#Logistics Management Assignment Help

[oceantornadoo]

the ex-wife chronicles pt.1 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

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John Price loves Kate Laswell. She’s like an older sister to him, a brusque sort of bond built by survival and betrayal.

He hates one thing about her: how much she loves her wife.

“You’re takin’ leave?” John huffs into the speak of his phone, his shoulder pressing it into his ear. “Soap’s going to be recovering for months, and Ghost with him. Our main enemy is dead. I was offered two months of leave as compensation for the past year so yes, John, I am taking leave so I can actually see my wife for more than a meal.” John sighs discontentedly, already knowing this means he’ll have to be interacting with others who don’t understand his team. It’s a sneaky mistake he tries to slip into the conversation, testing the waters.

“Not that my men won’t enjoy the two months of leave-” Kate cuts him off with a chuckle. Damn it. “I’m assigning a temporary contact for you. I trust her with my life and I think you will too. She will be giving me updates every week.” John sighs again like a disappointed grandfather. “She’s experienced in managing field trauma as well, so she’ll be like a field therapist but with my clearance. The higher-ups were shaken by Soap getting shot and reassurance that the team will exist in six months. She’ll help Ghost reacclimate, Soap recover, and put you and Gaz back together. Lord knows you need it.” John really can’t deny that. The shell-shocked look that hides behind Gaz’s eyes every time he enters the hospital. Simon sits vigil at Johnny’s bedside, scaring off the most seasoned doctors with one glare. John doesn’t even want to know what he looks like since he’s only shaved once since Johnny got shot three weeks ago. It’s like penance since one of his men almost died. “You sayin’ we’ll have two months of team bonding while you fuck off on your honeymoon?” He can hear a smile in Kate’s tone as she replies, “We’re calling it a vow renewal. I’ll send you a postcard.”

The next ten minutes are spent reading emails about the logistics of this ‘team-bonding’. Compulsory group activities made for specialized military teams. None of that holding-hands bullshit but real strategies to use on and off the field. Breathing techniques, yoga, massages, visualization techniques, while reacclimating them to a battlefield. Each team member will be assigned a different therapist and the woman Laswell is sending will be ensuring that therapy is attended. Laswell still hasn’t sent over the personnel file, something about ‘not wanting to ruin the surprise’ which John only grunted at, watching the end of his cigar burn closer and closer to his hand. The spark of him reminds him of the bullet-hole in Johnny’s head, a starburst of destruction. Maybe a little therapy wouldn’t hurt.

“She gets there tomorrow. She’ll be staying on base and in your section of housing, easier access for emergencies.” What emergencies? The constant nightmares that bleed into John’s days? “We don’t have an extra room.” Kate’s silent for a second. “Soap-” “Is off limits. Jesus, Kate.” She’s silent and he can hear her flipping through files, likely looking at the base’s layout. “Actually, I have a better idea. The isolation housing.” It’s usually used as punishment for unruly recruits, a bit like that Parent Trap movie his nieces used to watch. Ex-nieces.

Four bedrooms with a shared bathroom, updated plumbing but an isolated location. Perfect for forcing soldiers who don’t like each other together until they’re used to the smell of each other’s shit. Unfortunately perfect for two months of team bonding. “There’s no office.” Kate snorts at his protest. “Use Ghost’s. He’s required to show up but it’s not like he’ll be sleeping there. I bet he won’t even step foot into the room.” John sighs in defeat at her solution. A part of him knows his team needs this but it irks him, knowing they’re going to be fattened up like chickens just to be slaughtered the moment they’re able to fight. It doesn’t escape them that this is an investment that requires results. More time off means they’re expected to come back polished like new, shoving the memory of Johnny getting shot into a corner and compartmentalizing. Christ, that’s dark, even for him.

“Fine.” Kate hums. “She’ll be there at 0800 tomorrow. If you want to be a good host, I’d make sure the barracks are ready by tonight.” John murmurs his goodbye and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to get his team to report for duty tomorrow.

-

“Sir.” Heart machines beep in the background on Simon’s side of the call. John slides a hand down his desk, tracing the wood grain as he imagines the phantom pain the man is going through. “How’s Soap?” He can hear a ruffling of fabric, like Simon’s masked head is turning to confirm Johnny exists before replying. “They’re sayin’ it was a graze but the shock waves caused more damage.” Right. The image John sees every night, that of a gaping wound in Johnny’s head, is not actually true. The bullet only grazed, due to the reflexes of his sergeant, but all the blood at the scene made it look much worse. Doctors didn’t even need to do surgery, just a worrying amount of tests and shock at Johnny’s ability to survive. John knows all this information of course, but he also knows Simon needs to keep saying it to remind himself that it’s true.

“He starts therapy in a week.” John replies. Simon grunts. This timeline was suggested by the doctors but John has now confirmed it, something he knows Simon hates. “When he starts, you’re expected back on base.” Simon does not sputter. He’s not built for it. However, John knows the man enough to hear the instinct of doing so in the back of the man’s throat. When Simon doesn’t hang up, John continues. “We’re not gettin’ shipped out for a while. As long as you’re on base durin’ the day, I don’t care where you’re sleepin’. The PT facility is only a 15 minute drive from base.” Translation: I don’t care that you’re sleeping with Johnny. The biggest concession John can make without acknowledging it, something he knows Simon will hate. The speaker crackles, Simon muffling it with a gloved hand. He can imagine the man turning to Johnny, the two conversing in that language only they know. Finally, the speaker becomes clear. “See you in seven days, sir.” John says goodbye and the line cuts.

He dials Gaz next. Although the call connects instantly, he imagines the signal traversing north to Lancashire, where Gaz decided to take off after they were all given personal leave. His family home, not his usual flat in London. A choice John would make as well, if he had a family home to go back to. Not a tragedy like Simon but simply…unattached. His parents died from old age a few years ago and he was the only child of two only children. He’d gone back to his own London flat, but memories of his men playing poker in his living room, Johnny laughing and happy, had been too haunting.

“Sir?” Gaz greets him apprehensively. “Alrigh’, Gaz?” The man pauses, the check-in catching him off-guard. John mentally notes that’s a reaction he doesn’t want in the future. Something to bring up at this godforsaken team bonding experience. “Yessir.” He keeps going when John doesn’t say anything, trying to drag a response out of the sergeant. “Bit of rest and relaxation. Been checkin’ in with Soap when Ghost picks up his phone.” John hums, eyes flicking back to the team bonding itinerary in front of him. “Rest’s over, Gaz. There’s a flight for you at your old airfield. It’ll take off in four hours, 0800 sharp.” Four hours, the most he could give Gaz for some goodbyes, a sorely needed morale boost for the next few months. “Thank you, sir. See you soon.” For the second time today, John hangs up on a call he didn’t want to make.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of paperwork. John scrounges up a pre-wrapped sandwich from mess and eats it with two-fingers of whiskey. A feast fit for a king. Sleep overtakes him in fits and starts, a reminder that he needs a clear mind for tomorrow is the only reason he forces himself to slow his breathing and give in.

-

Gaz arrived late last night. They watch a helicopter land at exactly 0805, wind whipping around their jackets as they squint in the morning sun. Their hats do almost nothing to block it. A few familiar faces hop off, men who tagged along in the flight from the Manchester base back to London. It’s only after they clear the area that you emerge.

Standard base gear with a black hoodie thrown over your t-shirt to wear off the morning chill. You’ve got sunglasses on, blocking the glare that’s sent John squinting. It’s only when you pull them off your face and into the crown of your hair does John realize who he’s looking at.

It’s been ten years since he saw his ex-wife. He did not expect a reunion on a spring Tuesday morning.

John’s well-trained enough to swear in a low tone that doesn’t catch Gaz’s ears. The man has a sunny smile on his face, his hand stuck out for a handshake. “You must be Kyle Garrick.” You say, stopping in front of the men as you shake Gaz’s hand firmly. “Got our files memorized already, Doc?” You laugh, a sharp, tinkling sound that sends an almost-shiver down John’s spine. “No,” you pause to look John up and down, “call it process of elimination.” You don’t bother to shake his hand. Instead, you wait until your eyes catch and nod, like you are cordial colleagues. Like you weren’t his wife once upon a time (it was only a year, his brain whispers). John tips his hat and turns to lead you back to the isolation barracks. In the background, he can hear Gaz recovering well, asking questions about the flight and how you know Kate.

John gives a half-hearted tour, a hard feat to complete when he refuses to meet your eyes. There’s mainly a lot of gesturing and grumbling about how this won’t be a spot to frequent since you’re getting moved to the other barracks. John feels out of character, particularly moody on what was supposed to be a new start of a day. Instead, you, the woman he hasn’t thought about for years (well, maybe a little bit), is at his heels, expected to be his new boss.

The walk to the barracks takes half an hour. Gaz offered to take your bag and now he’s paying for it, his shoulder slumping as he carries the pile of bricks. If John still knew you, he would guess there’s a few of your well-worn books in there. But he doesn’t (know you, that is), so he pretends his sergeant needs to up his bicep routine. How should he kill Kate Laswell? Maybe not answer her calls until she shows up at base so he can get the drop on her. Or show up on her vow renewal vacation and dress her down in front of her wife. All terrible ideas, spun to distract him from the fact that you are hiking a grassy hill a meter behind him, about to enter your new cohabitated home for the next two months. And share a bathroom.

“Christ, Captain, they couldn’tve given it a new paint job?” The gray paint outside the building is flaking, but at least it’s updated inside. John guides them in, pointing out room assignments. You pass by him in a whiff of a new perfume scent he hasn’t smelled and silent outrage, a deadly combination. “Fancy a tea, sir?” John’s about to shake his head until he remembers. He rounds the hallway of bedrooms into the small kitchen, where empty shelves sit. “Looks like we need a restock, Sergeant.” Gaz sighs. John fishes out the new Visa Laswell sent over as part of their ‘bonding budget’. “Don’t steal from mess, go to the store.” It’s at least an hour trip to the parking lot, the shops, and back. Enough time for an argument with his ex-wife, hopefully. Gaz looks a little dazed at the sudden power in his hands. “How much can I buy, sir?” Ghost may love his tea but Gaz is obsessed with candy, always trying a new kind whenever they’re deployed. Somehow, the kid still has perfect teeth. Also, John is still mad at Laswell. “Whatever catches your eye, Sergeant.” He’s gone in a flash, the front door banging on the way out as he yells ‘thank you, sir’ over his shoulder. John sighs.

He finds you in your bedroom, predictably pulling out books from your go-bag. Your shoulders tense when he purposefully stomps up to your doorframe, waiting. You speak at the same time.

“Look, I didn’t know-”

“I don’t know what Laswell told you but-”

You stop at the same time as well, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the room. He gestures at you to go first, a gentleman move that has you rolling your eyes. “I didn’t know it was your team. I owed Laswell a favor and didn’t have anything on my docket, so when she said she needed me to piece some men back together, I volunteered for the challenge.” He takes you in as you talk. The confidence in your squared shoulders is new, no longer faked. Your hairstyle is different as is your makeup, a fact that shouldn’t surprise him. The only thing that stays the same is the bracelet at your wrist, a slim sentimental piece of metal. 

“That what you do now? Piece men back together?” You shrug, turning away from him to unpack. “You know I was never meant to be a regular field doctor. I’ve got both my security clearance and psychiatry background - it’s a unique combination. I get to pick my cases without a lot of paperwork and without worrying whose war I’m fighting. I like what I do.” The message is clear. You are morally above John and you’re proud of it, a fact he sees in your now-relaxed shoulders. You stack books near your bedside, then toss a bag of toiletries on the freshly-made bed. Turning back around to face him, you cross your arms and raise your eyebrows. At least your frustrated look hasn’t changed.

“We gonna have a problem, John? I thought you were a Captain, all professional.” He edges closer into the room, crossing some invisible barrier. “No problem. I’m capable of burying a decade-old history.” You huff, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. It’s you and him for a second, staring. Not reminiscing but remembering. The ghosts of your past fights, long dead and forgotten, are suddenly brought back to life with one blink. Meeting when you were both young and dumb, a whirlwind engagement, an angst-filled marriage. The whole process of it is a two-year blip in his memory from nearly ten years ago. No prenup but no shared assets either, everything you both were and are belonging to the military. Like knocking two dolls together and being disappointed when nothing forms between them.

He only thinks about your marriage when he’s drunk. Drunk and alone. Drunk and with a pretty thing under him, only to blink and remember what you felt like.

Other than that, he doesn’t think about his failed marriage.

John sticks his hand out and you take it. Miraculously, your hand is not as callused as his and he wants to ask why, how you don’t bear the scars of sewing soldiers back together, occasionally pricking your own thumb and watching it bleed. The moment is gone when you let go.

-

a few things

i will not be doing a taglist, they stress me out

this has been in my drafts for weeks, i have one more chapter written but don't expect timely updates

this is mainly going to be fast-burn bc they have a history and i get impatient if there's no smut

no clue how long this is going to be but pls enjoy!

tag: fic: formerly mrs. price

[ducktoo]

How to take care of Jiwon

IVE's Liz x Reader

Note: Anon, hope this was something you were asking for (I think). Twas' a fun prompt and I enjoyed it frfr. Feel free to DM me ur thoughts!

(This German girl do be looking cute-)

“Again?”

You don’t even look up from your computer screen. You already know who it is.

There’s a quiet giggle, followed by the sound of someone shuffling through your things. You sigh, rubbing your temple before shooting a glare at the intruder currently invading your workspace—none other than Kim Jiwon(or Liz), your childhood friend turned global idol, standing beside your desk like she owns the place.

“Can you not touch my stuff?” you grumble, snatching a framed photo from her hands before she can get any ideas.

She blinks at you innocently. “You keep this here?”

You glance down at the picture, already knowing which one she’s referring to. It’s an old, slightly faded photo from elementary school—Liz, missing her two front teeth, flashing a peace sign, while you stand beside her with the grumpiest expression imaginable. You had never liked taking pictures, but Liz had insisted back then. Looking at it now, you don’t even remember why you agreed to keep it on your desk.

“It’s just decoration,” you mutter, setting it back down.

Liz hums, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Sure, sure.”

She doesn’t leave. Of course, she doesn’t. You’re already used to this little routine.

Despite her packed schedule, Liz always finds time to drop by your office whenever she’s at the company. She claims it’s because she’s curious about what you do, but you know better. The real reason? She just enjoys annoying you.

She picks up your stationery, taps at your keyboard, sometimes even steals your coffee—because “staff coffee tastes different.” You tolerate it because, well… it’s Liz. You’ve known her since you were kids.

It’s still crazy how you both ended up here…especially after how you reunited.

-

To this day, you still don’t know how the hell that situation happened.

You had only been working at Starship Entertainment for about a month at that point. Just a regular staff member, trying not to get scolded, running around delivering paperwork, managing schedules—nothing out of the ordinary.

Then came that time.

One of your first bigger assignments had been to handle some logistics for IVE’s new comeback. Simple enough. Make sure the equipment was working, ensure the space was ready, help with any requests—it was routine.

What wasn’t routine was somehow ending up in a storage closet with a girl in a hoodie, a bucket of spilled cleaning supplies, and the worst case of déjà vu you’ve ever experienced.

…Let’s back up.

That day, you had been in a rush, carrying a stack of documents for the management team when you took a wrong turn down a hallway you didn’t usually use. It led to one of the storage rooms, where cleaning supplies and extra equipment were kept.

The door was slightly open.

Then, without warning—

CRASH.

Something—or someone—barreled right into you, sending both of you stumbling backwards into the closet.

The door slammed shut behind you.

Silence.

For a moment, you just laid there on the floor, trying to process the fact that you had just been body-slammed into a janitor’s closet. Your head throbbed. You could hear the faint creak of a mop falling somewhere nearby.

And then—

“…Wait. Grumpy?”

You froze.

That voice. That stupidly familiar voice.

Slowly, you looked up.

And there, crouched in the dim light, staring at you like she had just seen a ghost—was the one and only. Your childhood friend. The same girl you hadn’t seen in years.

In a janitor’s closet. With you.

What. The. Hell.

“…What are you doing here?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

You stared at her. “What are you doing around here in the management area?”

“I asked first!”

“I work here!”

That seemed to short-circuit her brain for a second. Her eyes widened, then darted to the staff ID clipped to your shirt. Slowly, realization dawned on her face.

“…You work at Starship?”

“Yes?!”

"Since when?!"

"Since I got hired, duh!"

Liz opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. She blinked.

Then—

She burst out laughing.

“You—You actually work here?” she wheezed, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, this is unreal. This is so unreal.”

"Tsk." You scowled. “Glad to see my suffering is entertaining you.”

“I can’t believe this! We literally grew up together, lost contact, and now you’re working for my company? This is insane.” She wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “And—wait, you of all people? You always hated dealing with people!”

“Yeah, well, life’s funny like that,” you muttered. You rubbed your temples, exhaling through your nose. “Okay, but why were you sneaking around?”

Liz suddenly looked away, suspiciously avoiding eye contact. “No reason.”

“…You were stealing snacks from the staff area again, weren’t you?”

Silence.

“…Maybe.”

Unbelievable. Some things really never changed.

-

And that was how you reunited.

You had spent a solid fifteen minutes stuck in that closet with Liz before someone finally found you two. The rest of the staff had been utterly confused, and you had to endure Liz wheezing with laughter for the rest of the day.

Ever since then, she had made it her personal mission to annoy you at work.

Which brings you to now.

“Alright, stay put. Don’t touch anything,” you warn as you stand from your desk, stretching your arms before grabbing your phone. “I need to get some files from the storage room.”

Liz, perched on the edge of your desk like she owns the place, swings her legs lazily. “No promises.”

You narrow your eyes. “I mean it. Hands off.”

She hums innocently, lips curling into a playful smile. “Of course, of course.”

You don’t trust her one bit.

Still, you leave, because you have to, but you throw one last suspicious glance over your shoulder before stepping out.

The door clicks shut…and Liz immediately disregards your warning.

“Don’t touch anything,” she mocks under her breath, rolling her eyes. As if she could ever listen to that. "Bleh. What are you, my mom?"

She stretches her arms with a yawn, then lazily lets her fingers drift across your desk, poking at whatever looks mildly interesting. The keyboard? Tap. A stack of documents? Poke. Your half-empty coffee cup? Swirl.

And then she sees it.

A small, slightly worn notebook tucked beside your monitor, the corner peeking out as if daring her to take a look.

Curious, she pulls it free and flips it over in her hands. The second she reads the cover, her breath catches in her throat.

"How to Take Care of Jiwon the Annoying Child"

She blinks. Once. Twice.

Then, a slow, delighted smile spreads across her face.

“Oh?”

Her heart beats a little faster as she carefully flips the first page. The handwriting is neat—your handwriting. She skims over the lines, amusement bubbling in her chest.

Jiwon gets grumpy when she hasn’t eaten. Always have snacks on hand.

She giggles. “So that’s why you always have extra snacks.”

She flips to the next one.

She gets sleepy after eating too much. Don’t let her nap on the practice room floor. Would be annoying to tend to the sick Jiwon.

A small gasp escapes her lips. “Wait, is that why you always wake me up first?”

Another page.

If she’s sad, buy her ice cream. Preferably chocolate.

Her heart flutters. You really do notice everything, huh?

She keeps reading, her amusement growing. But then—

The notes start getting weirder.

If she starts humming randomly, she’s in a good mood. If she’s humming AND staring at me, she’s plotting something. Probably my usual dose of suffering.

Liz snorts. “What do you mean?”

DO NOT let her near a stray cat. She will try to take it home.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “That happened one time, trust me–”

If she says ‘Trust me,’ DO NOT TRUST HER.

Liz bursts into laughter. “Damn it! Okay, fair.”

The notes only get more ridiculous.

She once ate an entire cake by herself just to prove she could. Do NOT challenge her to food-related dares.

If she looks too smug, she probably stole my drink.

If she looks too cute and uses her dumb aegyo, she’s about to ask for a favour.

Her giggles come uncontrollably now. She flips through the pages quickly, eager to see what else you’ve written. But then—

The shift happens. The notes stop being ridiculous. They start being… something else.

When she’s nervous, she fidgets with her necklace. Let her hold onto my sleeve instead.

Her fingers touch her necklace instinctively. "Huh…you do wear long sleeves every time we meet…"

Liz acts tough, but she cries at sad movies. Keep tissues ready.

Her laughter softens. "No I don't…mostly…"

She overworks herself even when she’s exhausted. Sometimes she just needs someone to tell her to rest.

Her heart clenches.

And then, the last note. It might have been scribbled out but…She stares at it. She couldn't unsee it after once.

If she ever gets too tired, remind her she doesn’t have to do everything alone. Remind her that I’m here….

Her grip tightens on the notebook.

She rereads the words, once, twice—three times.

She always knew you cared. In your own way—grumbling, teasing, acting like she was the most annoying person in the world. But this? You had written this down. As if it was important. As if you wanted to remember, just in case.

As if she mattered.

Her chest feels warm.

The door creaks open.

“Alright, I got the—”

Your words cut off when you see her holding the notebook.

You freeze mid-step.

Liz is holding the notebook. Jiwon is reading the notebook.

Your stomach drops.

She looks up at you, notebook still clutched in her hands, her expression unreadable.

You stand there, the file folder limp in your grip.

Then, slowly, a mischievous glint appears in her eyes.

“You mother f—”

Before you can even lunge for it, Liz hugs the notebook to her chest, scrambling to her feet. Her breath comes out in an excited rush.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, eyes sparkling. “You do care about me!”

You feel actual panic set in. “PUT THAT DOWN. KIM JIWON.”

She takes a step back, holding it tighter. “No way! This is adorable! You—You actually wrote down how to take care of me?!”

You can feel your dignity slipping away.

“I— It’s not what it looks like—”

“Ohhh, let’s see what else—” She flips back to the earlier pages, reading aloud dramatically. “‘If she’s nervous, let her hold onto my sleeve instead.’”

Your ears burn as your hand subconsciously rolled up your sleeves in embarrassment.

"Oooohh, you're wearing long sleeve today as well, huh?!" Liz gasps, looking up at you with exaggerated shock. “You let me do that? Willingly?!”

You grit your teeth. “GIVE. IT. BACK.”

She twirls away, flipping through more pages. “Wait, wait—‘If she looks too smug, she probably stole my drink.’” She gasps in fake offense. “So that’s why you glare at me whenever I take a sip.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Jiwon—”

She keeps going, eyes darting across the pages. But then—

She reaches the last note again.

Her laughter fades.

Silence stretches between you.

She rereads the words, her fingers brushing lightly over the ink. Then, slowly, she lifts her head.

The teasing glint in her eyes is gone. Instead, there’s something softer. Something more sincere.

“…You really meant this?” she asks, voice quieter.

You shift uncomfortably. “U-um…I—”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment. Then, before you can react, she lunges at you again, but this time, she hugs you.

You stiffen immediately.

“…Ya.”

She squeezes you tighter.

“Shhh,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “Just let me hug you, you tsundere.”

You stand there, unmoving, ears burning. Your hands hover awkwardly before—finally—you sigh and pat her back.

“…You’re so annoying.”

She giggles against your shoulder. “I know.”

After a moment, she pulls back, grinning. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You roll your eyes, snatching the notebook from her hands before she can react. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to serialise this and give it to your members.”

She beams. “That sounds fun actually.”

[corpsedogs]

Dreaming costs money (Jason Todd x Reader)

✿ chapter 3 — jason does one last goodbye to the batfamily before helping you pack your things and head to the airport. tag and masterlist

Jason adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped into the manor. He didn’t plan on staying long… just a quick drop-in to say goodbye, grab the backup gear Alfred promised to prep, and dodge any last-minute guilt trips from the family.

“Off to play pop star protector?” Dick grinned at his baby brother as he leaned against the banister.

Jason shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

Tim peeked over the back of the couch, a tablet in hand. “You know, statistically, musicians are the most chaotic clients. Emotional instability, erratic schedules, groupies—“

“I’m not her babysitter,” Jason muttered for the 10th time.

“You literally are,” Stephanie said as she popped a grape into her mouth from a fruit bowl she clearly hadn’t bought. “God, I wish I was a fly on the wall when she realizes you don’t do small talk.” she laughs.

“Or feelings,” Damian added flatly from the corner. As you can see his family loves and cares for him.

“Touching,” Jason said dryly. “I’ll send a postcard.” Just as he reached for the bag Alfred had left on the counter, his phone buzzed.

Can you come help me pack? I can’t find anything and I’m going to scream.

Jason stared at the screen for a second.

Also I don’t trust anyone else to touch my stuff. My manager packs like she’s running away from the feds.

He sighed.

“Who’s that?” Tim asked, eyes narrowing with interest.

“No one,” Jason replied too quickly. Dick raised an eyebrow. “Is that the client?”

Jason ignored him, grabbed the satchel, and muttered, “Change of plans.”

Alfred appeared in the hallway just in time to hand Jason a coffee for the road. “I trust you’ll survive this assignment without blowing up a hotel, Master Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, already heading for the door.

The group exchanged looks behind him.

“Ten bucks says they start flirting by day two,” Steph whispered. “Flirting?” Damian scoffed. “She’ll eat him alive.”

Jason knocked once before letting himself into the penthouse suite Mari had texted him the address to. He stepped inside cautiously, half-expecting security— or a small explosion.

Instead, he was greeted by clothes.

Everywhere..

Designer jackets draped over the couch. Heels scattered across the floor like landmines. A suitcase sat in the middle of the room, half-zipped, stuffed like it was surviving a fashion apocalypse. Somewhere beyond the mess, he heard your voice.

“In the closet!”

Jason followed the sound, pushing aside a feather boa (was that glitter on it?) as he stepped into your massive walk-in. You stood in front of a rack of clothes with your hands in your hair, spinning in slow, frustrated circles.

“I hate this,” you muttered. “Everything is either too bold, too boring, or too Metropolis.”

Jason leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You texted me for this?”

You turned. “Yes. I told you— I don’t trust my manager to pack, and if I let the stylists do it, I’ll end up with ten outfits and no socks.”

“Can’t believe I’m risking my life over sock logistics.”

You gestured toward the chaos. “You’re here now. Might as well help.”

Jason sighed and stepped into the room, eyeing the mess. “Alright, ground rules. You get five outfits. Two are practical. No sequins in combat zones. And I’m not folding anything.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Such professionalism.”

He grabbed a plain black hoodie from the rack and held it up. “This. You wear this. Problem solved.” You snatched it from him. “No, this is for sleeping.”

“Then sleep a lot.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for a sequin jacket. “Fine. Help me make choices, Hood. I trust your survival instincts.” Jason raised an eyebrow. “You should probably stop saying that.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll start depending on you?”

He smirked. “I’m more afraid you’ll try to hug me.”

You threw a shirt at him.

Jason hated airports. Too many people. Too many cameras. Too many places to get ambushed.

He stood just outside the VIP terminal entrance, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, watching a black SUV screech to a stop. Paparazzi immediately swarmed like flies, cameras flashing before the doors even opened.

Then you stepped out, sunglasses on, headphones in, and attitude turned all the way up. You didn’t flinch at the flashing lights or shouted questions— just raised your chin and walked like the chaos didn’t touch you.

Jason fell into step beside you without a word. The flashbulbs flickered onto him now too.

“Who’s that with her?!”

“Is that her new security?”

“Red Hood?!”

“Oh my god, they hired him?!”

You didn’t break stride. “Smile for the cameras,” you said under your breath. Jason replied without missing a beat. “Smile and I shoot someone.”

You smirked. “We should definitely coordinate our press strategy.”

Security cleared a path through the private terminal as your manager, Mari, barked instructions into her earpiece. “No photos inside. Keep moving. We’re late already— where’s her coffee?!”

“Traveling with you is gonna kill me,” Jason muttered.

“Better you than me.”

Inside the terminal, the chaos dimmed. You tugged off your sunglasses and looked at Jason, taking him in again. “You really packed light.”

Jason shrugged. “I’m not the one bringing five outfits for a three-day trip.”

You grinned. “Five outfits you picked, remember? You’re partially responsible for the fashion now.”

“I hate this job.”

Mari clapped her hands once. “Jet’s prepped. Let’s go.”

You walked ahead, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “Come on, Hood. Try to look like you want to be here.”

Jason followed, deadpan. “I don’t.”

The cabin of the private jet was a picture of luxury—white leather seats, mahogany accents, champagne already chilling in a bucket.

Jason took a seat near the back, far from the front where Mari was already taking a business call that sounded like an argument in three languages.

You sat across from him, now barefoot, legs tucked up beneath you, scrolling on your phone with one hand and sipping a smoothie with the other.

Silence stretched between you. It wasn’t awkward—not exactly. Just quiet.

For a while…

“You always this fun on planes?” you asked without looking up.”

“I like silence.”

“You could’ve booked another flight.”

Jason glanced out the window. “Yeah, well, I also like living. Your dad wasn’t really giving me options.” You hummed in agreement. “He’s good at that. Making everything feel like a deal with the devil.”

Jason didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on the clouds outside.

You lowered your phone and glanced at him. “You know, I didn’t ask for this either. The bodyguard thing.”

“I figured,” Jason said. “You’re not great at hiding your resentment.” You smiled faintly. “Good. I’ve been told I need to be more honest.”

It was silent for a moment.

“You ever think of running?” he asked quietly.

You blinked. “From all this?”

He nodded.

“Every day.”

Jason didn’t respond right away. Then: “So why don’t you?”

You looked at him for a long moment. “Because as much as I hate all of it… if I disappear, he wins.”

“…You might not be a total pain,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Don’t get soft on me, Hood. Seriously, do you need to wear that helmet on the plane? I already know what you look like.”

“...”

The jet’s door hissed open, and a rolling staircase was wheeled into place. Down below, flashing cameras and a throng of screaming fans had already gathered behind a low barricade. Jason checked the perimeter— security was in place, but the cluster of bodies looked ready to surge at any moment.

You stepped off first, heels clicking on the metal steps, sunglasses back in place. A few handlers flanked you, holding albums and merch. Jason followed, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning every face.

At the bottom, you paused on the red carpet strip. “Here we go,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mari, stepped up with a stack of signed posters. “Remember—quick and smooth. No extended conversations.”

You flashed a practiced smile to the crowd. Jason melted into the background, but stayed close enough that you could sense his presence like a shadow.

Fans pressed their albums through the barricade. You signed one, then another, calling each person by name as best you could. Cameras flashed, phones recorded, voices shouted declarations of love.

Suddenly, a scuffle erupted near the center. Jason’s head snapped to the left. A young man had slipped past the handlers, lunging forward with something in his hand— a broken bottle, maybe, or a jagged piece of metal. His eyes were wild, fixated on you.

“Get back!”

Before you even realized the danger, Jason advanced in a single fluid motion. He ducked under the fan’s swing and delivered a precise elbow strike to the man’s temple. The attacker crumpled to the ground with a single, sickening thud— out cold.

Gasps rose from the crowd. A few fans screamed. Handlers rushed forward, one kneeling beside the fallen man, checking his pulse.

You froze. The albums you were holding slipped from your hand, fluttering to the carpet. For a heartbeat, everything went silent.

Then you whirled on Jason, voice low but furious. “What the hell was that?” Jason stood rigid, scanning for any other threats. “He tried to kill you.”

You stepped closer, but not in fear—in anger. “That’s assault! He could be paralyzed, let alone—”

“He had a weapon.” Jason’s jaw tightened. “I disarmed him. I didn’t break his neck.”

You crossed your arms, gaze deadly. “You could’ve used a chokehold, taser— something non-lethal without risking permanent damage!”

A nearby handler placed a hand on your arm. “Miss, are you okay?”

You nodded, though your eyes never left Jason. “I’m fine,” you said sharply. Then to Jason: “Next time, warn me. Or at least incapacitate, not endanger.”

Jason’s expression softened for the briefest instant. “Noted.”

A security guard approached, siren wailing in the distance now as EMTs and police moved in. Mari hustled forward. “Everyone clear? Let’s go.” She grabbed your arm gently. “You need to keep moving.”

You shot Jason one last glare, then followed Mari up the ramp. The crowd’s screams blurred into background noise.

Jason watched you go, the tension in his shoulders easing as you disappeared into the VIP entrance. Beneath his stoic mask, he made a mental note: less brute force, more precision— and maybe, just maybe… learn how to apologize when needed.

Where’s superman when you need him?

tags: @deadbeatphobos @lingxio

[brucewaynehater101]

Okay so, saw you wonder “How does Space Emperor Tim handle war with his morals?” And I think that Tim doesn’t

More specifically I think he is able to accept that this is where he fails. He’s a master diplomat and great organization leader, and although he is great at tactics as a Robin, he’s not willing to lead a war. He’s not willing to sacrifice his moral compass in this way

And I think the empire respects this because, in spite of his personal objections to leading a war effort, he does not leave the planets stranded and defenseless…

He assigns Cassie as the many armies prime military commander

Each of the planets likely has their own military structure and command, as a mostly decentralized empire. But I think we also have a centralized mixed cultures/peoples/planets military to promote cross cultural exchange as well as the exchange of tactical knowledge

Cassie serves as the head of the military council responsible for overseeing both the centralized and decentralized military forces

Cassie has already been shown to be a capable leader with YJ and I think her Amazonian training has specifically well prepared her for commanding military forces (Idk her lore perfectly so correct me if wrong)

There’s obviously a lot of training and research needed to adjust Earth based tactics to space wars, but the JL and Batman likely already had some resources prepped for that. And as one of the Great Baby Emperors Glorious Consorts, the many leaders under her command are happy to assist in her training

Kon and Bart likely also help her, providing emotional support and serving as sound boards for her ideas, but she’s the military commander right now. And she’s gonna kick whatever alien equivalent of asses these attackers got

Tim probably also continues to help in his own way, managing logistics and supplies (really important for armies). He’s also probably assisting with developing new technologies to help in the battle given his skills in R&D (maybe it’s only medical advancements or maybe he feels okay developing ships or weapons, or maybe that’s where Bart gets to go to town making his fantastical sci-fi space lasers) Tim is not going to abandon his empire, they have stood by him through thick and thin, and he’ll give whatever he knows he is able to give them

So yeah, Tim might not be an Emperor who leads armies, but he doesn’t leave his worlds defenseless and gives Cassie the perfect opportunity to show the Timpire, and really the whole galaxy, just how badass she is !!!

Oh my gods, you are brilliant. Cassie would 100000% be the military commander (I don't know enough about her lore either, but that checks out).

Hmm... The only issue I can see is whether or not Cassie needs Tim's approval to go to war. She won't just do it for the hell of it, but Tim won't really approve of it either. Then again, maybe they should spend hours upon hours upon hours arguing about the necessity of going to war, considering how likely it will lead to casualties.

While Tim won't lead into war, I can see him going over "hypothetical" plans with Cassie. Maybe not in the middle of a war, but I could see Tim stealing GL/JL space war files and going over it with Cassie.

For angst reasons, YJ at first doesn't take going to war seriously. They're kids when this starts. Yeah, they've been through shit, but leading an empire to kill other people for whatever reason they deem is necessary? Probably not.

Instead, they train on space war strategy by making games out of it. Tim and Bart create a hallographic board game that incorporates various space war variables. It's a fun pass time of theirs with the excuse of "training" (not that they ever believe they'll need that kind of training).

After their first war, they never pick that game up again. They do provide it the generals of each planet, though, and have the planets compete against each other for friendly bonding.

Tim does help with the logistics and defense of the planets. None of it is lethal, but he does have extreme measures (I'm thinking about that one panel where he threatens to permanently deafen people).

Bart collaborates with the planets for space travel, war machines, and weapons for the military.

Kon may not lead, but he helps develop creative strategies and plans to assist Cassie.

Tim may be the emperor, but Cassie becomes the name feared among all enemy planets.

[essenyare]

Majorly Out of Spec

WARNINGS: Leon S. Kennedy/Jack Krauser, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Porn with Feelings, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Cock Worship, Krauser has a huge cock

He was never a fast runner.

Which, in the military, was a kind of disgrace—especially for a man who came out of special forces and had pecs sharp enough to snap a fountain pen.

But the problem was never his legs.

The problem was that goddamn thing .

Jack Krauser had a cock that defied conventional classification.

He’d tried tucking it left—naturally, it leaned that way, and following the grain of his muscle made the most sense. But it never stayed put. Sooner or later, it would spring free at the worst possible moment. And if he happened to be running? One sharp turn and it would whip side to side, smack into his inner thigh. Pick up speed, and it’d start slapping against the meat just below the groin. No joke—that spot bruises easily .

Tucking it right didn’t help either. That meant going against the natural muscle alignment, and it rubbed harsh against the fabric. Abrasive. Unbearable.

He even considered strapping it upward —when it was calm, soft, posing no immediate threat. Krauser sometimes found himself thinking: There are maybe five things in this world that have dared to mess with me. Why the hell is my own dick one of them?

Maybe a bandage. Maybe bind it against the lower abdomen. But it was just too damn big.

He had abs— real abs—neatly stacked, disciplined rows like military rations. Trying to strap that thing against them? It’d be like shoving a baby’s forearm into the front of his pants. Suspicious at best. Laughable at worst.

He’d even tried getting custom gear.

Military-issue went up to size G—G for GRAND, as in comically large . But Krauser had to file an official report titled something like “Request for Accommodation: Non-Standard Male Physiological Trait.” HR thought it was a prank. They made him come in for a conversation that lasted three hours and two bitter cups of government-issue coffee.

In the end, he took matters into his own hands—literally. Enrolled in a vocational course. Learned pattern drafting. Sewing. Stitching. Tailoring underwear became part of his routine—pragmatic, not aesthetic. His entire physique needed specialty care, and knowing how to construct his own clothing saved him from getting fleeced by shady tailors when it came time to buy formalwear.

Eventually, he was issued a new type of compression pants—fresh off logistics supply, designed for high-intensity training. Supposed to prevent varicose veins. He picked a size matching his height, waist, and hip ratio. Managed to yank it over his hips, barely. Walked two steps and felt like he’d wrapped his junk in a nylon execution bag.

Back in boot camp, speed showers and communal sleeping quarters were never kind to him. It’s not like he’d been born with muscles and menace. Once, before discovering whey protein and hypertrophy training, he’d just been a lanky kid. Already tall enough to get stares—but cursed with something between a club and a courtroom exhibit dangling between his legs.

And no, it didn’t earn him the Hollywood welcome. In the barracks, even a single arm hair over your assigned cot line was a punishable offense—let alone a semi-conscious erection slapping against the underside of your issued blanket.

That thing had more surface area than a marine tarp. It took longer to wash. More soap. More time. And no, boot camp didn’t exactly leave time for contemplative cock hygiene.

Running was a problem. So were jumping jacks—his dick had uppercut his own stomach more times than he could count.

Crawling drills? Every third step, an instructor would yell, “Krauser! Is your gear unsecured?”

He hated rope climbs most of all. How the fuck was a man supposed to reach for a knot without risking a full-frontal garrote from the friction of military-grade hemp?

And then came Harrison.

“Sir! Private Krauser just tried to trip me!”

The idiot. As if standing too close during roll call was some kind of coordinated assault. Krauser didn’t even look at him. Just stared at the distant circular target like it owed him money, dropped to the ground, and started doing his two hundred pushups in silence.

At least his back and biceps were getting stronger.

At Colonel Smith’s bachelor party, a whole squad of half-drunk grunts stormed into the strip club like it was a fucking breach-and-clear exercise. Drinks flowed like floodwater. Dancers were called. Krauser wasn’t exactly a saint, nor was he above indulging now and then.

The girl working the pole that night was giving it about twenty percent attention, eighty percent autopilot. She seemed to mistake him for her steel support beam.

She ground against him, slinked and circled, then hit a high-leg spin and—BAM! Her kneecap struck him right in the head .

No, not his head. The other one. The recently-awakened one. If it had a face, it would’ve been the face of someone who just got mugged in a back alley.

Look, it’s simple physics: a stripper’s patella versus a hyper-proportioned gelatinous warclub between a man’s legs? That’s not choreography. That’s a fucking egg vs. rock situation.

You know what they say: With great power comes great fucking liability.

And Krauser felt it. Maybe he wasn’t sure if this was a power or a curse, but the liability? That was real. Tangible. Measured in bruises, stares, and long silences.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried dating. Wasn’t like no one was interested. But give it a few drinks, enough to lower inhibitions, make the hands wander—and there’d be that moment.

That moment when someone cupped him through his pants, smiled like they’d hit the jackpot… And then pulled down the metaphorical lever to find out it was too much.

You could see it in their faces: this thing doesn’t compute . Desire turned to disbelief. Arousal crashed into anatomical panic.

And that’s when they bolted.

Because let’s be honest—America doesn’t have universal healthcare. Emergency rooms are expensive. Nobody wants to end up with a perforated colon and a long wait at reception, only to hear:

“Sorry, sir/madam—your case isn’t classified as urgent at this time.”

In a country like this, self-preservation beats orgasm.

So, you ask if he practices abstinence? Fuck yes, he does.

Every. Goddamn. Time.

When it came to taking a leak, public urinals were kind of easy. Find the corner stall, unzip, aim, drain, done. (And no, he’d never admit that the length of his dick correlated with the seconds it took to empty his bladder. No one needed that cursed trivia.)

At home, though—sit-down toilets. And you had to remember to lift the thing up and rest it across your thigh. Otherwise, it was like fishing off the edge of a porcelain lake. And there was nothing tranquil about that.

Routine medical exams? Always a disaster.

The nurses either gasped, stifled laughter, or exchanged that look. One time, a trainee nurse literally sprinted out of the room like she'd seen the Ark of the Covenant in his gown.

So there Krauser was—bare-assed, legs dangling off the paper-lined exam table, his balls shrinking up in shame while the attending physician took his sweet time getting back.

It was harassment. Seriously. Just because it’s not happening to a woman doesn’t make it less of a violation. Men can get sexually humiliated too, goddammit.

And beach days? Forget it.

He could only wear those sad, knee-length board shorts, the kind that made his muscular thighs look like a wasted architectural opportunity. It was less swimwear and more like strapping a goddamn tarp around his waist.

He sighed, full of that specific kind of despair reserved for men whose cocks ruined every attempt at leisure.

He’d just gotten out of the water. Ten minutes of cooling off had nearly fried his forehead under the midday sun. Now he sat under the umbrella, still damp, still sticky, still itchy.

He had sensitive skin. Of course he had sensitive skin. Now he had a goddamn heat rash. Because apparently, America doesn’t do nude beaches, and he couldn’t exactly roam around with his monster dick flopping in the breeze. Not that he wanted to flaunt the damn thing.

And seriously—That kid over there needed to stop staring.

Jesus Christ. He was this close to marching over and kicking over that dumb little sandcastle.

He wasn’t hiding a bioweapon. He wasn’t smuggling some sacred national relic.

It was a burden. A godforsaken, socially isolating, pants-stretching burden. The reason lovers fled. The reason he could never sprint at full capacity without risking internal bruising.

It was the enemy in every low-grade battle he fought.

He was a soldier. But his war wasn’t glory or honor.

It was this. It was living with a fucking monster cock .

And no, it wasn’t a goddamn gift from heaven.

The only grace, perhaps, came with promotion. As a major, he finally had his own quarters. His own bathroom. No more judgmental glances. No more shared barracks. No one to kick him awake when he slept spread-eagle to air out his reproductive furnace.

And hey, if the government ever let him rot out here and he decided to end it all, he could always hang himself with his own dick.

It would be poetic. That’s what he used to think, anyway.

Until he met Leon S. Kennedy.

...Read more on AO3

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Undercover Love, Chapter 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X F!Reader

Story Summary: You are the new executive assistant to James "Bucky" Barnes, a V.P. of Operations at HYDRA, Inc. You can't help but be attracted to the broody, mysterious, and handsome man, but are determined to keep things professional -- after all, your relationship with your previous boss is what caused you to need a new job in the first place. Will working closely together and late nights at the office break your resolve?

Bucky, a field agent for SHIELD, has been working undercover for a year at HYDRA and feels that he's close to finding the evidence he needs to shut HYDRA down and send the CEO, Alexander Pierce, to prison. However, he didn't count on his beautiful new assistant being a possible threat -- or a distraction.

When you accidentally uncover exactly what Bucky needs to put Pierce and his associates away, will you put both your lives -- and Bucky's career -- at risk?

Word Count: ~1900

A/N: Note that while this is rated T for now, the rating *is* subject to change as we get further into the fic depending on how thirsty Reader and Bucky get for each other. ;)

If you'd like to be added to my taglist for this or any of my stories or just want to chat, shoot me a message!

Jesus, what a day, Bucky thought as he sat on a barstool at The Howling Commandos. Just when he thought he was getting close to solving this case, something would pop up to derail him.

When he and his best friend Steve had first been recruited by Homeland Security to work for their Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (better known as SHIELD) after their discharge from the Army, he hadn't expected his first undercover assignment to require him to work for a potential terrorist for over a year.

Fifteen months ago SHIELD had received an anonymous tip that Alexander Pierce, the CEO of HYDRA, Inc., was secretly supplying terrorist groups with weapons in addition to the advanced cybernetics the company was renowned for.

Since Bucky had earned a degree in business management during his time in the Army, Director Fury had decided that he should be the one to go undercover in order to investigate and had padded Bucky's resume enough to guarantee that he would be hired for the open VP position, as well as managing to get another young field agent, Peter Parker, hired on as a mailroom clerk.

Bucky had spent the past 13 months gathering what evidence he could against Pierce, but he still needed to find the smoking gun (pun not intended) that SHIELD needed in order to take Pierce down. He had thought that being sent to Romania meant that Pierce was starting to trust him, but unfortunately it had turned out to have been just another dead end.

And to make matters more complicated, not only were you -- the beautiful woman he had met in the elevator that morning -- his new assistant, but you also happened to have ties to one of Pierce's known associates.

Bucky had been given a copy of your resumé during his meeting with Pierce that morning and while you certainly had seemed qualified, it definitely seemed like your hiring had been a strategic move on Pierce's part -- especially since you had been hired while Bucky had been out of the country and without his input.

Bucky had sent a message to Director Fury via Peter in the mailroom with an update on his latest findings and was now waiting for further instructions.

He ordered a beer from the bartender then casually looked around to make sure he hadn't been followed. Not seeing anyone suspicious or that he knew from HYDRA, he turned back towards the bar as the bartender set his drink in front of him. "Thanks."

He took a sip and was contemplating his next move when a man wearing jeans and a hoodie pulled up over a baseball cap sat on the barstool next to him. 

Bucky ignored the man and pulled his phone out to text Becca about moving their weekly dinner to Thursday that week instead of Wednesday.

"Scotch on the rocks," the man said to the bartender before nodding up at the TV above the bar. "Looks like the Yankees have a good shot this year."

Bucky took a sip of his beer, turning his eyes towards the TV as well. "Yeah, they just might make it all the way if Cole can stay healthy."

“Here’s hoping.” The man placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter as the bartender returned with his drink. "Keep the change."

He stood and turned towards Bucky. "You have a good night."

Bucky felt something slip into his pocket. "You too."

He finished his beer then headed out to his car, pulling the burner phone that Scott had given him out of his pocket and dialing the number that had been programmed into it.

"Agent Barnes," Director Fury's voice said in greeting after a couple of rings. 

"Director," Bucky said in reply.

"What you got for me?"

"Unfortunately Romania was a bust, sir. I couldn't find evidence of any arms deals while I was there even though the numbers on the original purchase order for the shipment of medical equipment didn't align with the manifest." 

Director Fury sighed. "I figured as much. Pierce must have changed his plans when he decided to send you there instead of Rumlow."

Bucky nodded to himself. "Also, the replacement assistant the company hired for me while I was out of the country turned out to be Grant Ward's former executive assistant, who also happens to be his former girlfriend." 

Director Fury hummed curiously. “You think Pierce hired her to keep her quiet?”

"Either that or because having Grant Ward’s ex-girlfriend on Hydra’s payroll would undoubtedly give Pierce the upper hand in any sort of contract negotiations with Level 6 since she could be used for leverage, but either way I certainly don't think it's a coincidence, sir.”

"In that case, see if you can get any information out of her that might be useful. She might be more willing to talk if she and Ward ended on bad terms."

Bucky nodded, his mind wandering to his and your conversation about what had brought you to HYDRA. "Yes, sir."

"In the meantime keep gathering anything that will implicate Pierce and his associates -- ledgers, shipping manifests, memos, whatever you can find. I'll check in again next week unless I hear from you sooner."

The line clicked off before Bucky could respond. 

He sighed. He had to be missing something -- some small detail somewhere that he was overlooking that would blow the whole case wide open.

He took the battery out of the phone and discarded it in the dumpster outside of The Howling Commandos, then broke the SIM card in half before discarding each piece in separate dumpsters in Queens. Finally, he headed to the harbor to discard the phone itself in the Hudson River before going home.

He parked his car in his garage next to his motorcycle and shut the garage door before heading inside. “Alpine?” he called out. “Alpine, here kitty kitty, psss psss psss.”

He smiled as he heard a ‘meow’ coming from the back of the house. He had adopted Alpine as a kitten right after he had joined SHIELD at the suggestion of Sam, a fellow military veteran who also served as the team's therapist in addition to helping out in the field.

He headed down the hallway, pausing when he saw Alpine come slinking out of his bedroom. “There you are, sweet girl.”

Alpine leisurely approached Bucky, meowing again as she stopped by his feet.

Bucky picked her up and cradled her in his arms. “What were you up to, having a nap? How about some dinner?”

Alpine purred and rubbed her face against his chin.

Bucky chuckled. “I'll take that as a yes.”

He carried Alpine to the kitchen, where he set her down by her food dish. “Here we go, dinnertime.”

He filled her food dish and made sure her water fountain was also full before heading to his refrigerator to grab another beer and the leftover Thai that would be his own dinner.

Once his food was finished heating up in his microwave, he grabbed his laptop off of his counter and brought it to his table, then took a flash drive out of the hidden compartment that Tony and Bruce had retrofitted into his metal arm and plugged it in.

He waited as the built-in encryption software ran then sent a copy of your resumé along with a typewritten report of his findings (or rather, lack thereof) from his trip to Romania and copies of the purchase order and shipping manifests for the medical equipment he had overseen the delivery of to SHIELD.

He disconnected the flash drive from his laptop, then hesitated for a brief moment before putting your name into a Google search.

He clicked on the top search result, which was your social media profile.

Your posts were all fairly innocuous -- mostly sharing links to articles about Level 6 and talking about how proud you were of Ward and everything the company had achieved, although there were a few personal posts. 

Next, Bucky clicked on the tab for your photos, smiling at a fairly recently-posted picture of you sitting at a table with a birthday cake in front of you and a big grin on your face.

He clicked on it in order to enlarge it, pausing when a video began automatically playing.

The candles on your cake had been lit and people were singing Happy Birthday to you. At the end of the song you blew out the candles, your face scrunching up in happiness as Ward had kissed your cheek.

Bucky kept clicking through the photos of you and various people from your birthday party, including several of you and Ward and you, Ward, and another woman.

Thanks so much to these two for the surprise birthday party! you had captioned one of the latter photos. I'm so lucky to have them in my life. @GWard @DaisyJohnson

The rest of the photos on your profile ranged from posed photos of you and Ward at various galas and charity events to more casual vacation and date-night selfies and candids.

Bucky scrolled back up and closed out of the photo tab, noticing that a new post had been posted in the past few minutes.

In case you haven't heard, the post began, I am no longer with Grant nor Level 6 Consulting but am instead embarking on a new adventure as a single woman with HYDRA Inc! Thank you to everyone who has supported me through this transition, especially @JemmaFitzSimmons and @LeoFitzSimmons for letting me crash on their couch for a couple of weeks while I figured things out (and for helping me move). It's true friends like you that make a world of difference!

Below the post was a selfie. You were sitting on a bed with a tired smile on your face that didn't quite reach your eyes.

There were already several reactions and comments on your post, so Bucky clicked on the comment thread. 

Hope Mackenzie: 👀 Girl, what happened??? You okay?

Bobbi Morse: Best wishes on your new endeavors! DM me if you need to talk.

Jemma Fitz-Simmons: Leo and I will *always* be there when you need us, love. You know that.

Leo Fitz-Simmons: What Jemma said. Let us know if you need anything else!

Yo-Yo Rodriguez: Grant never appreciated you anyway! How was your first day at the new job?

Below the last comment was a reply. 

“...Mmmrow.”

Bucky looked down at Alpine, who was looking back up at him. “What, you don’t think I should read it?”

Alpine pawed at his leg. “Meow.”

Bucky chuckled and leaned back. “How about this: I promise not to judge her no matter what she said about me.”

Alpine jumped up into his lap and curled up into a ball. 

Bucky smiled. “Okay, so we have a deal then.”

He bit his lip and clicked your reply.

“It was… okayish?”, you had said. “The exec I'm admin assistant for is actually pretty standoffish and didn’t really give me a whole lot to do, but the other admin assistants invited me to lunch with them, which was nice. At least *they* made me feel welcome even if my boss didn't.”

Bucky winced. “Great, she thinks I'm an asshole.”

You definitely wouldn't open up to him if you were avoiding him because you thought he was a jerk, so… “How do I fix this?”

Alpine nuzzled up into his hand and began to purr.

Bucky chuckled and scratched Alpine behind her ears. “I don't think Y/N would appreciate me petting her.”

…But maybe I could start with an apology.

[logansargeantsbabymom]

A Love Worth Fighting For

Bodyguard!Lando Norris x Fem!Actress!Reader

CHAPTERS 3, 4 & 5

Genre: Forbidden Bodyguard to Lover

Warnings: Smut (Not yet), This is (MY VERSION of) a Slow Burn story!

Follow my instagram account (THATS STRICTLY FOR THIS BLOG) for updates on when i post and fun stuff like that!

Instagram

Chapter 3: Lando

From the moment I was assigned to protect Y/N L/N, I knew this job would be different. She wasn't just any client. She was one of the most famous actresses in the world, a superstar known for her roles in the Avengers movies and her solo Marvel films. But beyond the glitz and glamour, she was also a target. There had been multiple kidnapping attempts, and it was my job to ensure her safety at all times.

When I first met her, I was struck by her beauty and poise. She was everything I expected and more. But as the days turned into weeks, I began to see the real Y/N – the woman behind the fame. She was kind, compassionate, and surprisingly down-to-earth. And despite the walls she had built around herself, I could see glimpses of vulnerability that made me want to protect her even more.

But no matter how strong my feelings grew, I had to remind myself of my duty. My job was to keep her safe, not to get involved. And as long as I was her bodyguard, I had to maintain a professional distance, no matter how difficult it became.

Chapter 4: Lando

Y/N had a close-knit circle of friends, and one of her best friends was Daniel Ricciardo, a driver for Red Bull Racing. When she told me she wanted to attend one of his races, I knew it would be a logistical nightmare. But I also knew how important it was to her, so I did everything in my power to make it happen.

The day of the race was hectic, to say the least. Security was tight, and the crowds were massive. But Y/N was in her element, cheering for Daniel and mingling with other celebrities. I stayed close, my eyes constantly scanning the crowd for any potential threats.

As the race ended and we made our way back to the car, I couldn't help but notice the sparkle in her eyes. She was genuinely happy, and it was a sight that warmed my heart. But as we drove back to the mansion, I couldn't shake the feeling that this happiness was fleeting. The dangers that came with her fame were never far away, and it was my job to ensure she stayed safe.

That evening, as we were leaving things took a turn for the worse. A group of men, clearly intoxicated, approached us with aggressive intentions. They recognized Y/N and started hurling insults, their behavior quickly escalating.

I stepped in front of her, my body tense and ready to defend her at any cost. "Stay behind me," I instructed, my voice firm.

The men continued to advance, their intentions clear. But I wasn't about to let them get any closer. With a few swift moves, I managed to subdue them, ensuring Y/N's safety.

As the police arrived and took the men away, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger. This was exactly why I needed to be by her side at all times. The world was full of dangers, and I couldn't let anything happen to her.

Chapter 5: Y/N

The next few days passed in a blur of interviews, photo ops, and public appearances. Lando was always by my side, his presence a comforting constant. Despite the hectic schedule, my mind kept drifting back to the confrontation at the race track. Lando's bravery, his unwavering dedication to my safety – it all made me see him in a new light.

We were back in my mansion, preparing for a quiet evening. I had invited Blake Lively, Ryan Reynolds, and Taylor Swift over for dinner. They were my closest friends, my support system, and I needed their company now more than ever.

As we sat around the dining table, laughing and sharing stories, I noticed Lando standing discreetly in the corner, his eyes never leaving me. It was like he was always on high alert, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice.

Taylor leaned over, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, Y/N, how's it going with your dashing bodyguard?"

I blushed, glancing at Lando. "It's...fine. He's very professional."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Professional, huh? Is that code for 'I have a crush on him'?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "No, it's not like that. He's just...different."

Ryan chimed in, a grin on his face. "Different how? Come on, spill the beans."

I sighed, feeling the weight of their curiosity. "He's always there, you know? Always looking out for me. It's...reassuring."

Blake's expression softened. "It sounds like he cares about you."

I glanced at Lando again, my heart skipping a beat. "Maybe. But he's made it clear that he's just doing his job."

Taylor placed a hand on my arm, her voice gentle. "Just be careful, Y/N. It's easy to confuse gratitude with something more."

I nodded, appreciating her concern, but deep down, I knew that my feelings for Lando were growing stronger with each passing day.

After my friends left, I found myself alone with Lando in the dimly lit living room. He was standing by the window, staring out into the night. I walked over, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Lando," I began, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did at the race track. You saved me."

He turned to look at me, his eyes softening. "It's my job, Y/N. I would do it again in a heartbeat."

I took a deep breath, my heart racing. "But it's more than that, isn't it? I mean, you could have been hurt."

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

I stepped closer, my eyes searching his. "Why?"

For a moment, he hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. "Because I care about you, Y/N. More than I should."

My breath caught in my throat. This was the moment I had been waiting for, the moment when he finally acknowledged what I had been feeling all along.

"Lando, I..." I began, but he held up a hand, stopping me.

"We can't," he said, his voice firm. "It would compromise my contract. And more importantly, it would put you in danger. My job is to protect you, not to be with you."

I felt a pang of disappointment, but I understood. He was right. Our relationship was complicated, and there were too many risks involved.

But as I looked into his eyes, I couldn't help but hope that one day, things might be different.

And with that thought lingering in my mind, I knew that this was just the beginning of a long, complicated journey. A journey that would test our resolve, our feelings, and ultimately, our fate.

---------------------

Feedback and Suggestions are ALWAYS welcomed.

Taglist:

[snickerdoodlles]

Hi friends!!

So 👀 I'm planning a little fandom postcard exchange, and I'm looking for some extra help. The gift exchange theme is “Thai dramas” and while I have a lot of the logistics for the exchange hashed out, I'd prefer to have another 1-2 people on board to help me manage a discord server for it and help keep communications between mods and participants smooth. 

If this is something you might be interested in helping with, please DM me either here or on discord (I'm snickerdoodlles on there too). We don’t have to have chatted previously, you don’t have to have any previous experience hosting fandom exchanges or servers, and you don’t need to be into a lot of Thai dramas, or anything like that — I’m excited to work with anyone with some enthusiasm and a willingness to help out, so if you’re interested, please reach out! ❤

Some extra info on mod duties and what to expect below the cut:

Primary duties: 

Discord moderation: help cultivate a friendly and open environment, be moderately active in the chats (ie cheer people on, chat with people, don't come on to only answer questions for mods). 

Communications: primarily a second set of eyes on all announcements, forms, emails, etc. Most of these are already drafted, but I'm looking for a tone/proof read on all of them before they're sent and might ask for help to draft some minor communications (ie socmed post or discord updates). 

Matching: matching refers to assigning gifters to giftees for the exchange. How involved you are in this process would be up to you, it can be a big or minor role, but you will be expected to help look over final assignments to check and make sure that everyone has an appropriate assignment.

Expected to be an active mod (ie participating in mod duties and easy to get a hold of) from signs-ups (est Mar 1) to submissions (est Apr 14). I’m currently estimating the full exchange to run to about mid-May or so, and I'd like for mods to stick around/help out with things through to then, but sign-ups to submissions are my primary concern.

The above is what I'm specifically seeking help for. Obviously mods won’t be restricted to only doing these things, and we can work out what else you might be interested in helping out with in chats (if you want to, it’s also fine if you don’t want to do more than the above). I have quite a bit of the actual exchange machinery done, but I always appreciate extra heads on board, especially to help with areas I’m weaker in (graphic design is, sadly, not my passion 😂). 

So, if you’re interested, please let me know soon! :D

[humbledragon669]

S2E2 - The Clue Write Up P3 - London (Present Day) the Dirty Donkey meeting up to Land of Uz (Crowley speaks to Job)

Alright, so it’s been a minute. As I write this, it’s been two weeks since I posted the last of this episode’s write up instalments. My apologies about that, I’ve been pretty nose to the grindstone trying to get a Uni assignment finished so that I could enjoy a few weeks of socialising in the lead up to Christmas without worrying about getting it done in time. I finished this afternoon, a little over two weeks ahead of the submission date, which I am over the moon with. Honestly, it’s been pretty intense. I’m not ashamed to say that the first thing I did after I hit the “Submit” button was open up all the bits and pieces I use to write these posts, and I am definitely not ashamed to say that I was quite emotional as I did it. I’ve missed these goofballs. Like… a LOT. And I’ve missed engaging with the fandom with anything more involved than doomscrolling. I still have some reading for the trimester to catch up on, but I am largely free of Uni work now until mid-January (did someone say filming will be underway by then? Not me…) and I intend to throw myself into this beautiful little community wholeheartedly whilst I can. Who knows I might even manage to some more fic writing done/completed… So. With that self-indulgent waffley intro to this post out of the way, let’s get started, we have a pub to get to.

I didn’t think there was any point in delaying the inevitable, we all know that this is the moment that everybody wants to squeal about in this scene. There are a couple of bits and pieces (and they’re all pretty small) I just wanted to point out before I talk about it proper, and even then I probably won’t talk about it all that much because it’s been covered by just about everyone already. Firstly, I just wanted to give a little nod to the sound editors (who knew the first thing I would be pointing out after a short hiatus would be a sound thing. Oh that’s right, everyone did) for the donkey braying noise we can hear in the lower layers of the soundtrack when the camera focusses in on the pub sign. I don’t know why it’s there (I think we all know what a donkey is when we see one), but I think it makes it sounds like the sign is roaring. I don’t think it’s important, I just appreciate the effort.

Next up I want to say how much I wish there was an alleyway of space that leads directly from the door of a pub to a table in every busy pub I went to. There will be a bit more to talk about in regards to our hero couple having an “aura” of free space around them in a little while, but here I think it’s probably there for logistics more than anything.

Last up, I can’t help but feel like there’s something to be had in this little exchange:

CROWLEY: Ah, we’re going to the pub. You never go to the pub. AZIRAPHALE: We’re in the pub now. CROWLEY: What’s wrong with the coffee shop?

So, we hear Crowley moving from the collective “we” to the singular “you” in the first line, followed by Aziraphale immediately reverting to the collection “we” (which is in and of itself notable - I think it points to his not being able to think of himself as a “singular” where Crowley is involved). I actually wonder if this might be a reference to 1967 - we know that Crowley uses this same pub to conduct a covert meeting. Did he choose a pub knowing full well that Aziraphale doesn’t frequent them, supposedly safe in the knowledge that he could remain in the angel’s vicinity without the risk of bumping into him? I think it’s likely this would have factored into Crowley’s choice of meeting place, but what I find curious about the delivery of these lines in the present day is that he firstly sounds amused about this turn of events and then immediately asks Aziraphale why they can’t just do what they normally do. Don’t get me wrong, I love this little exchange, partly because we get to see a little of that mischievous Crowley that I mentioned is a little lacking in this season (at least in the present day scenes), I just can’t quite fathom Crowley’s thinking processes at this point.

Alright. Here we are at last.

I’m going to try and make this short and to the point. Three things about this:

Crowley does not respond to this touch at all. It’s quite rare for us to see this pair consciously touch one another, so if this was out of the ordinary for them, you’d expect to see some sort of shock from him but that is most definitely absent.

Aziraphale doesn’t just stop at putting a hand on Crowley chest, he actually strokes it a little, in a downward motion, and that’s not a response to any movement from the demon, who is completely stationary. That little downward stroke is all sub-conscious Aziraphale (or totally conscious and mischievous Michael, as we came to find out).

There is a little flash of shock on Aziraphale’s face in the split second after he strokes Crowley’s chest. I think this is him realising what he’s just done. Distracted as he was trying to find a table, he’s revealed the true nature of their relationship in a room full of people.

There. That’s it. That wasn’t too drawn out now, was it? Well, if that was a little too shallow for your tastes, shall we have a look at the miracle noise we’re about to hear?

OK, so this is very familiar territory for us by now, and just to prove that point, let’s compare this noise with the one from episode one:

Almost exactly the same, I think. Perhaps some slight difference with the levels, but that could just be the recording I’ve produced. As a reminder, I’ve started playing around with the idea that the miracle noises are more to do with need than the person who casts them - see this take from the episode one write-up:

This would stand up for the scene in the pub too, seeing as the miracle has been cast out of a “need” for somewhere to sit (and for that “aura” of space I mentioned earlier, this time around the table), rather than to achieve something with a moral aim. On the other hand, if you’re still of the camp that believes that the sound is tied to the caster, this would almost certainly drive the hammer home for my theory that Crowley didn’t do anything for the miracle in the book shop - these two miracle sounds are exactly the same, and the one in the pub is definitely only cast by Aziraphale. On a non-sound related note, it has not escaped my attention that the angel is incredibly nonchalant about performing a miracle here, despite how cautious he has been in previous scenes about doing “a very minor miracle”. How does one go from not wanting to perform half a miracle to hide someone in need to openly performing a full one just to guarantee yourself a seat? I suppose it’s possible that he thinks he has little left to lose now that he has Heaven’s attention, but that doesn’t sit right with me. Perhaps this is just another one of those instances, like with Aziraphale’s comments about the arrival of the Heavenly hosts, where the writing is perhaps a little thin in order to provide convenience for filming.

There’s a little Easter egg here in the headline on the newspaper (there will be another one shortly):

It’s not easy to make out the top bit, it looks to me like it reads “Modern, efficient, healthy and pleasant living accommodation in Milton Keynes”. To those of you who don’t know about Milton Keynes, it’s a town that was deliberately developed from scratch in the 60s to try and help address the housing shortage in the UK. It’s one of a handful of so-called “new towns” in the UK. Its most notable feature is that it has a lot of roundabouts. It’s also the one place that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale would take responsibility for, according to the book:

Crowley had been allowed to develop Manchester, while Aziraphale had a free hand in the whole of Shropshire. Crowley took Glasgow, Aziraphale had Edinburgh (neither claimed any responsibility for Milton Keynes*

The footnote for the town in the book also provides us with the text for the headline:

It was built to be modern, efficient, healthy, and, all in all, a pleasant place to live.

Lovely little Easter egg that one. Here’s the other:

This one comes from the book too, this time as part of Newt’s dialogue:

Daily Mail.  ‘Letter from America.’  Um, August the third,” said Newt.  “Just after the story about the woman in Worms, Nebraska, who taught her duck to play the accordion.

You really have to hand it to the prop and design team - they know how to sneak in those cheeky treats into newspaper headlines, don’t they?!

Alright, let’s jump into another oft-discussed moment.

As with so many of the moments in this show that are highly treasured and talked about by the community, I’m not going to talk about this a great deal, I just want to touch briefly on the vibe I get from this little moment. The bottom line for me here is that this is another Crowley rescue going on. I’ve talked about this aspect of their relationship quite a lot already I know, it’s just that I think it becomes so desperately important later, to the point that it’s explicitly stated. But I’m jumping ahead of myself. Breaking this rescue down, we can see how quickly Crowley becomes aware that his angel might need rescuing - when he looks over at the table to observe the odd man that just sat down. We also see how quickly Aziraphale is to signal to the demon that a rescue is required - with his look back to Crowley at the bar. This little moment is so beautiful to me - it shows how completely aware they both are of the other’s presence and role without a single word. And that position Crowley takes up when he does get to the table? It’s so very territorial, isn’t it? Reaching across Aziraphale to put the glass down, rather than just placing the glass down. It’s like a proverbial shield. And that you really can’t pretend not to hear the “what the fuck are you doing in my seat” in that “hello”, can you?

There are two additional minor points I want to point out here. The first is to do with one of Aziraphale’s tells - his hands.

You can see that as soon as he starts to feel seriously uncomfortable, he starts fiddling with his hands. We’ve seen him do this on multiple occasions before, so it shouldn’t be news that this is something he does subconsciously, I just think it’s worth noting that this behaviour comes into play even with situations where the risk of peril is low. The other thing of note is this tiny lip and eye movements we see when he takes a sip of his sherry:

The lip movement is tricky to read and interpret. I have seen a post that suggested this is a bit of non-verbal communication from him to Crowley, where he says “thank you”. I don’t think this is an unreasonable suggestion, and certainly plays to the non-verbal theme that runs through this entire season. It would also tie in nicely with the eye flick we can see, which makes it seem like the words are being projected at Crowley with his eyes. What’s important is that this gratitude isn’t for the drink (otherwise it would be spoken aloud) - this thanks would appear to be for the rescue.

There’s something about this line I really love, almost like he thinks he’s speaking from a wealth of experience. Which he blatantly isn’t, but you gotta love him for trying claim some knowledge in the area. Crowley looks as convinced of that as the rest of us though:

I also love this little insight into Aziraphale’s character:

AZIRAPHALE: I told them I made Nina and Maggie fall in love. CROWLEY: Why? AZIRAPHALE: It was the first thing I could think of.

To me it shows that ultimately he’s always instinctively drawn towards love. When you compare that mindset to the one shown by Gabriel earlier on in the episode when talking about Job’s children, it really shows how wide the gulf between Aziraphale and the rest of Heaven actually is. Here’s a little script thing I do have an issue with though:

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, miracles don’t work like that.

Um. OK. So why would you have gotten away with telling the rest of the Heavenly host that your miracle worked? This feels like another moment of flaky writing, it just doesn’t really hold up to any sort of scrutiny. But as quickly as I have a moment of doubt about this show, a little moment comes in to bring me back in line:

There’s something so showy about this. Like he’s giving Crowley the gift of “we”. There’s such emphasis on the “we”, with a set-up and a pause. This is interesting to me, because it almost sounds as if the suggestion here isn’t that they “fix” a problem, but that they rescue it, except this time it won’t be Crowley doing the rescuing on his own, this time it’s a “we” thing. Really cute.

There’s another fandom favourite coming - the fall-in-love-in-a-rainstorm speech. As usual, I won’t go into huge detail here, just highlight some of my favourite aspects. It goes without saying that the scene described is essentially an exact description of the events of the wall scene from the Garden of Eden, and what makes that particularly interesting is that it suggests (or perhaps confirms) that this was the moment that Crowley fell in love with Aziraphale. More than that, it suggests that he believes that the same can be said of Aziraphale. I am not unaware of the similarities of the description with the Before the Beginning scene, but if we’re talking actual watery rain, there is only one scene of the two that we can apply it to. The layers of subtext in this micro-scene are what really engage me, because not only do I love that Crowley’s speech says that he truly believes the way he fell in love to be the only and best way it’s possible to fall in love (and can we say “made for each other”? Swoon), the way that it’s delivered suggests he’s completely unaware he’s talking about himself. And it definitely hasn’t registered with Aziraphale either:

I also love how Crowley stands his ground on this one.

And just when you think this demon couldn’t get any more saccharine, he pulls this out of the bag:

There’s a tiny hesitation before the “Richard Curtis” that tells me everything I need to know about his little speech - this is the moment where he realises what he’s just said. Whether this is a realisation for him about exactly when he fell in love with Aziraphale I don’t know, largely because his eyes are covered and we don’t get to see his face for long enough, but I find something really charming in this idea. I’m sure there are some that would say that hesitation is because he’s about to give away the fact that he watches Richard Curtis films (Notting Hill is hardly demon-worthy content now, is it?), but I am not one of those. As a point of note, has Crowley’s description ever actually happened in a Richard Curtis film? Personally I haven’t watched an awful lot of his work, but I’m pretty sure it hasn’t happened in any of the stuff I have seen.

Final note on Crowley’s side of this discussion goes to this expression, the response to Aziraphale telling him that they should “invoke fiction … properly”:

I mean, he’s pissed at this point isn’t he? And rightly so I say. He’s just recounted his incredibly romantic tale of how he fell in love, and he’s told, by the recipient of that love, that he hasn’t done it “properly”. I think it’s fair to say that the non-verbal communication that was working so effectively earlier in this scene has well and truly gone off the rails by this point.

Quick side note about this 1810 Clerkenwell diamond robbery - not a real historic thing by all accounts. I find this interesting because so many of the historic things referred to in this show were actual events, or at least loosely related to one. This one seems to have been entirely created though. What I will say is that, from Crowley’s description and the way he says her name, it seems he may have been on a first name basis with her. Now wouldn’t that whole thing make for a fascinating spin-off/minisode?

I love the complete opposites we see in Aziraphale’s description of the perfect way to fall in love, the most obvious being that we haven’t ever seen this particular scenario play out between them in the way that we say Crowley’s. Perhaps this is meant to reinforce the difference in the types of personalities between them - the angel being the fantasist, the angel being the realist (which in of itself would open up a huge can of worms for discussion). At the heart of his speech is the only common aspect between the two descriptions:

AZIRAPHALE: …and then realise they had misunderstood each other and were actually deeply in love.

Essentially the two descriptions boil down to the same thing - two people coming together and, based on apropos of nothing but being in close physical contact with one another, fall deeply and desperately in love. How ironic that Crowley feels the same way about the Austen-scenario as Aziraphale did about the “Richard Curtis” one:

Right, I think that just about covers the pub scene, let’s see if I can get to the start of another flashback scene without too much trouble.

Tiny thing, but does anybody else find the idea that Crowley has never heard “Everyday” before highly unlikely? With his broad music tastes and the fact that he would actually have been around to hear the song when it was released, this seems like a really strange thing to claim, even if it sounds convincing. Maybe it’s just a me thing.

Next tiny thing (aside from noting that, despite the fact that Aziraphale is hiding a much sought-after archangel inside the shop, the door isn’t locked) - how is it that Crowley knows exactly where to find the Jane Austen books? Maybe that particular bookshelf is the start of an A-Z of fiction by author (I highly doubt this, as it would mean customers can actually find books they’re looking for). Even if that was the case, it would mean that Crowley has paid enough attention to the system at hand to know where to look. Given he himself claimed he doesn’t read books (see season one, episode two), there’s something about his familiarity with the shop layout that says more about the amount of time he spends there (and helps out there?) to me. What I do find interesting here is that he doesn’t instantly remove his glasses when he enters the shop. This might just be a set-up for their removal in just a moment, but it may also be that he’s less comfortable there now that Gabriel has set up camp. Talking of the removal of the glasses, there’s another one of those hiss noises here, just to really hammer home how threatening he wants to be to Jim. Lovely bit of subtextual sound editing.

Alright final point here - I’m sure there’s something to be said about Jim’s eyes turning purple when he remembers things. Maybe it’s just a special effect to show the audience that this is a genuine moment of remembering, but if not, it raises questions for me around what the purple eyes signify, which is emphasised by the fact that the words Jim recalls were not only not spoken by him, but he wasn’t even present to hear (at least as far as what we see can testify to). Some things to ponder on there for a later time perhaps.

I think it’s time to call it a day on this part. It’s run a little longer than intended, but that’s what happens with Aziracrow-rich content I’m afraid (so… all of season 2 then?). As always, questions, comments, discussion: always welcome! See you for the next one 😊

[lemon-russ]

I am all weird and feverish and migraine-y and its like 1am, so please enjoy this small aside I have written to segway the next arc of this tropey silly self indulgent fic <3

Also on phone so formatting is off

--------------- 💀 ------------------

(We have dividers at home/ dividers at home:)

7.5 / ???

1 :: 2 :: 3 :: 4 :: 5 :: 6 :: 7 :: 7.5 :: 8 :: 9 :: 10

Cato Sicarius x F!reader

(But not right now this ain't about him)

CW: description of a panic attack

Summary: Ambassador does not want to take a break from work. And is NOT the family pet mortal. Maybe.

Word count: 955

Warning, very minimal editing and I'm dyslexic, like actually literally, so there may be more mistakes than usual. Apologies.

You resume much of your normal work again after the disaster of your last meeting. Thankfully the few meetings you have for the next couple of days are just diplomats and officials you work with regularly.

Most you don't need any sort of guarding, either they come to you or are Astartes from other chapters. In the time you aren't meeting people, you are in your little office connected to Guilliman's, doing paperwork. You're not supposed to be, of course, but you sneak it. He really worries too much.

You're writing out come contracts and supply logistics when there's a knock on your door. “Open.” You say automatically. Guilliman opens the door and steps in, frowning at your paper pile. You keeo writing, glance up, glance back down, then snap your head up and drop your pen, covering the papers with your arms and smiling sheepishly up at the primarch.

“Ah, My Lord, what a surprise!” You chuckle out nervously. He frowns and rolls his eyes, pulling up a much too small chair and sitting across from your desk. “Ambassador, are you alergic to relaxing?” He asks tiredly. “This is the 3rd time in 2 days I've found you sneaking work. This is usually the opposite of how these things go- most people sre sneaking not working, you know.” He says, laying his hands in his lap and sitting up straight and polite. It's a comical sight, he looks like the chair is for children when he uses it.

You grimace at him. “Sir, please, these are already overdue, and I don't want to take time if it just piles up my work for later-” you plead. He chuckles a little, then stands and reaches over your desk. In one motion he sweeps all of your work into his other hand. You gasp. “Sir- please- there's an order to those-” you panic, running to his side and trying to take the papers back.

He chuckles more, holding them far above your reaching hands. “Ambassador, I will be taking over your duties for a couple days. And because I can't trust you not to sneak around and work, I am forced to assign you a babysitter.”

You look up at him, horrified, “my lord, theres a delicate ecosystem to my filing system- wait, did you really call them a babysitter?” You squeak indignantly. He grins, “yes, not a guard, a babysitter, because you are behaving like a disobedient child.” He turns on his heel and strides to the door. “And I'm sure I can manage your delicate ecosystem of paperwork for 3 days.”

You think you're having a panic attack. Your stomach lurches, your head is fuzzy, you can't catch your breath- “three days? Please, my lord- i have so many meetings, I'm going to be so behind, my filing system is based on vibes and very specific-”

He smiles a little softer. “This right here- this is why. Look at you. You're spiraling because I'm offering to take work off of you. You need a vacation, Ambassador.” He walks back and rubs your back soothingly, not unfamiliar with your reactions like this. “It's going to be fine. Fun, even. I'm sending you somewhere nice.”

You take deep breaths, counting forward and back to 10 in your mind- did he say send? “you're making me go somewhere too?” You whimper. He sighs and chuckles. “It's a nice place, a safe, pretty planet, lots of hotsprings and dancing, beautiful weather. Please, ambassador. Think of it like an assignment if it helps. I'm giving you a mission to go to this lovely, calm place for a few days with Commander Titus and a couple others, so that you don't just up and die on me too early.” He chided softly.

Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can smell-

Guilliman sighs. “Okay, okay, I'll give you the rest of the day to work and set things up in a way that you can leave to me easier. Would that help?”

You frown, scrunching your brow. You could label some folders, put dates on them, Guilliman was of course very good at organizing and following instructions, it wouldn't be too bad if you were very clear with the labels…. You let out a long, defeated sigh. “Fine…” you submit. “I'll…. Take a vacation…” you mumble.

The primarch grins at you, patting your back. “Excellent. I'll inform the commander and have thing prepared for this evening.” He stands, handing back your papers. You take them and trudge back to your desk, pouting. He chuckles. “There there, ambassador. Why don't I make you your favorite tea, hm?” He offered.

You purse your lips a bit, trying to stay grumpy. You have a thought that this feels a lot like being treated like a pet, but shake it off. You don't have time to unpack how an immortal demigod superhuman might see a particularly favored mortal. You're not a pet though. You're pretty sure.

“Hmm, what if I got those lottle cakes you like to go with them?” He offered, smiling fondly at you.

You cracked a smile, and a few minutes later, sat at your desk sipping tea and eating cakes happily. You sit up and frown a bit. Wait an warp damned minute, you’re a pet!

You frown at your snacks a long moment. Then sigh and keep eating. Could be worse, really. Best to just never ever think about it again, you decide, happily kicking your feet and doing your work.

[splendsay]

COD FF // Callsign: Sunshine // Ch. 37: Light and Dark

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Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 37: Light and Dark

Rating: 18+ !!MDNI!! Chapters: 37/? WC: 96,103 Pairing(s): TF141 x F!Reader (You) Chapter Warnings: Explicit language, canon-typical violence Chapter Excerpt:

You look like a fairy. A fairy princess, dancing about her garden kingdom -- carefree and wistful and altogether full of magic. 

You did something to your eyes. Darkened them. And your hair, you magnified it somehow.  Mussed it up in that perfectly imperfect way of yours. You look...alive. Alluring. Wild and unruly. Sultry, even. He never would've thought it possible -- for you to be any more beautiful.

But here you are. A rainbow come to life. A flower in bloom. Ruffling your skirts and throwing your head back, laughing as Soap twirls you by the hand in circle after circle. 

Ghost isn't a dancer. Neither is Soap, but he has the spirit -- the shamelessness that Ghost lacks. 

You, though. You are magnetic. Joy incarnate. A tornado that breathes life instead of taking it away. 

He shouldn't be surprised. Not anymore. But you always manage. You always surprise him. 

You'd dutifully begged him to join you on the dance floor when the reception had begun, Farah and Alex leading the way with a loud, flashy number. But he'd politely declined, horrified at the thought of you or anyone else seeing him move in such a way. No, he's more than happy to watch you from the sidelines. Taking in every detail. Committing every spin, every shimmy, every grin to memory. You keep checking in, though. After every song, you check in. 

Pink in the face, eyes gleaming, you stumble over to him. 

"You're sure you don't want to dance?"

"I'm sure, baby."

You pout each time, pushing your lower lip out. And each time, he kisses it away.

"Go on."

Rudy's been playing the gamut -- all the wedding classics. Ghost would be lying if he said this wasn't the liveliest party he's been to in years. Including quite a few pre-Rift years. And it's all thanks to you. This welcome respite. 

It's been a hellish week and a half -- an endless back and forth of logistics and maps and group assignments. Not to mention, the hours upon hours apart from you, despite sleeping under the same roof. 

But he's managed to keep an eye on you, watching you pull together something impossible and wonderful and momentous. He knew you'd outdo yourself. Expected nothing less. But he never would've been able to anticipate this. 

You've transformed a scraggly overgrown eyesore into something truly bewitching -- with a little help from Soap and Gaz and the others, sure. But you -- you have a way of doing this -- livening things. A crackling fire in the heart of winter. A single, bright star on a cloudy night. Ink on a blank sheet of paper. 

The whole atmosphere is very Farah -- and Alex too. Vivid swirls of violet and emerald and cream. A subtle, beguiling garden fantasy. You've captured their romance well with what limited resources available to you. But it's also got your name written all over it. Lovingly and tenderly. Seamlessly intertwined. 

He's more than a little glad the candles he set out before the ceremony seemed to please you. To add to what you created. He'd found hundreds of them stored in the kitchens one day while talking to Gaz about hunting plans, and had decided then to plan a little surprise of his own. 

He'd been waiting for you to come down the stairs tonight, nearly bouncing on his toes, eager to see your reaction. Watching your eyes light up as you took them all in -- it'd been painstaking work, laying each one out by hand, melting them enough to adhere to the surface of whatever he'd set them on, and then coming back around and lighting them. He'd burned through half a box of matches. 

But it'd been worth it to see those eyes. That smile. Worth every second. Every singed fingertip. 

"It's good to see her laughin'," Cap says softly from Ghost's left, glass of whisky in-hand. 

Ghost glances down at him, heart sinking a little. The Captain looks worn. Exhausted. Everyone does to a certain degree -- but Cap more than anyone else. He's worried about Laswell. Worried about managing the estate without her resources. Worried about you and the supposed cure. Worried about all of it. He's told Ghost as much over many a bottle in the past week.

Ghost swallows the lump in his throat, a grim feeling of discomfort settling in his bones. At his Captain's stress. The sudden proximity -- and the unspoken question now hanging in the air. He's been waiting for it, but he still doesn't quite feel ready. 

"Aye," he agrees. "It is."

Cap just wordlessly swallows a gulp of amber. The question looms heavy. Unwieldy. Precarious. 

He hasn't made an effort to hide it -- his feelings for you. Or the progression of your relationship. But he hasn't outright said anything about it. Hasn't openly admitted it or discussed it with anyone, except for those few shared moments with Soap -- and even then, it'd still felt like a secret. 

When he does admit it aloud, it'll make it real. And if it's real to the others -- suddenly it feels like... like it's at risk. To say nothing of the fact that it's...well...it's forbidden. If you're a member of the task force, a relationship with you is forbidden. Ghost has a few complicated feelings about that. A desire to protect you. An unwillingness to let you come to harm or to hurt. But an acceptance that you won't stand for a life on the sidelines. If it means he can't have you, though...he's not sure he's that selfless. 

"I don't intend to pry, Ghost," Cap starts, keeping his voice low. "Or impose any rules on ya. I think we're well beyond the point of any of that mattering. But....be careful -- for both your sakes."

Surprise trickles through him. This isn't the lecture he was expecting. 

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Full Fic

[eponymous-rose]

Wednesday!

It's super foggy, so my bus gets in later than I'd like and there's no time even for the cup of tea. :( I tell my students how great they did on the first homework assignment and then launch into a lecture about the various methods we use to measure the wind. It's a fun lecture, but I'm most excited for getting into the discussion of radar next week! We also have a lecture on Friday about scientific writing that I think will be pretty interesting. Good times all around.

Lunchtime! I threw a bunch of random stuff into my bag this morning, but there's a good soup and some veggies and fruit, so I'm happy. I should probably be using this time to catch up on (SO MUCH) e-mail, but I'm just sort of zoning out and have a busy afternoon ahead, so instead I hang out and enjoy my lunch, watch some silly videos, and pay for my table vending at a card show on Sunday! Protecting an hour for lunch each day has actually been a big lift in terms of rearranging my schedule, but I notice a huge difference in my afternoon energy levels. (I do check my e-mail long enough to promise my forest service colleague that I'll get back to him tomorrow on the financial stuff.)

Now it's time for a 90-minute meeting with the team on my National Science Foundation grant - 3 professors (including me), a postdoc, and my PhD student, across two universities. The mood is considerably less panicked than it would have been yesterday! For context, all five of us have some fraction (up to 100%) of our salaries paid through this grant. One of the professors on this project is the most Eeyore person I've ever met - every statement that comes out of his mouth is a worst-case scenario or a reason why something won't work, but I've known him since I was a student, and I'm kind of used to filtering that view on life to a degree (I remember some friends and I taking him out for dinner at a conference and him saying in a morose deadpan what a good time he was having - he's just hard to read!). The other professor is an energetic ray of sunshine, but he was a little frazzled today since his kid got sick on the way to daycare and was now jumping on the couch behind him and demanding more crackers.

But it was a great meeting! We got a plan laid out for the next steps of research, and managed to put some blinders on my very, very ambitious and slightly scattered PhD student (every project leads to five side-projects with him, which is amazing... but he's meant to be defending his dissertation this summer). The highlight was when he showed some figures and promptly said "anyway, none of that's interesting, but the paper I actually want to write is--" and everyone cut him off like "WAIT WAIT PUBLISH THAT EARLIER STUFF FIRST IT'S AMAZING". I think we managed to encourage him to just publish this early stuff and also lock in the methodology so the postdoc can get started on next steps, and I got some support from sunny-professor (who was my PhD student's undergrad research advisor back in the day) to help keep my student on track - we decided to see where he's at early next week and set a deadline accordingly. We all finished the conversation in much better moods!

On to a quick half-hour chat with the student who defended his PhD last week - he has a couple questions about my comments on his dissertation and mostly just wants to pick my brain about where to put some figures in his upcoming paper. We agree that this is a job for Supplemental Materials and have a few minutes to chat about how wild the whole process feels. Since we finish a little early, I manage to get my signature on a letter supporting yet another student who recently took his PhD entrance exam.

Onward! Up next is an hour-long meeting with my first-year Master's student and her co-advisor. (Our department is very collaborative - this is my second co-advising experience, and I genuinely do really like that balance, although logistics can be a big pain.) I admire her co-advisor a lot, and I know his students think the world of him, but I think he's a little too hands-off as a research advisor sometimes - there's a time and place to let students investigate and come up with their own ideas, but a new grad student returning to academia after three years working in industry is likely going to need a little extra guidance. We do manage to throw some ideas around and I finally get a little fed up with the vagueness and point her at a dataset that I think will start to get questions going in her mind. Her co-advisor did have the excellent idea of having her put together an application for a national graduate fellowship to put a deadline on solidifying an idea for her Master's topic, and that's really helped. I also talk a bit about a Department of Energy proposal a colleague and I put together that might be a good fit for her research as well. A good chat!

Next is an undergrad research assistant (one of the amazing students taking my class this year, actually!) - she is also co-advised by another of my colleagues and I. That colleague and I have a really fun project we've been developing, also for the National Science Foundation, and one of the biggest comments on our initial submission was a lack of proof-of-concept data. Before sending in the resubmission (which is something I have to work on tomorrow), my colleague and I decided to bring on an undergraduate researcher to do some preliminary research and to get some experience working on this kind of project! We've already sent her to one conference to present her results, so she and I catch up on things (her co-advisor just left for an eight-week field campaign in a remote location in the Rockies, but will be kept up-to-date via e-mails) and she talks a bit about some of the feedback she got on her poster at the conference a couple weeks ago. That sparks some ideas about new data we want to investigate, and I think we manage to thread the needle so that we're going to be able to get substantial science done without overcommitting (she's graduating this spring!).

My final meeting is an hour-long check-in with another grad student prepping for the dreaded PhD entrance exam! He's doing extremely cool work - I like being a committee member for grad students because I get to see the work in these snapshots representing massive leaps in understanding and scientific maturity. I have just a few minor suggestions, and we agree to chat again in the next couple weeks before the exam.

Okay! It's time to make some to-do lists.

Stuff that needs to get done tomorrow (no meetings, work from home all day, sheer bliss):

Send my forest service colleague the financial info he's been waiting so patiently to get from me. This will involve coordinating with our terribly understaffed grants team and may involve me writing a few pages of justifications, so I'm anticipating this one will take a few hours.

Write letters of support for my PhD student. These are a joy to write and shouldn't take too long.

Provide comments to the postdoc out in Switzerland about her proposal. It's not a super long proposal, but it looked a little rough the last time I saw it, so I'm steeling myself for what may be a long read.

Decide whether I want to submit an abstract to a conference that'll be happening in June. It's not needed for me, but it's close by, a good friend is running it, it looks relevant, and I have some travel funds that will be deleted if they're not used by November. If I decide to go for it, writing the abstract won't take long at all.

There's a questionnaire asking how my research would be impacted by various political things going on, so I need to fill that one out.

I have a peer review for a scientific journal due on Monday that I've already delayed once - I simply gotta write it. I'm good friends with the editor, so I want to help him get that off his to-do list as well.

There's some required grants training that expires after four years, so I guess it's time for me to do that again.

Oh dang, speaking of expired, my driver's license is up and I need to apply online for the renewal (no huge inconvenience - I don't have a car and I use my passport for travel anyway).

There's a possibility of applying for a major grant with a friend in the computer science department. I don't know if either of us can put this on our plates, but we should at least chat about it quickly.

Reply to my absentee finishing-remotely-while-starting-a-new-job-but-has-been-incommunicado Master's student who reached out yesterday for the first time in three years.

Work on revisions to a grant proposal - I promised my co-author that we'd have the proposal draft ready to go by Feb. 7.

Work on revisions to the review article I have to cut down by about 5,000 words.

Stuff that needs to get done that I don't have to touch tomorrow necessarily:

E-mail my contacts in Canada and Europe re: my PhD student and future job opportunities (it's a little early to e-mail them now).

Figure out the no-cost extension process for my grant that's expiring at the end of the year - I know it has to be done at least 45 days before the grant expires.

Fill out a form that was sent to me about becoming affiliate faculty with a cool multidisciplinary institute on campus.

Make some fresh recordings for my distance-learning class next quarter (the old ones are from 2021 and I look quite frazzled).

Order copies of a couple of textbooks I'd like to evaluate for next quarter's 100-level class.

Grade the second homework assignment for my students (not due until Friday, but some may hand it in early).

Read a couple of articles recommended to me during my meetings today.

PHEW. Tomorrow is work from home! I'm excited - these have been fun days, but there's been SO MUCH one-on-one intense conversation and I'm ready to be a hermit for a bit.

[thebiscuiteternal]

Wait omg how does wen ruohan’s death go in this verse

Okay this is gonna be kind of long because I still want Meng Yao to be the one to deal the death blow so I gotta set shit up.

So.

Meng Yao enters the Nie sect much the same way he does in canon, with him being noticed as the person who's doing a lot of battlefield cleanup and placating the locals and shit and he's good at it, so just as he's about to be given a good solid logistics position, someone recognizes him as, you know, that embarrassing bastard son of Jin Guangshan.

So he gets assigned as an aide to Huaisang.

And Huaisang almost immediately likes him! Likes him enough to tell him that, no, this assignment is basically him being made fun of.

Meng Yao is understandably not happy about this, but it's better than battlefield cleanup, so he tails Huaisang as he goes among the infirmary and food tents. And it becomes clear that while the soldiers and battle cultivators may still treat Huaisang with no respect, he's started winning over the healers and cooks and other support workers because he listens and observes and uses what little power he has to make sure they're well-supplied and everything's running efficiently and rolls up his sleeves to help with his own hands when needed.

And he gradually wins over Meng Yao too, to the point Meng Yao opens up about his wishes to work his way into his father's sect eventually.

Well, there's no way he'll earn enough prestige in his current position, so Huaisang offers to send him to be a bodyguard to his younger brother. If Mingjue is the one talking about how smart and brave and hard-working he is, then people will actually listen.

Some of Nie Huaisang's sneaky people skills have clearly rubbed off on his little brother, because as soon as ten-year-old Nie Mingjue reads the 'recommendation' letter from Huaisang, he's all in on the plan.

Things go relatively well for about six months, until Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue (who weren't supposed to be listening in) find out that Wen Xu (not dead yet in this timeline, though Wen Chao is) managed to capture Huaisang in an ambush and is headed to the Nightless City to present him to Wen Ruohan (and to keep him alive for his own reasons but mostly that).

Distressed that no one seems to care about getting his brother back, Nie Mingjue begs Meng Yao to do something.

Meng Yao is not stupid enough to go engaging fucking Wen Xu and however many cultivators he has with him in open combat, but he is very good at blending in where he shouldn't be and picking off a few of the raiding party to steal their clothes and disguise himself as one of them. Huaisang recognizes him immediately, but wisely keeps his mouth shut, passing him info about his captors via secret hand signals, and Meng Yao uses that info to continue picking off enemy cultivators all the way to the Nightless City.

(Wei Wuxian is also on the rampage by this point, which effectively disguises his efforts further, as everyone is terrified and paranoid and chalk up their dwindling numbers to the fierce corpses and the like.)

He doesn't manage to kill Wen Xu before they wind up in the throne room, and the sheer power Wen Ruohan radiates is nauseatingly frightening.

But, fortunately, all of their attention is focused on Huaisang, and none of it is on him.

And as we've already established, he is very, very good at using that to his advantage.

[krinsbez]

BT-ify Pulp Heroes: Doc Savage (Worldbuilding/Storybuilding)

So, this one is a bit different.

I started profiling Pulp Heroes and their supporting casts, and asked people to come up with BT-ified versions. Well, initially I asked what Mech they would use, but for many, things got very detailed.

Some of these (notably the ones I discussed in the poll months ago) got beyond this, but there are plenty who didn't. So, what I am going to do is start posting what the folks on the forumboard came up with, and see:

What you think of what was come up.

See if y'all have ideas to refine, enhance, or improve what they came up

Come up with ideas for stuff to do with these BT-ized versions of the characters.

And with all that taken care of, let's start with one of the most important, iconic, and archetypical Pulp Heroes...Doc Savage (and his aides)

(profiles via forumposter Starfox05)

Doc:

Doc Savage was project of the Society to produce the ultimate human - the pinnacle of genetic engineering, mating nature and nurture. A genius in a perfect body, raised from birth with all the knowledge available to humanity. Destined to lead the Society to victory. He's as tall as an Elemental, as quick as a 'Mechwarrior. Unfortunately - for the Society - he was so smart and eager to learn, he did study privately in addition to what his tutors taught him, and soon discovered knowledge they were not meant to teach him - amongst them philosophies and teachings abandoned by the Clans long ago. As he was a scientist through and through - questioning everything and never accepting anything on blind faith. So, he saw through the Society's stated aims, realised how wrong they were, and decided to abandon them to help humanity. Having ditched the Clan way for the same reasons, he gathered a few prisoners/experimental subjects he liberated and guards/tutors he turned as well as his young "cousin", a female version of him sharing most of his genes, stole a dropship and jumpship from the society and all the tech and supplies he could manage, and made his way to the Inner Sphere. He can pilot, repair, modify and construct anything - tank, 'Mech, Aerospacefighter, Battle Armour, dropship or jumpship. If he has to fight, he fights to disable, and he likes to switch and customise his ride, usually an Executioner OmniMech he heavily modified, to the task at hand. Unlike most Clan Warriors, he likes melee combat, often using his 'Mech's mass to wreck lighter enemies without harming the pilot, and often uses experimental weapons and even construction tools in any battle as well as the environment. Even though he and his group are nominally mercenaries (and hid their origin once they reached the Periphery) they often work pro bono, relying on selling new technology and Doc's services as a polymath to finance their excursions, in addition to a Germanium Mine he received from a grateful periphery planet's population whose water filters and fusion generators he restored and improved. He has started to acquire a small fleet of merchants whose jumpships and dropship he repaired for them, and who pay him back by a share of their profits. He and his group live on a special dropship, a former Collossus, that he modified into a flying base and research lab.

Ham:

A former Star Colonel who failed to die in battle or earn a bloodname, [Ham] was an eccentric Diamond Shark, keeping both a pet and an antique blade ready during his career. He was targetted by the society for his skill at logistics and was kidnapped when he was transferred to solahma unit so they could pick his brain for military tactics. He has an old rivalry with [Monk] dating back to a few clashes during trials. He pilots a Lancelot, the last 'Mech assigned to him by his Clan.

Monk:

[Monk], another talented warrior who never got a bloodname (though he tried numerous times), and he switched to the scientist caste when he aged out, and was recruited by the Society after starting an affair with one of their members. He soon fell out with the Society's leadership, though hid his true thoughts, and managed to teach Doc not merely science but also a few other tricks and unarmed fighting.

Johnny:

Another of Doc's original tutors, [Johnny] was responsible for most of his scientific training, after suffering the loss of an eye and having trouble with the implant that replaced. He was not very respected in the Society since he didn't specialise but kept "widening his horizons" as he called it - and since he often paid more attention to history and the past as a former Goliath Scorpion than the Society found tolerable.

Long Tom (admission, the entire reason for this series of projects was cuz of him):

[Long Tom} was a Naga-pilot turned bondsman turned tech, and mostly ended up in the Society's hand because they wanted to find out if his peculiar appearance and excellent health could be useful for their experiments. He went along with the others when Doc broke out and has been working on restoring a Long Tom artillery piece they picked up on a border planet (and modifying it so he doesn't need crew to use it).

Renny:

An Elemental working for the Society and serving as a link to the Dark Caste, Renny committed many crimes for which he is ashamed before he had a change of heart helping Doc. If Doc had not convinced him to atone by helping others, he would have killed himself long ago.

Pat:

Patricia was meant to be Doc's counterpart, and she has the skills, smarts and drive to prove it. What she doesn't have is his experience - she is younger than him and still learning, and sometimes a bit too eager for her own good. She pilots a Gargoyle if she takes the field, sporting a prototype rotary autocannon with six barrels.

And as a bonus, the closest thing Doc has to a nemesis...

John Sunlight:

A survivor of the Society, John managed to escape and determined to lead humanity to salvation whether it wants to be saved or not. Armed with the knowledge of his old organisation he plans to rebuild the Star League in his image, so to speak. He blames Doc for abandoning the Society and for wasting his talents helping others instead of leading them as the genetically superior specimen he should, in John's opinion.

So, what thinkest thou, BT and Pulp Fans of Tumblr?

[carefulrenzine]

Thanks so much for the answer! Are you able to provide more clarification on that? I still feel like I have no idea how the selection process will go, like what is the objective basis/method for it? How many mods are there for this? It sounds like there's plans for themes already and how much space each theme will get - can you share more of those details? I've been part of over a dozen zines over the years, but never seen one with such thorough requirements and concrete plans that was still open to everyone, as it seems the page count was even decided before an interest check was done or sign ups were opened. I really want to sign up but there's no point if I have no chance, and if it's so strictly planned already, it'd be great to know those details before sending in an application and save myself some tears of rejection haha

That's fair, and no worries! I'm still working through some of this myself, because even though I've been in zines for decades, this is my first time putting one together. Let me go through your questions one by one and see if that helps! I'm not sure there is such a thing as an objective basis when it comes to selection unless it were just assigning everyone random numbers and pulling that way. I want to be fair but I also don't want to end up with a zine that I envisioned as a wide range of kylux -- in terms of both old and new contributors and diverse tropes/AUs etc -- becoming 30 pieces reflecting all of the same things (or whatever's the current trend), if that makes sense? I also want creators to have the freedom to offer several different things that they would like to create, so that if a lot of people want to make the same things, I can go based off of the creators' preferences in asking if they'd be willing to do something different to preserve the variety. It's just me (DarthAstris) doing this so far, though I may ask a friend who has also done zines and fic for decades to help out if I need it. I'm not sure what you mean by thorough requirements, since I'm trying to keep this as open-ended as possible within what I've researched so far in terms of being able to go to print, and balancing the costs of that with my dream for what this could look like. I'm mostly on bluesky and discord these days, so the interest check was basically, "Hey, I think it would be great if, since this is the 10th anniversary of TFA, if we also had something that represented 10 years of all the amazing kylux content we've had; who's with me?" and WAY more people than I thought responded positively, likewise with the sign ups. I'm not really on tumblr much anymore but I also put this here because I know a lot of kyluxers are still active here and I want to include them as well! (And so far, the response has been great!) As far as what I've managed to work out logistically for the zine is that an ~80-page, A4-sized book would potentially run around $20-30 USD (and might be possible to include some merch incentives at that price point) and be about $15 USD to ship worldwide from Japan, where I'm located. It helps keep it accessible (since the release date won't be until Dec., when the anniversary falls) price-wise, while also reflecting the quality that people have expressed they'd like to see in something that intends to showcase 10 years of a fandom. I additionally opened it up creatively to all kinds of media and content, because that will represent the widest range of interests and contributions. So, my idea is to have this represented in a "light side" and "dark side" of the book, with half of the content reflecting the softer, crackier, SFW works, and the other half being NSFW and/or darker, more serious-themed works. Written content will also include a tag list, as well as a warning that things on the "dark side" may contain content that could be upsetting, so that people can exercise more choice and caution in what they see. Being a 10th anniversary, I also felt it important to try to include people who used to be involved in fandom who may have since moved on, or who have been here for a long time, while also preserving space for newer fans and people who are currently creating. Even though there are some who have been invited (because I had to reach out to them if they're not in the loop), everyone has to fill out the application so that I can see what people want to create and what will balance well for the overall picture of the zine. If it turns out that this is too pie-in-the-sky (though I don't think it is, seeing the response to it), I still want to create a PDF version, which would then be released for free, and if any money had been collected up to that point (assuming it wasn't enough to go to print) then it would all be refunded. But, that said, print is the goal! That's a lot, but I hope that helps!