#sorry to my new mutuals

[elvirable]

Fast Lane | Chapter 2

[ Simon Riley x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 3.7k | status: work in progress themes/tags: damsel in distress, protective Simon, smut, car chase scene, simon lowkey stalking you.. for a mission ofc, gun violence, loose plot ———————————————————————

Simon had never said a word to you, but he was beginning to know you. Only through the small details, of course. In other words: Simon “Ghost” Riley has kept a close eye on you for weeks now, waiting for the mission cue. Action ensues to rescue you, a thrilling car chase, and ends wrapped in hotel sheets.

(Ch.1)

-

Your fingers drummed against the side of your thigh, timid tension buzzing throughout your nerves.

Elevator doors parted to reveal high ceilings framed by walls of blue glass that overlooked the street. An oblong conference table dominated the floor space, leather chairs neatly tucked into the wooden surface; the room was nearly empty except for a few seated executives, broad men who could only be assumed as security, and a waitstaff who was rolling in a cart adorned with pastries and an espresso machine.

You must’ve looked like a wide-eyed doe in the headlights because your awe was interrupted by a smooth, older voice greeting you.

“Welcome,” one of the executives rose from his seat. “I hope you didn’t have much trouble finding our office.”

He was an older man, middle-aged with an animated smile compassed by trimmed facial hair and wrinkles. Like the other executives, he exuded an air of professionalism and prestige  — graying slicked back hair, a firm posture, and a well-tailored suit. He made his way over to you, extending a palm to greet you.

You shook his calloused hands and matched his welcoming smile. He introduced himself and the others as he guided you towards the conference table, inviting you to sit.

“If our secretary, Tanya, didn’t already tell you, we were absolutely impressed by your resume.”

“Yes,” chimed one of the other executives, this time a slightly younger man whose expression was sharp and slim. “Our managers spoke highly about your interviews. Your work ethic and attitude is exactly what we need to incorporate into our culture.”

“Ah,” you were admittedly flustered, taken aback by the rush of flattery. “Thank you.”

You were normally talkative and expressive, but the atmosphere instinctively caused you to urge composure. Honestly, you didn’t believe you would get this far. With initial shock, you had been invited for a final round interview for a job you desperately needed. 

“So,” the first executive paused to sip his coffee, “we invited you here today not only to meet the person behind the resume, but so you can get a feel for the office.”

He praddled on while an assistant offered you a freshly poured espresso and pastry, to which you nodded with quiet gratitude. Your eyes returned to the man speaking, but you couldn’t help to feel the two other men’s gazes lingering on you  — a sensation that didn’t feel too great, instead somewhat grimy.

“With remote work being so popular nowadays, unfortunately a lot of our staff aren’t in today. Feel free, however, to take a look around. Marcus here,” he gestured to the man with sharper features, “can give you a tour while Tanya drafts up the rest of your offer and paperwork.”

“That sounds great, thank you.” You held a cordial smile across your lips, sipping the espresso; it was extremely bitter, and you had to conceal the urge to twist your face into a grimace. So odd  — the man before effortlessly finished his. You weren’t in the habit of drinking straight espresso, perhaps it was an acquired taste. 

You placed your cup back onto the stained mahogany table, managing to finish the remaining sip. Lifting your gaze to the two men seated across from you, their eyes no longer traced your figure and were instead droning into your eyes. Marcus was the first to cut into the short silence by commenting on the weather and continuing on with material, surface-level topics.

Conversation was light, briefly landing on details about the company’s benefits and employee retreats. An odd feeling pitted your stomach. Maybe it was your nervousness, being in a setting you weren’t quite used to  — or the culmination of an extensive interview process. 

The chatter fell to a natural hush before you spoke.

“Alright, Marcus, I’d love a tour if you’re ready.” You offered another polite smile to which he immediately replied.

“Ready when you are,” his smile was flat, perked at the corners of his mouth. He rose from his seat after you, meeting you at the entrance of the elevator.

The third executive, who had been mostly silent until now, headed towards one of the sleek doors on the conference floor. As the elevator whirred, he wished you farewell. You thanked him with a parting wave, but your smile faltered as a rush of nausea coursed through you. It was rapidly accompanied by light-headedness. Again, however, you internally dismissed it by chalking it up to anxiety or standing up too fast. 

With a chime, the elevator doors opened. Marcus stepped in after you, completely ignoring your clearly unsettled demeanor. 

“We’ll start with the marketing branch. Some of our managers..” his voice began to fade, now replaced by a loud ringing clouding your hearing. Your vision was framed by a darkness, and your head felt unbearably hot as your knees began to buckle beneath your weight. Panic rushed through every muscle, hastening your breathing as you fought to grasp your consciousness.

The last thing you remembered were the steel doors rolling shut and arms catching you as your vision was engulfed by black.

…

Humming vibrations and muffled voices lulled you awake.

Bleary and blinking, your eyes focused on the ceiling of a car interior. Light streaks washed over the gray felt, the woosh of traffic sounding more clear around you as you regained your bearings. 

Stiff-limbed and still  — you were laid in the backseat of some standard SUV. You immediately became mindful of everything  — your breath, muscles, anything to refrain from drawing attention to yourself. Your hands and ankles weren’t bound, so you doubt they planned for you to rouse during the ride..wherever you were headed.

Two men, burly and toughened, were seated in the front; heads you haven’t seen before. A murky myriad of questions throbbed against your head, but you couldn’t entertain them. Fear gripped every shred of you, despair settling in at the impossibility of the situation. You wanted to scream, to bang on the windows in the hope some passenger car would call for help. But again  — you couldn’t; you were frozen with dread.

Raised voices dripped with frustration, drawing you out of your frightened inner echochamber. 

“Who the fuck is this guy tailing us?” came a growl from the passenger seat.

“Agh, we’ll lose him. Probably just some asshole,” replied the dismissive driver. There was a click of metal before the rich scent of tobacco permeated the air. 

“Pass ‘em over.”

“Let me get a drag in first, you ass.” Despite the roughness in his tone, the passenger let loose a throaty laugh.

Silence again, except for motors whirring around you and the quiet inhales of cigarettes. 

“Fuck, look at this asshole. He’s trying to pass us up.” You could hear the passenger vexingly shift in his seat, leering at the side mirror.

“Just let him, who cares.”

A mechanical whirr droned as the passenger window rolled down, the man starting to shout undoubtedly some creative curse before a softened pop sounded. Panic immediately ensued in the SUV as the car’s smooth speed now turned bulky and bumpy. Some car horns blared outside followed by the roaring of mufflers.

“Fuck, fuck! He shot our back tire  —” there was ruffling from the passenger seat before a click, the man racking the magazine of his tactical pistol. 

“We’ll push ahead,” said the driver, voice firm before he was interrupted by the buzz of a radio blotter.

“You guys OK in there?” questioned the radio.

“Yeah, yeah  —” said the driver in a rushed tone. “Back tire blown out, we’re still good with the front.”

“Detailing the escort car right now. They saw the shot come from a black pick-up.”

“Black pick-up,” confirmed the passenger. “Asshole has a silenced pistol, too.” 

“They’re three cars behind you, the escort  — just push ahead.”

“What do we do about the psycho?” inquired the frustrated passenger.

“Escort will deal with it, so just push ahead. Pull over at exit 42 and use the ‘donut’ in the back.”

“Got it.”

The radio feed fizzled as the voice faded out. 

Panic was boiling through the shock and numbing fear that had locked your limbs earlier. Adrenaline now coursed through your veins, riling up your thoughts as you combed through all the possible actions you could take to make it out of there  — to make it to the black pick-up, the only chance you had. 

More shuffling came from the passenger seat, his body beginning to turn in your direction. Instantaneously, you shut your eyes and focused entirely on regulating your breathing to a steady pace. It seemed to suffice, as the man turned back to the window in silence. 

Once he began talking again, you peeked your gaze to the tinted windows. Perhaps once the car returns, you could start banging or lower the windows to garner the attention of the black pick-up. Apprehension twisted your lips at the sight of the passenger’s pistol resting near the center console of the car. 

“There he is, coming up,” the passenger hastily blurted, readying his pistol and angling his head to get a proper view of the black pick-up in the side mirror. 

A sudden bang, followed by pitched metallic scraping, rocked the car. An off-guard yelp slipped through your lips. The man in the passenger instinctively turned to face you, proving fatal as another soft pop went off  — warm blood splattering onto your blouse. The passenger’s body slumped over.

Pure shock was trapped in your throat as you sat up, shaking any fixation on what had just happened. The driver’s movements were now rigid, struggling to turn the wheel; you could now view how the car was nearly pinned against the black pick-up and was edging closer to the divider.

“You’re fucking crazy!” shouted the driver, still wrestling with the wheel to prevent completely crashing. He was completely aware you were wide awake, sputtering towards the window while the car jolted, but he didn’t care. 

As you approached and lowered the tinted window, the sparking and scraping metal became unbearably louder. Your panicked eyes looked over towards the black pick-up driver, only to have your gaze met with dark ones. They were ashened, the only striking feature that hadn’t been covered by a skull-donned balaclava. 

You didn’t know these eyes, but they knew you. They had finally found you. 

“Get in. Now,” barked the man, his order direct and urgent. 

The backseat window of the pick-up lowered. For a brief second, in your hesitation, another car was approaching from behind visible from your peripheral view — a similar SUV as the one you were in.

With a deep and shaky breath, you climbed and hurled yourself into the backseat of the pick-up. Your knee and wrist throbbed with an immediate pain from your landing, but the adrenaline overrode any urge to wince. 

Almost instantaneously, the black pick-up pulled away from the SUV and shifted lanes. More car horns blared, distant police sirens swirling and oscillating far behind all of the commotion. 

You stuttered, mouth agape as you stared at the masked man. You had no option but to trust this man, and more questions began to batter against your mind.

“Who are  —” you began, abruptly cut off by his deep tone.

“Get down and stay down.”

His voice was enough to silence any burning questions you had in the moment, as you promptly followed his words. You ducked low, laying against the leather upholster of the backseat. However, your stare never left the masked man; the only window into this mysterious savior were his eyes, which droned forward with a calm composure. 

The car lurched as he moved over to another lane once again, and you clung onto the passenger seat to brace yourself. 

Sirens had grown louder momentarily, until he turned down a winding exit between thrushes of trees. The silence had now become deafening, matching the volume of your pounding heart. After a few minutes, the car stilled to a stop in a gravel parking lot. 

“C’mon.”

The car was still running as the masked man clicked the door open and exited. His stride was quick as he opened the backseat door and waited for you to stumble out.

“Where are we going?” you finally pushed the words out of your throat, fully processing them once they were spoken.

“Hop in, then I’ll tell you.” His gaze left your face to survey the surrounding roads, watchful as an occasional car passed the rundown gas station you were parked at. Urgency straightened his posture as he gestured to another pick-up, barely visible from behind the building. 

“I —” you closed your mouth just as quickly as it had opened, not sure what to even respond with. You were still confoundedly bewildered, frankly quite overwhelmed and haven’t begun to process what exactly had occurred. 

Gravel rustled underneath your footsteps, soon rounding the building and entering the new truck. It was white, a similar yet used model compared to the black one. Once you shuffled into the backseat, you looked over the contents placed behind the driver seat: a first aid box, a throw blanket, water bottles, and a small cardboard box with packaged food.

The man turned the ignition and the truck roared to life. He turned in his seat, arm extended against the passenger headrest to properly reverse the truck out. Quietly you sat, watching his focused eyes before they flickered briefly towards yours. 

“You okay?” his voice, originally harsh and low, was a softer tone now. You breathed for a few moments, perhaps to gather your thoughts or  the fatigue was finally settling in, while he turned and merged onto the main road.

You perused your body, which seemed fine, despite some bruising and the haziness still lingering in your eyes. The soreness of your limbs began to fade, and you sunk into the backseat after reaching for water. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

His eyes darted towards you in the rearview momentarily, watching as you drank the water. The car slowed to a pause at a red light, and he took more than a moment to study you while you stared out the window.

Small spots of blood were speckled across your blouse and exhaustion paled your face. You were now leaning against the window with your curled finger resting against your bottom lip.He had seen this face so many times wandering into the cafe or buried in a book. Peace was now replaced by a subtle distress, one lost in troubled thought. Those delicate hands were trembling, and your brows were furrowed.

The light flashed green, and he pulled his focus back onto the road.

“You can ask your questions now,” he cleared his throat. “Got a long drive ahead of us.”

His words seemed to pull your attention away from the passing outside view, somewhat successful in providing the ease he had aimed for. You shifted to lean comfortably into the seat, mulling over in your mind and twisting your lips. Chaos had fizzled into silence, and you needed help making sense of it all.

“Okay, first off —” you breathed, as if you had to brace yourself. “Who are you? Where are we going?”

“You can call me Ghost.”

“Ghost? You don’t have a real name?”  

“It’s on a need-to-know basis,” he replied before tossing you one of his task force badges. “We’re headin’ to a safehouse. You’ll get a medical check-up and be interviewed.”

“Okay,” you let the words swirl in your brain, lips pursed as his answers temporarily sufficed.

You held his laminated badge between your fingers — it was an official government issued card, which provided some relief. And you could almost laugh, if it wasn’t for the weighing exhaustion, 

that even in his photo ID this man still had a mask on.

“So, what exactly happened? I..” your voice trailed off, your thoughts sitting heavy on your tongue. You tried to recollect your thoughts in an attempt to piece it together yourself, but grew quietly overwhelmed.

Ghost glanced at the rearview mirror, watching your brows furrow and your soft face muddle with puzzlement. He waited for you to continue, but spoke when it was evident you were finished speaking.

“The agents will probably brief you, but you were being targeted. Not sure what for.”

He knew the details, but chose to be vague; to be honest, he wanted to spare you from the reality and didn’t want his words to be the cause of such anguish. However, Ghost’s words only spurred the confusion twisting your face.

He attempted to quell the trouble visible on your face, “You’re safe now.”

You smiled softly, finding some resolve in his response. Tucking your disheveled hair behind your ear, a strand slipped from your ear to frame the curve of your cheek.

Ghost noticed your smile when he glanced back at the mirror and felt a tug at his mouth to do the same. When you fell silent, he offered to turn on the radio  — something that he didn’t really do himself, but again to offer some ounce of comfort that he could. You responded that you would enjoy that, but at a low volume.. something to occupy your mind for the remainder of the car ride. 

And so the radio played softly for the entire ride. He’d notice when a song familiar to you would play, how you’d tap your fingers against your thigh. An hour in, Ghost would find you in the rearview fighting the urge to succumb to exhaustion since all the adrenaline had burned through you. 

Eventually, your eyes fluttered shut. 

During a stop to refuel the truck, he shook out the throw blanket in the back and delicately placed it over you. There was that default softly lonesome face of yours, at rest and fast asleep. His jaw clenched at some point  — a quiet anger tensing inside him at the plans those despicable men had in store for you. Oh, the grief that riddled through him when he imagined your gentle face wrought with fear and tears.

For the rest of the ride, he was diligent to drive carefully and avoid any bumps in the road while you slept away.

[gridworld]

good luck to all the playoff boys

except

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

I've been made aware of the fact that Rolling Stone has compared TS to *Adele* of all people in the wake of TS's new album and I just have to say. this is a real coughing baby vs hydrogen bomb situation and boy is Adele splitting that atom

[outerbankies]

“it’s late, come back to bed.”

PROMPT CELLY GO BRRRRRRRRR. thank u for requesting this one (forever ago) bestie!!!! 💓🤩👯‍♀️

—

new light: space and time

rafe x reader, part of the 2k prompt celly for new light (masterlist if ur not up on NL). we’re back in the present!

A stubborn knot about the size of a fist had settled into place at the top of Rafe’s spine slowly over the last few weeks, right in between his often-taught shoulder blades.

He guesses it was during the late nights like these that it began to form, when he’s hunched over his sketching table in the garage lit only by the warm lightbulb in the work lamp over his head—drawing and erasing and scrapping to start over again and again. Or when he’s on his laptop tinkering with his website or any of the platforms he uses for invoicing and processing orders, easily his least favorite part of all of this, until his eyes are irritated and red.

Though it’s certainly not made better by the other half of his day, where he’s hunched over or crouching under his projects as he brings them to life, doubting himself the entire time, twisting himself into weird angles just to make sure everything holds and looks how he pictured it. But at least he likes that part.

A hand, holding a warmth that Rafe can feel through the cotton of his long-sleeve t-shirt, settles directly into place over that knot at the top of his spine, and he feels himself take a deep, steadying breath as he leans back into your touch.

“What’s this, baby, the built-ins?” you ask, your voice softer in these midnight hours.

“Yeah,” Rafe sighs, immediately rubbing his hands into his eyes, his knuckles turning his vision bleary momentarily. “For Beau’s friend.”

“Mmm,” you hum, slightly digging the heel of your palm into his back. Rafe lets out a groan. “There?”

“Right there,” he confirms, letting his head drop back gratefully, accepting a few sleepy kisses once he goes.

You place your other hand on his shoulder for some leverage, leaning over him to peer at his catastrophe of a workstation. “I thought you’d already gone over the sketches with them?”

“I did,” he says. “But they go in tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod, scrutinizing them again, looking to see if they’d changed at all. “I remember.”

“So I’m just making sure—” Rafe stops momentarily, letting out a hiss. “Careful, baby.”

The pressure on his back eases immediately, and you take to rubbing your hand across the span of his shoulders instead. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I’m just making sure I have everything down,” he continues, leaning forward again. “I wanna know my stuff before I head in.”

“What if I quiz you? On measurements and colors and finishes and—”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he interjects, his smile rivaling yours when you finally settle into his lap like he’d been angling for you to since he heard the garage door open and knew he’d be getting that reprieve from the mess inside his head. “But it doesn’t really work like that, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, snaking your arms around his neck anyway, the pads of your fingers rubbing circular motions into his trouble spot again. “Then how else can I get you to come back to bed?”

Guilt settles into Rafe’s stomach like a rock, the soreness in his back momentarily forgotten as he sees the plea in your eyes. “I swear I’ll be up soon.”

“Rafe, it’s late.”

“Coming from you,” he retorts, virtually no bite behind his words. Because as Rafe had left Beau’s company months ago and only since then become more entrenched in his new job, in starting his own business, you’d seamlessly settled in at your job at the publishing house, not overworking yourself nearly as much as the two of you used to argue about. Still more than Rafe would ever prefer, naturally, but he’s not sure he has room to talk anymore.

“We’re turning into perfect little Figure 8 capitalists right on schedule, aren’t we?” you say, wiggling around in his lap in a way he isn’t convinced isn’t a punishment for abandoning his side of the bed a few hours ago.

You lean forward, grabbing one of the pencils Rafe had discarded and tapping it on your chin while he checks his watch, feeling his eyes widen.

“God, I’m turning into my dad.”

“No you’re not,” you laugh, still leaning out of his reach as you seem to start writing something in one the margins. You pause, pointing the pencil at the long-cold cup of coffee next to his pencil cup. “Unless there’s secretly liquor in your decaf over there. You know decaf still has caffeine in it, right?”

At Rafe’s silence, you turn to him with your eyebrows raised, the pencil dropping out of your hand and clattering onto the table.

“Like… trace amounts, right?” he asks sheepishly.

“My sweet, sweet boy,” you sigh, running your fingers through the hair on top of Rafe’s head that’s really beginning to need a cut.

“Probably need it,” he shrugs. “I’ll only be up a little while longer though. Promise.”

“You’re really worried about this one, aren’t you?” you ask him softly, some of the mirth fading in your eyes as you trace a finger around the shell of his ear.

“It’s Beau’s friend, baby, I… these guys could have anyone working on their houses. And Beau was really good to me about quitting. I just wanna nail this one and be done with it,” Rafe admits.

He doesn’t tack on the bit about how this feels like one of his first big tests; his first custom, built-in piece period, outside of the ones he’s made for his most forgiving audience, his sisters and you. Because it’s one thing to make a piece for a friend of a friend of a friend, or even to sell one in a store where someone can see it and touch it and decide that they hate it before they have to commit. But it’s another to have someone counting on him to deliver exactly what they envision, let alone someone who could be Rafe’s foot in the door to a wealth of opportunities. He wants to be done with it at this point, sure, but he doesn’t want it to be the end of this road.

“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. “They could have anyone. And I love you, Rafe, but I mean literally anyone else. But your designs are good. Really good. And your craftsmanship is impeccable. They want you.”

He feels his cheeks heating up, and knows it’s showing based on the twinkle in your eye. “You’re an expert in furniture and carpentry now, are you?”

“I am, because I’ve now lived in two Pinterest-level apartments without ever having to hire a contractor. And I’m a picky bitch,” you say, laughing around the last bit.

“You are not,” Rafe laughs. “And half of that is your decorating. Maybe 70, 75%.”

“Your modestly will never not exhaust me,” you declare, smacking one last kiss onto his lips before standing up. “You’re gonna be fine tomorrow, alright? But you’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Ten minutes?” he pleads.

“I will generously give you ten seconds instead. It’s your lucky day,” you say, shuffling toward the doorway back into the house, where two curious dogs await your return.

“Thanks,” he answers sarcastically, before standing to check everything over one last time. These guys could have anyone, he tells himself. They chose him.

He’s gathering his pencils to deposit back into the cup, just about to reach over his head and turn off his work lamp for the night when he sees it, what you’d been scribbling into the margin on one of his designs: you got this RC. hurry home!

At just the same moment that he’s he’s tracing over your loopy “y” and the heart you’d finished your note off with, you call out his name from the doorway, his family waiting for him.

You give him a saccharine-sweet smile, your arms crossed over your chest. “I wasn’t asking.”

[lazycranberrydoodles]

woe mundane monopoly headcanons be upon ye

follow for more of modern au hua cheng’s outfits

[dawnthefluffyduck]

yay :)

[mellaithwen]

Okay okay okay maybe it’s been a while since I posted new words ;) huge thank you for the last line tags @capseycartwright @thekristen999 @renecdote and for the SundayMonday tags @oatflatwhite <3

Let’s call this a Tidbit Tuesday just to mix things up though eh?

“We get into the ambulance,” Eddie tells him firmly, his lips barely moving as he does so. “We swap out my coat on your leg for actual bandages, and we sit tight until I get us home.”

Home.

Funny how for Buck that word doesn’t conjure up the loft he lives in, or the house he grew up in, but rather he thinks of arched doorways, and cozy rugs underfoot. A navy couch, sat on and slept on in equal measure. Movie nights and game nights and Lucky Charms for breakfast as a special treat before the school run gets underway. Rooms, softly lit by warm lamp light, and standing in the kitchen where he’s cooked and baked and cleaned a thousand times, telling his beloved sister that this is Eddie’s house, I’m not really a guest, and meaning it, with every single fiber of his being.

Scuffed footsteps steal Buck’s attention away before he can confess to any of the above under the influence of shock and blood loss, and as he casts a bleary-eyed look in the direction of their abductors, he sees Mitchell giving he and Eddie another once-over.

Take a picture asshole, Buck wants to say, but when he sees the silent plea in Eddie’s eyes and swallows the words back, they taste of copper on his tongue.

& I shall tag all of my beloveds above, again, because I’m always wanting more, but also the truly magnificent beings that are; @littlespoonevan @homerforsure @princessfbi @fcntasmas @buckactuallys @hopeintheashes @like-the-rest-of-la @henswilsons @clusterbuck @hattalove @lovebuck @bigfootsmom @fleurdebeton @tripleaxeldiaz @rewritetheending @kitkatpancakestack , and of course @eowon for being so very supportive last week with my older snippets of this fic too <3

[luca---paguro]

wahoo!!

[unopenablebox]

i admit that i find it a little bit frustrating how Wildly Astonished other antizionist jews act when i tell them my israeli jewish family have lived in the region since [some unknown length of time before 1800 when there start being records about it]

[alexanderpearce]

lucan's pharsalia, 1.92-93, trans. myself / blair and brown: the new labour revolution (2021)

[vyrion]

everything will said this chapter felt like him trying to play for some kind of favor while othering ada but it just. backfires. Horribly. because ada wouldn't agree with him out of principle of what he's saying, and monty is unconscious, and prospero doesn't care. he's trying to people please still but he'd gotten too used to appealing to monty that he veers off the wrong direction and panics when it backfires. he's trying to fill in montressor's place and attitude but it doesn't Work, and when he receives a negative response he turns to monty the same way that monty gets support from him. but he CAN'T GET IT

i strongly doubt that if montressor were somehow conscious that will would say anything like this at all. and would instead just. echo him like he always does. but instead we see this interesting situation where he Tries to do that but there isn't really anything to echo and instead he skews too far. so he tries to get prospero to agree and when He leaves. will panics. because he doesn't know what to do without that support. he's the one who Acts as support for monty and now he's left without backup

[lavendarneverlands]

Word association game

How it works: I will list 10 random words, you will list the first words that come to your mind in response, & then tag 10 friends.

Example:

Cereal —> Tricks

Apple —> Green

Unicorn —> Button

Purple —> Lavender

Flower —> Daisy

Books —> Aelin

Swift —> Nation

Love —> Letters

Cat —> Love

Mystery —> Murder

@acourtofquestions @adaisybyanyothername @ordinarythingsiflovecaneverbe @everytaylorswiftsongisaboutcats

[hellsite-hall-of-fame]

Hi, it’s the op of the color of the sky compilation post.

So fun fact, you have given me several hundred notifications since you’ve reblogged it because not only am I getting notifications for the post itself, but all of the links are to my reblogs of other posts so I get notifications for those as well. So rip my notifications

But I’m glad you (and your followers) are enjoying it so much

I also want to say that I fairly regularly try to add more whenever I find a bunch, so the post will get updated every so often with more

Anyway, hope you have a lovely day, and hope everyone has a fun time with the Colors of the Sky™️

hello! I am so so sorry for contributing to destroying your notifications RIP

but it’s a truly truly wonderful post, and i’m very much looking forward to any future additions!!

thank you again for creating it and I hope you have a lovely day as well !

[etirabys]

compilation of my gollum sex tweets

[pissybitchboy]

i ship kabru and mithrun but in like, mithrun is just more welcoming of kabru taking care of him than others doing it. he just follows him around. like a. like a dog

[hueningkai]

happy birthday @choiyeonjuns !!