: she is here, and then she is there; she is Mariya Belyaeva, and then she is Hyperia, and then she is Kim Myeong, and then she is Mary Bell; she exists, then she does not. 

Right now, she exists, most tangibly, part of a security detail with her hair dyed dark again, the badge on her chest proclaiming her to be PERSONAL SECURITY, and not her name. (Her thoughts on this are best saved for another time.) As for whom she is security too, it is enough to say that there is gold, and there is a menagerie, and a man who will never see any comprehensible form of justice for his actions. (He is a kingpin or a diplomat, or any of the other names for men who do not have legal power, but have tremendous power nonetheless.)

Not that she is here for justice, but for reconnaissance. One personal file in a locked desk drawer, and she leaves. As for now, she maintains the perimeter, unnoticed, while great groups of revelers unfold before her.

She is content to be silent, to be present, to work and unwork herself inside her mind.

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“yeah, but she didn’t.” he doesn’t play up the southern hospitality thing around other southerns. they can usually see past his bullshit. “and everyone loves a good cliché.” 

       “ oh god, don’t call me that. “ she makes a face, her lip curling upwards. “ i grew up in the south, i know for a fact that accent ain’t that charming. “ but that woman seemed throughly charmed. 

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me: melissa finishing writing up adam’s bio.

me, also: nah

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he wears a smug look as he pockets the woman’s number. “it gets ‘em every time, darlin’.” 

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      “ wow, charlie wasn’t kiddin’, that whole southern hospitality thing does make ladies weak in the knees. “

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Aaron Tveit and Andrew Call - behind the scenes/b-roll of Grease Live 

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veryangryfeminist:

matosua:

sugar buddy: your totally platonic rich friend who gives u expensive gifts 

a literal pay pal

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#me doing sports

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"It’s habit.” That small smile remains on his lips, but he continues to be unconvinced. It’d feel wrong to just bid her a good day and walk away at this point. “How about we exchange names, drop the pleasantries and then I buy you that juice you need?” Not that he waits for much of an answer. “I’m Adam.” 

     “I can’t believe you keep calling me ma’am. Everyone thinks I’m more of a miss.” She’s not twelve. She’s had a baby, given said baby up for adoption, been employed in at least seven different places, moved across the country. She knows twelve isn’t meant to be an insult–it’s just how her face looks–but childish she is not. Except for when she’s shilling for juice because she forgot her insulin bag. “I’m fine, really.” Or, at least, she will be. “Thank you. Sir.” Sir? Stupid, Amity, stupid.

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“We look adorable. He should frame those photos.” As a joke, Adam’ll probably do it himself. Prop them up in the living room in some new frames. “A constant reminder of his two favourite people.” 

“Calm down there Zoolander, this isn’t men’s health magazine.” There was still a bit of a grin on her face as she raised up the phone. She kept her glasses in front of her eyes, two hours of sleep didn’t do much for the bags under eyes. 3, 2, 1, she snap[ed at least three selfies. “Aw, we look so cute.”