#marlboro missed connections

[mlmxreader]

Old Country Songs | John Price x m!reader

anonymous asked: 🪳 bonk!

Anyway I feel like these would fit Ghost really well however I’m tempted to ask for Price. I can’t choose so I’ll let you be fate.

"I can't keep doing this"

"We can't keep hiding this - us"

"Please don't leave me alone"

summary: you and Price talk about what to do about your relationship

tws: swearing, smoking

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Things were getting more and more difficult, sneaking away from one flat in the middle of the night to go stay at another, wrapped in the arms of a lover who couldn't be known, dirty laundry scattered on one floor yet cleaned in a different washing machine each time; hiding scents that lingered on coats and hoodies with cheap cologne, all the Lenor in the world wouldn't clean that kind of dirty laundry.

Secrets well hidden and stuffed away at the back of wardrobes, confidential texts sent on encrypted phones, hidden walks just in case the car or the motorbike was compromised.

It was getting harder and harder to keep things a secret, but it was for the best, as no one would exactly take kindly to a Sergeant having a romantic relationship with his own Captain, it was a lawsuit waiting to happen and, even worse, could have caused you both to put each other's necks on the line; no one was allowed to know.

Even your best friend. Even his own task force. No one. Sure, family and friends who weren't connected knew, but they were the only ones.

It was getting harder and harder, though; nearly too hard to hide the stolen kisses in the shed.

Sitting on his lap as he told you how much he missed you, fearing anyone would walk in. Disappearing together for a smoke break, only to end up pinned against the wall as he kissed you with desperation yet broke away if so much as a twig snapped.

You were both starting to crack under the pressure of it.

It was the middle of the night, around three hundred hours, when you abandoned Price in your bed; letting him sleep while you headed to get yourself a can of Red Bull, shaky hands and tired eyes as you opened it, wincing at how loud the sound had been.

You put one earbud in, relaxing a little when you heard 'In War and Pieces' by Sodom playing quietly through it.

You were certain that you had some time to think, but when the light switched on, your certainty was crushed; Price stood by the fridge, hands in the pockets of his black camoflauge patterned jogging bottoms.

Greying hairs in his moustache and mutton chops and hair hardly visible from the distance.

"What are you still doing up, pup?"

You shrugged, swiping a hand down your face and grumbling softly. Bags under your eyes, hardly able to bite back yawns the way you usually could. "Keep thinkin' 's all."

Price licked his lips, drew closer so that he was leaning against the sink, raising his brows a little as he hummed ever so lowly. "You wanna talk about it?"

You nodded, and when you met his gaze, you knew that he held a worry behind those usually icy blue eyes. "I don't think I can cope anymore."

He nodded.

"I mean," you sighed. "We've been hiding for years, John... it's too hard to keep doing it."

Price frowned as he searched for his cigars, but when he couldn't find one, he settled for stealing one of your Marlboro golds. "Keep going."

"I can't cope," you explained, "we can't keep hiding this - us... fuck me, I can't keep doing this."

"Alright." He nodded curtly, coming to stand beside you and allowing you to rest your head on him as he grumbled quietly. "We'll tell everyone in the morning, yeah?"

You nodded. "You're not mad?"

"No," he told you. "If you don't wanna keep our relationship a secret, then that's fine by me, pup... I love you, I'd do anything for you... remember when we took a ride down to your mate's farm?"

"When you played the guitar," you smiled at the memory as you nodded. "Wasn't it... fuck... can't think."

"I played Hey Good Lookin' by Hank Williams," Price laughed ever so softly, daring to put his arm around you. "And y'know what?"

"What?"

"I still think of you every time I hear it."

You wanted to roll your eyes, to tell him that he was just soft and to tease him about it, but you couldn't bring yourself to; not when you were nearly crushed into him, your arm slung around his waist just above the waistband of his jogging bottoms. You could feel his bare skin against you, and you sighed as you cleared your throat.

"Say hey, good lookin', what you got cookin'?" He started, "how's about cooking somethin' up with me? Hey, sweet baby - don't you think maybe we can find us a brand new recipe? I got a hot rod Ford, and a two dollar bill and I know a spot right over the hill, there's soda pop and the dancing's free, so if you wanna have fun, come along with me."

You couldn't deny it, it was absolutely precious that he was singing it so quietly, his voice so gruff and baritone; he wasn't the best singer in the world, and you could tell that he had been to more heavy metal concerts and sang along to more heavy metal bands than anything else, but you had never heard Hank Williams sound so fucking sweet before.

You couldn't help but to smile, nearly grinning. "You're an absolute softie."

"Course I am," Price agreed softly, a fond smile on his lips as he dared to steal your spare earbud. "Sodom?"

"Sodom," you nodded. "Pretty sure it's one of your favourites, too - M-16."

He nodded. "Yeah, that's the one... but if I remember right, yours is Body Parts, innit?"

You yawned, daring to stretch as you leaned into him a little bit more, your eyes starting to drift shut as you stood there, feeling him against you, his gentle humming along with the song as he tapped his foot softly and kept his arm around you.

He only dared to move when he had finished the cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray before he gently tapped your shoulder. "C'mon, pup, why don't we get you back to bed, eh?"

You nodded, leaving your energy drink on the side as you followed him closely; Price got into bed first, as always, and only dared to move once you got in beside him. Earbuds left in their case on the bedside table, silence taking over.

You snuggled into his side, throwing one leg and an arm over him as you always did, letting him crush you against his side as he held you tightly.

"Please don't leave me alone," you murmured against the side of his neck. "Ever."

"Never," Price promised. "I got your six."

You grumbled, and he could feel the way you smiled against him as he tugged the blankets over, making sure that they were over your shoulders. "D'ya think you could sing to me a bit?"

"Can it be Johnny Cash?" He asked with a soft chuckle.

You shrugged. "Why not? But... for a metalhead... you're awful fond of that shit."

"Shut it," he warned playfully. "Do you want me to sing, or not?"

"Fine," you huffed.

"Atta boy," Price chuckled softly before he cleared his throat and started to sing. "It's knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag, rolled up and stashed behind your couch and it's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds and the ink stains that are dried upon some line, that keeps you in the backroads by the rivers of my memory that keeps you ever gentle on my mind."

Price could feel it, the tell tale signs that you were sound asleep by the time he took a moment to think about what lyrics came next, which ones were before and after the chorus, and he smiled.

Maybe you didn't detest country music as much as you claimed, or maybe you fell asleep to escape it, but either way, he didn't mind.

You were absolutely sound asleep, and although he was starting to hear that sweet call himself, he chose to ignore it for a moment; he grabbed his phone from under his pillow, and although by now it was nearly four o'clock in the morning, he didn't really think twice.

He told the group chat - the one that Laswell and her wife, the one four one, Los Vaqueros, and Farah and Alex were in - that he had been in a relationship with you for years.

He thought carefully about which picture to send them, but chose for the one that he kept as his phone's wallpaper when he wasn't around them; it was a picture of you, wearing his beanie and kissing him when he had taken you to a Sabaton concert.

It had been raining, and he could still see the single raindrop that clung to your eyebrow as he smiled at it for a moment; he hit the send button, turned the phone off, and stuffed the phone back in its place.

"It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy, planted on their columns now that bind me or something that somebody said because they thought we fit together walking," he continued to sing softly, "it's just knowing that the world will not be cursing, or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find. That you're moving on the backroads by the rivers of my memory and for hours you're just gentle on my mind."

He didn't want to continue the song as he made himself comfortable next to you, a soft yawn leaving the back of his throat as he grumbled softly and dared to let out a soft sigh of content. "Let's see what the morning brings, eh, pup?"

#mlem writes #john price x reader #john price x y/n #john price x you #john price imagine #john price fluff #john price fic #cod john price #john price cod #john price call of duty #john price #captain john price x y/n #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price fic #captain john price imagine #captain john price #captain price x y/n #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain price imagines #captain price imagine #captain price call of duty #cod captain price #captain price cod #captain Price #cod x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod reader insert

[jigensass]

I am giving the Jigen movie a 7/10

Because am I going to get shot for this

It has the vibes of a Marvel movie

HEAR ME OUT

The fight scenes, despite how some stunts went beyond plausible (it’s Lupin so I was expecting the impossible to become possible), and the music was fucking lit.

Need I start with how fucking Tetsuji Tamayama embedded the essence of Jigen both in canon content and fan content (you know what I am talking about)

But logistically this movie is a fucking mess. Specifically, the plot. Overall, it’s cohesive. But when you pick at the details just deep enough, you start asking questions that make your head spin.

Are Chiharu and Jigen actually related? (There was a running gag that they were aunt and nephew and it came out of nowhere)

I know the whole Jigen and Oto actually being related thing is left up to obscurity because she was in an orphanage and Jigen says that he has never been to this place before, but there is no connection between Kyoto and Oto outside of Yuya and Kyoko kidnapping her. And we know Oto watched her mom die so parallel to Yakuza 0 with the impaired damsel in distress and the watch.

Why does Adele sound like she knows Jigen so well and met him in the past only for him to go ���huh’? (Seriously I thought he was gonna go a bit weak for her. Hells knows I did)

If she wanted immortality, why did she smile when she what appears to be intentionally missing Jigen in the shootout and smiling when she fell to her death?

If she really wanted immortality and anti-stress hormones were the source, why not use Jigen’s blood? Why a child’s?

What was the deal with the Chameleon and the prostitute besides serving as the B-tier villain (ngl I thought this was Lupin and Fujiko keeping tabs that Jigen didn’t do anything stupid)

Where did Jigen get the Marlboros that he smoked in the shootout?

I know I’m overthinking it and being nitpicky but it’s small things like these that could have made the movie amazing.

#jigen daisuke

[wildbornsiren]

Kinktober Day 18: Shotgunning || Frankie Morales/F!Reader

Shotgunning Summary: Sharing a smoke and kisses with Frankie.  722 words (Female/AFAB reader) Warnings: Cigarette use.  Notes: For #kinktober2022. Reminder that these will not have part twos, or continuations. Please follow @wbslibrary​ since tag lists are gone. (I appreciate ya’ll so much but it was stressing me out, and I was worried I’d miss someone). Comments and sharing let me know you love me, likes are appreciated. Thank you so very much for reading. It’s so appreciated and means the most.

The club was crowded, a sweaty, writhing mass of bodies and limbs. The bass line of the music thumped and buzzed in your bones, the sweet taste of your drink lingering on your tongue. Your body is beaded with sweat, the brush of hands and the beat urging you higher. It was rare for you to venture out—let alone go to a dance club. You had dragged Frankie along, plying one of your oldest friends with alcohol and the promise of a night out.

Frankie’s arms were draped around you, pulling you against him. He was humming along with the song. Every touch, subtle roll of his hips against yours, the brush of sweat damp curls against your forehead when he leans in closer still sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you. He smells like cheap tequila and spicy aftershave, chapped lips brushing your cheek, those warm brown eyes closing when he does so. It was almost too much. His body warm and pliant, moving against yours. It was a dangerous line the two of you walked, coming close but never quite connecting. Your hands land on his hips, pulling him flush against you. His moan vibrates through his chest, the sound rough against your ear. His head drops to your neck, the rough scrape of his stubble against heated skin making you shiver with need. You swallow hard, pulling away reluctantly. “I need some air.” You point toward the back door, and he nods. You navigate the mad crush of people and step into the slightly cooler night air. It was, however, easier to breathe. You exhale shakily, leaning against the brick wall of the building. Pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes hard enough that starburst explode in your vision you bite your lower lip trying to keep the needy sound that had been growing in your chest for the past ten minutes from slipping out. It was getting more and more difficult to ignore your growing infatuation with Frankie. You could feel his touch burned against your skin, and when you sniff your shirt curiously, you can smell his cologne. “Fuck.” You spit out ignoring the curious glances of a pair of women who were going back into the club. “Everything alright?” Frankie is leaning against the wall next to you. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pushes a hand through sweaty hair, before he’s placing his baseball cap back on his head.  He offers you a bottle of water, and you take it. Ice cold, the condensation dripping onto your shirt when you take a sip. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out.” “I keep asking you.” He says softly. “You always turn me down.” “I know. I just…” you shrug. “Life you know?” “That’s why we dance, preciosa.” He says. “Forget the world for a little while.” Easily, Frankie takes the water from you, taking a couple of gulps before returning it to you. “Do you mind?” A pack of Marlboro reds was in his hand. You shake your head, and he taps one out, holding it between his lips as he strikes a match, lighting the cigarette. He takes a long pull, tipping his head back to blow smoke into the air. Maybe it was the strawberry daquiris, maybe it was the music, maybe it was the memory of his fingers brushing against the sliver of skin at the small of your back as the two of you danced together. “Can I ask you something?” “Yeah.” “Why haven’t you kissed me?” He chuckles softly, the end of his cigarette flaring red when he inhales. “Ask me, preciosa, and I’ll give you what you need.” You watch him as he smokes, searching for any sort of malicious teasing. “Besame por favor.” It’s clumsy, and feels awkward, but you’re rewarded by a slow grin. “¿Quieres un beso?” Frankie pushes off the wall, standing before you. He leans in, arm braced above your head. “All you had to do was tell me.” He takes another drag of the cigarette, and you reach up, hand landing on the back of his neck, pulling him down. His lips brush against yours. You inhale the smoke when it curls out from his parted lips. “Fuck,” he murmurs softly before he’s closing the distance, kissing you softly.

#wbskink #kinktober2022 #Frankie Morales/reader #Frankie Morales/you #shelly writes #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie 'catfish' morales

[hashtag-girlblogger]

how to live like it's 2014 again

If you're anything like me, you're nostalgic for everything. I am constantly wishing to be somewhere else or in some time else. I'm nostalgic for the 60's (I was born in 2001), nostalgic for the early 2000's (pop is just not the same), and most of all–I am nostalgic for 2012 to 2016. I think it is widely agreed that these years, especially on Tumblr, were the last best years many of us have ever had. I was a baby, still in middle school and just 15 years old in 2016. But wow, what a time to be alive. Music, movies, TV, pop culture, fashion, the internet–the world was a better place.

I have been toying with the idea of exiting mainstream society (as best I can) for sometime now. I've been thinking, "Is it possible to live in another era while stuck in the constantly evolving 2024?" Can I abandon social norms or things of "the time" and just live like it's 2014 again?

I've thought about what this would mean, what it would look like. Only listening to Halsey, Calvin Harris and Marina. Splurging at Victoria's Secret and wearing the iconic Tease perfume at all times. What's TikTok? You don't use Valencia on your Instagram posts? I'm obsessed with WeHeartIt. Look at my new Penny board!

Alternatively, I could take the Arctic Monkeys, soft grunge, American Apparel and Marlboro cigarettes route. All black, watching AHS Coven and wondering if I have secret witchy powers too.

I think where all these feelings come from is that the current state of the world is just not feeling so good (to put it nicely). The world is accelerating at a speed I do not want to keep up with. Social media and technology are great but it has literally become this crushing weight. "Just delete social media then." Yeah fair. I guess I just feel so disconnected from my life. From my real life. Like I spend so much of my time venturing into other worlds I've made up in my head. Like 2014 Tumblr. It's not here anymore, it's gone, but I live there. A part of me is still there.

I'm like 12 or 13 years old. Was still a competitive cheerleader, which I regrettably quit when I got to high school. I spent everyday after school with my friends, making video stars or doing gymnastics in the field. We would walk around our neighbourhood, talking about god knows what and enjoying every minute of it. I looked at the future and it could be anything. I could be anyone and do anything I wanted. I feel like that's what I really want. Maybe I miss the music and clothes and vibes of that era buy what I'm really craving is how purely simple and free I felt, how connected I felt to my own life.

Now I'm 22, soon to be 23. Graduating college soon, heading into my big girl job, big girl career. Totally terrified and also excited. But I spend my time alone, so much time alone. My social battery is always empty, I rarely catch up with friends. When I do, we always have to be doing something. Dinner, drinks, movies, parties, dancing, classes. It's never, just come over let's hangout. And I get it, we're young adults, we are supposed to be doing stuff, we are meant to be out and about living our best lives. I guess I just want it to feel different. I want it to feel like it used to.

Okay sooooo.

This is how to live like it's 2014.

Talk to your friends, often and without any agenda. Create the ultimate playlist, this one's pretty good:

Binge CW shows and trashy reality TV. Totally freak out when someone says you look like Violet from AHS (this actually happened to me at work the other day and I couldn't stop smiling). Say screw the trends and wear some skinny jeans and those Alexander McQueen ankle boots, Alexa Chung approved. Get off your phone and be alive now. It's 2014, you don't have a worry in the world.

#2014 #2014 tumblr #Spotify #thatblog

[magnusarchivestimeline]

Megan Shaw Disappears (MAG – 001 – Anglerfish) (Approx. Date)

MAG – 001 – Anglerfish:

Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April 22nd 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Regarding: Figure in the shadows asking for a cigarette (Marlboro Red). Multiple missing persons.

People:

Megan Shaw (missing Jun. 2008) -- definitely a smoker

Sasha

Places:

Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh

Misc.:

Marlboro Red

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Key Language:

I was initially inclined to re-file this statement in the ‘Discredited’ section of the Archive, a new category I’ve created that will, I suspect, be housing the majority of these files.

However, Sasha did some digging into the police reports of the time and it turns out that between 2005 and 2010, when Mr Watts’ encounter supposedly took place, there were six disappearances in and around the Old Fishmarket Close: Jessica McEwen in November 2005, Sarah Baldwin in August 2006, Daniel Rawlings in December of the same year, then Ashley Dobson and Megan Shaw in May and June of 2008. Then finally, as Mr Watts mentioned, John Fellowes in March 2010. All six disappearances remain unsolved.

Baldwin and Shaw were definitely smokers, but there’s no evidence either way about the others, if they’re even connected. Sasha did find one other thing, specifically in the case of Ashley Dobson. It was a copy of the last photograph taken by her phone and sent to her sister Siobhan. The caption was “check out this drunk creeper lol”, but the picture is of a darkened, apparently empty, alleyway, with stairs leading up into it.

It appears to be the same alleyway which Mr. Watts described in his statement, the one that, according to the maps of the area, leads to Tron Square, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the photograph at all. Sasha took the liberty of running it through some editing programs, though, and increasing the contrast appears to reveals the outline of a long, thin hand, roughly at what would be waist level on a male of average height. I find it oddly hard to shake off the impression that it’s beckoning.

#mag 001 #anglerfish #cigarette #marlboro red #old fishmarket close #edinburgh #megan shaw

[beardedmrbean]

UPPER MARLBORO, Md. (AP) — The former mayor of a Maryland college town pleaded guilty Wednesday to more than 100 counts connected to the possession and distribution of child sexual abuse material.

Patrick Wojahn had been the mayor of College Park — home to the state's flagship University of Maryland campus — up until March, when he was arrested.

Prince George's County State's Attorney Aisha Braveboy's office said the plea deal calls for Wojahn to serve a 30-year prison sentence.

He will be formally sentenced in November.

Police investigated Wojahn, 47, after receiving a tip in February from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children about a social media account that was eventually traced back to him.

Wojahn had served as mayor since 2015.

An attorney listed in online court records did not immediately return an email seeking comment Wednesday evening. When Wojahn stepped down, he said in his resignation letter he planned to "deal with my own mental health."

[ultimatebethylficlist]

New Author of the Month: December 2021

Our featured breakthrough author for December is not necessarily new to the fandom, but is new to writing her own fics. It’s peachthorns ( @wherethepeacheshavethorns )!

peachthorns can be found on AO3.

When asked what got her into the Bethyl fandom and what it means to her, she said:

I may be a new author, but I’m not new to the fandom! I watched the series premiere back in 2010, but I couldn’t stop crying over the horse being eaten. I took a break for a few years, then gave it another chance in season 4. (Just in time for my delicate sensibilities to see Hershel’s head get chopped off.) Beth’s character is actually what made me stick with the show. I was also in my early twenties at this time, also sensitive, and quietly strong in the way no one claps for. I never thought I would see someone like me in an apocalyptic show live longer than a few episodes, much less multiple seasons. My instant connection with Beth, and her growing connection with Daryl, caused me to dive headfirst into watching the seasons I had missed, where I was shocked to see how far both of their characters had evolved. When Beth was killed, I ran to fanfiction to look for some AUs that told Beth’s story in the way she deserved. After five years of reading Bethyl fics, I finally tried writing them as well.

Beth Greene means to me that women can be soft and gentle, but still be strong. We don’t have to hide or erase the parts of ourselves that make us feminine, that make us vulnerable, and that make us who we are, in order to be strong.

For her personal fic rec list, she recommends:

not everything has passed away by lindentree is one of my oldest favorites.

I enjoyed SO many fix-it stories in 2015, but I wasn’t great about bookmarking back then, and unfortunately I can’t find them anymore.

I really enjoyed a lot of stories by burningupasun, too. Since coming back during covid, a recent favorite is Marlboro Man by gutsforgarters.

peachthorns’s Works & Personal Thoughts:

Christmas Makes Me Cry Summary: Beth’s smile cracks open her face like the rays of the sun finally forcing through the clouds near the end of a rainy day. His rainy day just happened to be thirty-two rainy years. (Beth sends Daryl out on a Secret Santa Mission for the Grimes kids. Of course, the world ended in damn July so he can't find any candy canes.) Thoughts: This was my first Bethyl fic, written on a whim during a break from grad school. I didn’t expect anyone to read it, but to my shock, it won a Moonshine Award. I think that gave me the confidence boost I needed, since I hadn’t written any fiction in nearly ten years. When COVID started, I began writing some ideas that I had bouncing around. I haven’t kept up with them as well as I’d like to due to health problems and personal stress, but they are still close to my heart and slow progress is being made behind the scenes.

The Weight of These Wings Summary: Daryl was fine with waiting on his brother to get out of jail so they can move on to the next town, but his life just keeps getting more and more crowded. When an accident brings in a whole new group of folks who seem determined to stay put, he tries to come to terms with the fact that he might as well suck it up and try to make room for them. Especially for this blonde girl, who ends up taking up a hell of a lot more room than he thought she would. But can he keep his demons from his past at bay, or will the weight of these wings wear him down? Thoughts: This is my baby. It’s the first time I’ve not given up on a longer project, even though it may seem like I have. It’s an AU where Daryl finds himself and his family without walkers involved. Despite not being set in the ZA, I weave in elements of the plot of the show with a twist. I absolutely love where I’m going to go with it.

a different kind of ‘oh’ Summary: He just looks at her, and he thinks of a million different scenarios where this would maybe be okay. If he was younger. If she was older. If he was nicer. If she was rougher. But deep down he knows that if any of that was true, it wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t be Beth and Daryl. Thoughts: This was my own personal Bethyl fix-it fic, where Beth is never abducted. It was also my first time even writing a kiss, much less smut. I was super nervous to publish it, and thrilled with the response it got! It’s almost done, but on hiatus for now. The final chapter will be written eventually.

peachthorns would also like everyone to know that she will be updating very soon, so go give her fics a revisit to prepare yourselves, and keep an eye out for more!

#bethyl fanfiction #new author of the month

[iggy-licious]

One Shot: Tête à Tête

OK... This is super long and super indulgent, but if you want smut, you got it. 😈 Iggy terrorizes a journalist and turns the tables for something much better for both of them. NSFW.

I just finished it, and I can't look at it anymore without going insane. 🤪 Please excuse any writing glitches.

Thank you for reading and going along with my Iggy shenanigans. ❤️❤️❤️

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

“You see,” he chuckles softly, “this is why I fucking hate doing interviews.” He tosses his fedora onto a nearby chair, runs a hand through his jet-black, dyed hair, shakes his head in disdain, and fishes his Marlboros and lighter out of his pocket. He leers at me, cigarette hanging onto his pouty bottom lip for dear life, before he lights it. He takes a puff and exhales the smoke in my direction, his mouth gaping slightly in what I could imagine to be a slow, satisfied exhale in a more romantic setting.

But we’re at an impasse, facing off at opposite sides of an overstuffed hotel couch. I made the cardinal sin of asking if The Stooges might ever get back together. 

Iggy remains silent and continues to smoke while staring me down. His look is full of slow-simmering anger and curiosity, as if he’s given up on the interview and is studying me to find creative ways to get under my skin.

But little does he know, he’s already succeeded at that.

The man had proved to be a good-natured, but eccentric, raconteur, and I was captivated by his stories and energy earlier. His smoky liner and shadow couldn’t blunt the sparkle in his large eyes when he gushed about the experimental nature of his Zombie Birdhouse album. I had been nervous going into the interview, but he had won me over with his intelligence, passion, and mild flirtation. It was fair to say that I had been in danger of him short-circuiting my professionalism. Him and those eyes, the color of a clear Caribbean lagoon. 

But that was then. Now, it's his scornful vibe that holds me in thrall. It screams of the primal unpredictability that was his ace in his old band. This nicotine pause feels like a dam holding back a flood of turbulent emotions. In the current, painful silence, I’m acutely aware that he could roar to life in a second and drown me in a passionate diatribe of words. Or, he could decide he’s bored and kick me out at any time. These thoughts set my heart into overdrive for many reasons, both professional and personal.

He’s studying me with an emotionless poker face, but his eyes feel like they're boring into mine. Large, blue, graced with the pretty eyelashes that most people get from a mascara tube.

His eyes turn out to be his secret weapon. I find myself powerless, waiting for his next words. After our initial discussion I'm surprised he can be anything less than an open book. I silently pray that I’ll come up with something to say, something that draws him in again, something that gets this interview back on track. Something that brings back his lopsided grin and the happy fluttering of infatuated butterflies in my stomach, if I'm being honest with myself. 

“Do you smoke?” he asks, lightly pinching the cigarette between his fingers and holding it out to me. He raises an eyebrow and smirks. 

I feel like it’s some weird test, the final exam of our time together. Now or never. Do or die.

Lucky for me, I do smoke. “I’ll take it,” I say, realizing how exhausted I feel from the tense minutes that have just transpired. I hope for the best. I can’t afford to blow this interview.

His lips turn upward in a subtle smile as I smoke. 

I’ve passed the test. 

I suck on the cigarette hard, preferring the party of deadly chemicals in my lungs to the charged air that hung thick in the room a moment before. I close my eyes and exhale. When I open them again, I meet his gaze, which he abruptly drops to my full lips, painted with a red that complements my light brown skin. He inspects the smudge of my lipstick on his cigarette when I return it, before stubbing it out in an ashtray.

“You know,” he says, tracing a finger on the arm of the couch, “I think you’re a good interviewer, a good conversationalist. I’m just tired of the pop culture psychoanalysis bullshit that goes down in these interviews. Do you know what I mean? How about we just talk for a while? About anything.” 

“That sounds nice,” I venture. Part of me will look for any opening to steer back to the interview, but part of me certainly doesn’t mind getting to know Iggy better.

He hits the stop button on my tape recorder and then walks to the mini-fridge. “No recording, no journalist, no so-called ‘godfather of punk,’ just you and me and some beers,” he says while setting a six-pack on the coffee table.

I look longingly at my recorder, wondering what juicy confessions I might miss if we talk more informally. I wouldn't dare turn it on, though, while the connection we're rebuilding is so fragile. 

Before I can panic, he frees a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from its tight ring of plastic and hands it to me. Then, after he nips into his can, he tells me the story of his first beer and the shenanigans he'd gotten into back in Michigan, before The Stooges. This segues into talk about his favorite German beers and stories of misbehavior in Europe with David Bowie.

Iggy makes me laugh with his cartoon voices and facial expressions. I watch the vaguely man-shaped earring in his right ear dance with the rubber contortions of his face.

With the second beer cans, we’ve moved closer together on the couch, and I’ve taken off my black pumps. I’m thankful that my skin color hides the flush in my cheeks from the fizzy intoxicant.

His jokes get louder and more blue. We're back in a good conversation groove again. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. 

My professional conscience chided me for beer number two, but the wheaty nectar in the third can has drowned out that small voice. Iggy inches closer and tells me about growing up in a trailer. “If you can remember any of this shit, feel free to write about it,” he says. His laughter is a challenge and a taunt.

I will myself to remember, to sear the facts of his life into my brain. These anecdotes are gold, the kinds of things that can add meat to the pitiful skeleton of my story as it stands now.

I’m laughing, and I park my hand on his thigh. The black trousers can't hide the fact that his legs are well muscled from swimming and his onstage moves that defy the range of a normal human body.

Before I can stop myself, I’m slowly trailing my hand up and down his leg. 

“Mmm…” He purrs and moves closer, while wrapping an arm around me. He drains the last of his beer and takes mine before I can get a final sip. 

Our faces are close, and I see that the blue of his eyes has darkened. I’ve lost myself, drowning in those pretty cobalt pools until he smiles wickedly. 

His voice is a murmur. “This is more fun than an interview, isn’t it?”

"You got me there, Iggy," I say. My response comes easy and breathy, thanks to the beer and my simmering lust. 

He looks at me fondly. "Call me Jim. Just use Iggy for your story, OK?" 

"OK, Jim."

He cradles my face in both of his hands and brushes his lips against mine. Then I surrender to his roving tongue in the same way I hope to similarly give my body to him, now that professional pretense has been shattered by primal desire.

Since I'm off duty now, I take down the ponytail that was taming my curls and allow my hair to fall past my shoulders. 

He holds my gaze as a hungry smile spreads on his face and he twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. "She's come undone, huh?" He kisses me again, feasting on my mouth with his lips and his sure tongue. 

I’ve noticed the bulge in his pants has become bigger, and my mind flashes to all the reports I’ve heard of him whipping his notoriously large cock out during performances. The thought of his boldness, and the thought of exploring his magnificent body, both fan the flames that have caused my core to throb with insatiable hunger.

I pull him to me and unleash my passion with a sinful, lush kiss. My hands stroke his torso, his back, his hair. "Just as I thought…" He says in a hushed tone, "There's a beautiful, wild woman just below the surface. I'm glad to finally meet her." He cups my throat and transfers his electric passion to me through another kiss. 

When I pause to help him out of his black leather jacket, his breathing is shallow and his eyes are glazed with need. My body is feverish, anticipating our tryst. 

I remove his black t-shirt next, revealing his finely chiseled torso. Newspaper and magazine photos don’t do it justice. I explore his musculature with my hands and delight in the firm, tanned skin. 

Then he’s out of his red briefs and the pants in the blink of an eye. I gasp at how perfect he looks--the hard muscles and their sensuous, masculine curves, the broadness of his chest and shoulders, the long torso with marble-etched abs, the slimness of his waist, the swelling of his thighs and ass. It's the graceful, olympic body of a swimmer…or an agile, flexible rock god. 

Not to be outdone, his manhood is long, thick, and utterly enticing. I want to savor him as much as I want to be worshipped by him, consumed by his strong passion, filled exquisitely by his largesse.

He lowers me on the couch and in a velvet onslaught of kisses and gropes, he removes my clothes: denim jacket, tight black dress, underwear, and stockings.

His movements are slow and taken with great care as he kisses down my naked body. He is calm, indulgent, masterful. The out-of-control nature of Iggy gives way to a patient, capable lover who revels in the softness of my generous curves.

He straddles me and blazes a lusty trail down my body with his tongue. His hands firmly canvas my breasts and his thumbs then tease my nipples into rigid peaks. 

"So soft…" His voice trails as he bathes my nipples with the warmth of his mouth and tongue. 

I'm snaking my body against the weight of his, while my hands clutch his back. If I fuck up the interview and lose my job, I know our night together will still be totally worth it. 

He releases a nipple with a pop of his lips. "Be patient," he breathes out. "We'll get there."

"Let me guess, it'll be worth the wait?" I ask with an arch of my eyebrow. 

"Well, I don't like to brag…" 

We lock eyes before the kissing resumes. 

His body is warm against mine, and his low, guttural moans punctuate the silence from time to time. Our hands are so curious, so hungry. It's a joy to clutch his powerful back and feel the muscles there side and hitch with each caress he gives me. 

"Come with me?" He abruptly stands. He smiles with an expression that's both shy and seductive as he leads me to the bedroom. 

The light is on. His suitcase is open and its contents are disturbed, as though he was looking for the right outfit for our encounter. The floral bedspread is a bit wrinkled, and I assume he napped on top of it before I arrived. 

We kiss at the side of the bed, in a voracious dance of our lips that still doesn't feel like enough. My need is criminal. I blast the most obscene of intentions to him with my eyes, and he grunts in hungry understanding. 

He lowers me to the bed and straddles me. Being held captive by his muscular thighs and his hands framing my face feels natural, an old, unspoken agreement of longtime lovers. The way we delight in each other is instinctual. 

I lift my chin to kiss him. 

"Later," he says, placing a finger on my lips. "I'll be back."

He crawls down my body and spreads my legs. Then he coaxes a series of unholy moans out of me when he flattens his tongue to my entrance with a series of long ice cream licks, followed by his lips gently sucking on my clit. 

My breathing comes shallow. I can't formulate words to relay to him how good the meandering of his tongue feels, but my writhing and wailing cause him to chuckle gentle vibrations against my pussy, so I know he understands. 

He keeps a steady rhythm and sets my nerves aflame while my hips jerk with the timing of a metronome. I gasp at the tension building in my body, knowing the climax will be devastating. And when it comes, my body stutters into an exquisite live wire dance. 

I'm a sweaty, soaked mess when he informs me that another languid exploration awaits. "I want to make sure you're more than ready," murmurs. This time, it's not a tease, it's a show of care and concern. 

He kisses me with my scent before he resumes. 

I'm still high from the last orgasm, and I float in the ether as he takes his time. I imagine he must be aching to couple with me, but his actions don't betray his need. The defensive Iggy of the interview is gone, replaced by a tender romantic who keeps looking at me to monitor my satisfaction. 

The next climax untethers me from reality, but when he rests a hand on one of my shoulders and slowly guides himself inside of me, I am awakened to now, the universe that consists of the two of us aroused, embraced, and slowly coaxing each other into higher realms of sensation. At last we've found our way to an unbreakable give and take, guided by carnal desire. 

His baritone rumbles with whispered words that would've made me blush during the interview. I marvel at how a change of setting, and a change of attitude, makes all the difference. 

I clutch his back while our rolling motions lull me into a pleasurable dream state. 

His gaze is much softer than it was in the living room, and his eyes sparkle as he looks at me with fondness. I'm treated with the sight of his long eyelashes kissing his face every time he lowers his eyelids. It's nice, knowing that I'm seeing a side of him that few will ever see. 

"You're so fucking good Jim," I exhale, working my hips faster to receive more of his expert thrusts. He rewards me by going harder and deeper. My pussy flushes as each stroke takes me higher. 

"I'm almost there, too," he groans as his hips crash into mine. 

My breath is shallow, and my moans get caught in my throat as we fuck with abandon. The interview is the furthest thing from my mind; my job now is to give as good as I'm getting, and I'm giving it my all. I grab his ass as we pump recklessly. 

Before I know it, pleasure radiates out from my core at light speed, and Iggy howls at the strength of his climax. We've both been transformed, faces glistening with sweat and the satisfaction of well spent energy. 

He rolls onto his back, and I drape my body over his. 

"Incredible," he says while stroking my hair. 

He kisses my forehead and dons his eyeglasses, which were on his dresser, hiding to avoid betraying the soft nerd inside the fearless musician. "Now, back to business, doll. I'll let you finish the interview if I can ask you some questions first. For starters, where are you from?" 

My heart is still racing from our steamy actions, but it skips a beat when I realize I will get my story and not lose my job. 

I giggle and trace a finger on his chest before I start telling him the story of my life. 

#iggy pop #classic rock #punk #the stooges #80s #one shot #my writing #short fiction #fan fiction

[seraphimguks]

smoke and mirrors (m).

>>>pairing: jungkook x reader

>>>word count: 1.4k

>>>genre: smut, angst

>>>disclaimer: nsfw content!

>>>a/n: This is my first attempt at writing bts smut! This is kind of unedited, now that I look at it again, but worry not, I’ll do the changes as soon as I can. I know its a tiny one shot, but if you guys like it enough, I’ll turn this into a series or a longer, completed one shot! :) 

                                                               ~❋~

It’s in a motel room that you see Jeong-guk lying on the bed in his stone washed jeans, shirtless, lighting up a cigarette as he pushes his long, wavy locks away from his eyes. The blinds are lowered, blocking out the sun setting over the horizon.

He eyes you dreamily through the strands that stick to his forehead, hot and sweaty. He looks so delectable, bare chest heaving up and down, jeans teasingly pushed a bit lower than his waistline.

He perks up an eyebrow at you, asking for permission to smoke. You, leg dangling on the other side of the bed, with messy hair and dazed eyes, smirk at him and nod to the direction of the small balcony. He chuckles, as if pleased, moving the Marlboro under his canines before shifting his position to kiss you softly. You taste bitter alcohol on his lips, sweet love.

Moaning into the kiss, his hand finds a way to cup your cheek, thumb gently rubbing in circles as an apparent sign of affection. It's romantic before he pulls away, copying your smirk. You brush his hair back, smoothening the mane he was keeping because you thought it suited him. He notices the red garlands he imprinted you with, traveling from the crook of your neck to the area above your breast.

He grins, evilly.

"What're you looking at, doll?" he says, tilting your chin to match your eyes to his, knowing you were ogling him intently. He just wants to hear you say it. Every now and then he liked an ego boost. 

"You, Jeong-guk." You liked the way you say his name, the way the syllables moved and rested on your tongue. He seemed to approve of that with a slight scoff.

He turns his back to you, before pulling up his jeans and heading out to the balcony. You stare at his toned back, almost tracing the muscles with your fingers as if it were a pattern you could memorise. Heat rising to your cheeks, you look away abashed, coming back to your senses. Squeezing your bare arms, it hit like cold ice that maybe the raven-haired man before you could never look beyond the longingness in your eyes that someday he might love you back.

He keeps the door ajar, and through that tiny slit you saw him standing, hands shoved inside his pockets, perhaps searching for his lighter. The sun had gone down, giving a dusk shade to his frame. Jeong-guk bent down, and you could tell that he was thinking – the way his elbows rested on the cool wrought iron bannister, him looking few years elder in the twilight.

You wished you knew what he was thinking. About you, about anything. He wasn’t one for many words, and all you really wanted was to know him better rather than glancing at him when he slept. You loved his soft exhales when he was asleep, how beautiful his parted lips looked when he breathed. He was like a forest whisper, filling the gap between you and him with thick, wordless silence.

You wanted to tell him, that every time your lips connect, the universe stops. Butterflies flutter as if lost in a crazy hurricane chase. That your adrenaline rushes like an exhilarating carnival ride, giggly smiles as if was he was some kind of sugar rush you were high on.

But whenever he moves away, you felt like a stranger in a home that was never yours to begin with. That the stars were always stars, never the ones that he promised to give you someday, and not even the ones he held in his chocolate brown orbs when he laughed.  

You knew what you wanted was love, but the walls in Jeong-guk’s heart were too high up in his self-doubt.

                                                              ~❋~

Jeong-guk inhaled the cigarette and seeped in the smoke, the familiar hot electricity buzzing through his body just the way he likes it.

Nothing like a cigarette after a good fuck, Jeong-guk thought as he watched life go by below him – the decaying three-storey buildings, the hum of nightclubs opening up for the evening, couples laughing, the whirr of taxis going by.

Run down, two-star motels were never really his thing. He was used to five-star hotels, expensive nightclubs with people that were too ostentatious for his own good. But he liked the tackiness that motels offered, the raw and unkept feeling that made him stay grounded when he’s usually got too much smoke in his lungs, dirt in his hands and women in his pants to deal with.

In his twenty-two years, Jeong-guk measured his life out by the lines of his coarse hands. His mother’s death at a young age, bullying in middle school, and hearing a profusely number of expletives escape his father’s mouth every night for never being the ‘ideal son’. He stared at his hands, his rough, scruffy hands, and pondered how much women loved how rugged he was.

He remembered Seul-gi, who loved taking it fast and aggressive; Mi-rae, who’s moans tasted like honey to his ears when he thrusted into her. Sure, he missed the one-night stands when he didn’t have to give a damn about the women he slept with, when they would just take and leave. But he liked you better, especially now that even thinking about you would make his body jolt up, his feelings hitting harder than a bullet train.

You, you were different.

Fuck, he was already sporting a semi through his pants already. Jeong-guk pressed over his bulge, but it wouldn’t subside, not when he clearly remembers pumping his seed into your very womanhood passionately, hearing his name escape your lips, the way you stretched your neck to have him pepper kisses onto you, the delicious curve of your breasts, how warm and tight you felt when he was inside of you, the birthmark nestled near your thigh that you were embarrassed of revealing at first, the way you broke into high-pitched laughter when Jeong-guk spoke in his low baritone cause you thought it was cute, the way you rubbed his cheek softly with the back of your hand when he slept (or more like, when he pretended to, that is) , the smile you gave when you snuggled near his arms – fuck, that smile. That smile got him every time.

Well, this is bad sign.

Combing through his jet-black blades, he let his locks cascade down his face as he lets out a heavy exhale at his realisation. Jeong-guk couldn’t tell you how much he felt for you no matter how much he wanted to. Jeong-guk was introverted, he felt more than he said. He’d cemented walls around his heart for a long time, but maybe it’s time that he let those walls fall apart for you. That’s when he decided to take a decision before he could even think it thoroughly.

He yanked the door open, but stopped midway. Your bra strap was hanging loosely by your arm, head lolling over the headboard. If Jeong-guk’s alpha instincts hadn't kicked in, he would have charged at you like a wolf and devoured you, stuffing into you all the way. He was clearly drinking in your appearance, from the way the lingering smoke from the room to you, his ravening dressed in honey-coloured skin.

“Let’s go out,” Jeong-guk proclaimed, getting his crumpled and buttoning his white button-down t-shirt. Something in him just wanted to do something out of his heart. He knew it was unusual, doing things that normal couples would do. He saw you perked up on your bed, visibly surprised.

His mind was working fast, like a tape recorder left on fast forward.

Wait, stop–

“Why? Can’t we–“

Jeong-guk didn’t like being questioned. He remembered how his father was like that. Dark, firm, indisputable to the very word. Looks like he was really his son after all. The very thought of having to share genes with that dirty man drove Jeong-guk insane.

“Just cause,” Jeong-guk didn’t want to answer. He couldn’t roll his tongue to say the very words. He could feel his uptight, heavy ego breaking into the soft corner of his heart that he held for you. It was turmoil inside him. “Can you just get ready already?” 

You were recollecting yourself, Jeong-guk saw how you tried to look for an answer in his eyes.

“Where are we going?” He knew this was coming. Jeong-guk seriously wanted to shut you up by smashing his lips roughly against yours, but looking at your softened features in the light and how delicate you looked, he stopped. 

The old Jeong-guk would have berated him for taking such a brash decision, but Jeong-guk was never his old, stupid, impetuous self when he was with you. Maybe that’s why he felt different when he was with you, a magnetic attraction that failed to manifest with his other encounters beyond a Four Seasons hotel room some place in Seoul he couldn’t bother to remember. 

“Guk?” You were holding his wrist now, tilting your head to match your eyes with his. Jeong-guk always noticed how your eyes always shone like glimmering pebbles in shallow waters whenever you spoke to him. 

Where did you get the courage to love someone as broken as him? And why were you wasting your unconditional love on someone like Jeong-guk, whose secrets would distance you from him in the most painful way possible? 

Defeatedly, the wolf-like man heaved a sigh, lungs swelling with the words that he was just about to say.

Jeong-guk, no.

“I’m taking you out on a date.”

#jungkook #jungkook smut #smoke and mirrors #btsghostie #bts #jeon jungkook smut #bts smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook one shot #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts scenarios #jeongguk #jeongguk smut #jeongguk fanfic #bts fanfic #bts one shot #jeon jeongguk

[noladyme]

Chess. Chapter 5

Y/N never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. She only took what she needed, or what she felt others needed. She’d stayed out of sight for a long time, avoiding anything that could get her in to too much trouble. But for some reason Rick Flag shows up in her life, and in an instant, everything changes.

(Fair warning, this is about to get even darker. We are moving towards a much deeper connection between Chess and Rick; but I find a deep connection needs a backstory. Also; let me know if you want to be added to my tag list. I’m still new at this, but I love knowing that people are actually reading my dribble.)

TW: sexual harassment/assault, torture, sexual themes, violence

I rubbed my neck, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

“Did you just microchip me, like some animal?”, I asked. “Something like that”, Flag said, and pulled a radio from his belt. “GQ, get the crate”, he spoke into it, and walked towards the door.

Diablo went to get a t-shirt, hanging over a chair, and put it on. “They got us rigged with some dynamite shit”, he said, and started stretching his shoulders. “Big boom”, Digger said, emulating an explosion coming from his neck. “Knocked String Boys head clean of”. “Slipknot”, Diablo corrected him. “Whatever”, was the answer, as Digger went to lay down on a bench, covering his eyes with his arm; apparently preparing to take a nap.

“Welcome to the family”, Diablo said, smirked at me, and went for a set of dumbbells in his corner.

Croc had pulled a slice of what looked like day-old pizza, from his hoodies pocket, and was eating it with a terrifyingly pleased face.

Harley – motherfucking Harley Quinn – was muttering quietly to herself, before lighting up in a big smile, exclaiming: “Ants!”, and skipping away to do whatever it is psychopathic criminal overladies do, when no one is watching.

The door behind me opened, and Edwards, whose acquaintance I’d made the day before, came into the gym. Behind him, the Tweedles were dragging a large box. Edwards and Flag exchanged a few hushed words; and Flag gazed over his shoulder to meet my eyes, before looking back at his subordinate. “… hope they’re ready”, was all I could make out from their conversation; and chills ran down my spine.

They put the box on the floor in front of me. Flag bent to unlock it, and his t-shirt rode up a bit, revealing some bruises and scratches on his lower back and hip. “Get into a fight?”, I smirked. “Just a feral cat”, he answered, smiling over his shoulder. Apparently, I’d gotten in enough punches, to make him feel it even now, quite a while later.

He opened the lid. “Here’s your shit. If you want to change, there’s a bathroom through that door”, he said, nodding towards the door Harley and Digger had come through. “Just be careful; you might get an audience. Which reminds me”. He walked over to where Digger lay; and kicked at the bench, making the peeping tom fall of it. “Hey jackass! Stop being creepy, and let people shit in peace”. Digger scrambled onto his legs, and made a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”, he boomed, and laid back down, muttering curses under his breath.

“Ladies don’t shit, colonel. We powder our noses”, Harleys voice came from somewhere. Looking up, I saw that she was hanging upside down from a rope, one leg intertwined with it. Twirling her ponytails, she winked at me, before blowing a large bubble with the pink gum in her mouth.

Croc had pulled out a second slice from his pocket, and was chewing away. His enjoyment of the snack was almost obscene. He nodded towards the box in front of me. “What you got in there?”, he asked. I rifled through the things, recognizing some of my own belongings. It was now I realized that none of the crew were wearing all prison garb. Diablo had a bluish varsity jacket hanging from a chair, and Deadshots sneakers were definitely not prison grade; I could tell from the high-end label on the side.

The other three were also wearing some sort of personal addition to the orange pants and tank top, provided by Belle Reve. For Croc, it was his brown velvet hoodie; and Digger had on a coat that looked like it desperately needed a washing. Harley had on a pair of striped pink and blue shorts, held up by suspenders. The shorts barely covered her ass, and showed of the many tattoos on her legs.

Taking my favorite band t-shirt out of the box, I noticed it still had some cat hair stuck to it, from my beloved babies at home. Selina, I’m trusting you to take good care of them, I thought. I put the shirt on the floor beside me, and continued to go through the box. A polaroid of me on stage, my first night at Sammy’s; my copy of Alice In Wonderland; a pair of hot pink socks, I’d knitted myself; an oversized greyish flannel shirt, I’d stolen from an ex; some makeup and black nail polish, in a black purse; and a pair of broken, furry handcuffs – Ahh, Vegas, I smiled. Finally, I pulled out a small stuffed bunny, I’d won at a travelling fair, a few weeks before I’d been taken by Hatter. I stroked its tiny face, and discretely kissed its head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Digger looking at me, sending me a friendly smirk and nod. I smiled back.

I kept searching through the box. “Looking for something?”, Flag said from behind me. “Where are my smokes?”, I sighed. “There were no cigarettes in the box when it arrived”, Flag answered me. He’d already gone through it.

A large scaly hand offered me a pack of Marlboro Lights, and looking up at Croc with a thankful smile; I took one of the cigarettes, and popped it in my mouth. “Anyone have a light?”. Diablos hand appeared in front of my face; pinky stretched. A tiny flame burned from it, taking me by surprise; and I half laughed, half guffawed, as I lit the cigarette.

“I knew you could do that!”, Harleys shrill voice sounded. Her head appeared next to mine, and she rested her chin on my shoulder. She smelled like bubblegum and cotton candy, and for a hot second I was tempted to turn my head and lick her face.

“Who the hell gave Croc access to cigarettes?”, Flag muttered to Deadshot. “You know how he gets when he runs out, and goes cold turkey!”. “You’re telling me, man. There’s still a hole in the wall between his and my cell, from when he ran his fist through it”, Deadshot smirked.

“Ooh! What’s that?”, Harley asked, and reached in to the box, revealing a false bottom. I removed the thin board of metal.

There you are!

Surrounded by the whole crew – a curious Digger having joined us – I picked up a black, cropped and hooded faux leather jacket. The pleather was undamaged still, and putting it on, I pulled up the hood, and closed the zipper. With the help of the hood and the large collar, my face disappeared into shadows. Flag looked at me, lifting his chin; staring me down. His gaze made me slightly uncomfortable – or was it stirred? – and I took off the jacket again.

A loose purple, off the shoulder crop top; and a pair of black, high waist, lycra and mesh leggings completed the outfit. Finding my favorite combat boots in the box, I only needed one thing.

I moved around rope, a crowbar, some lockpicks, and a hammer and chisel. There they were. My claws.

“Cute mittens”, Harley giggled, and grabbed for the black fingerless gloves. “Careful!”, I gasped, and quickly grasped them. Harley pouted. “What? You don’t like sharing your toys?”.

I put on the gloves, made a fist; and from my knuckles sprang 4 curved knives. Edwards and the twins quickly raised their guns at me, prepared to shot, if I tried anything. I rolled my eyes, and noticed Flag trying to hide a smile.

Picking up an old sock, I demonstrated the blades sharpness, by cutting through it. The knives went through the fabric like butter; and Harleys eyes widened. “Oh”, was all she said, after which she took a step back; and went to stand behind Deadshot. “Lady, you got some sharp nails there”, he said, and chuckled.

“You still know how to use them?”, Flag asked, not removing his eyes from the blades on my hands. I just smirked.

I went to stand by the wall. I could feel eyes on my back from my audience. I bent my knees; and then leaped. I grasped the wall with the claws, and started climbing upwards. At the top of the wall was a row of tiny windows. “Don’t do it, Y/N!”, Flag called, as I heard the soldiers cock their guns. I looked over my shoulder, winked at him; and smiled.

I quickly moved laterally on the wall. Gunshots sounded, and the wall beside me suddenly was full of holes. “Hold your fire! Hold your goddamn fire!”, Flag yelled desperately. The gunfire stopped, and I made myself reappear; hanging by my claws from the basketball hoop on the opposite wall. One of the Tweedles cocked his gun again; and everything after that happened in slow motion.

The soldier took aim at me; looking pissed. From out of nowhere, Flag jumped at him; knocking him to the ground. The gun went off; bullet narrowly missing my head – and I fell.

---

I landed on my back; the wind knocked out of me. I closed my eyes, and heard people running towards me. I felt a strong arm under my back, and a hand behind my head. “Y/N”, Flags shaking voice called out. “Come on kitten, wake up”, he whispered into my ear, his breath warm against my neck.

I opened my eyes, seeing his face inches from mine, mouth slightly opened to speak again. I suddenly noticed there were specks of green in his brown eyes.

I blinked once. “Are you gonna kiss me now?”, I asked, and smiled crookedly.

Flag let go of me, and pulled back, lips now in a thin line. He stood up, and stormed towards the shooting twin. He grabbed his collar; and slammed him against the wall. “What the fuck is your problem? Do you not know how to follow an order?”. The soldier put his hands up. “Sir, she was going awol!”. “She is an asset. Wallers asset!”. Flag punched Tweedle in the gut; making him double over. “Get this asshole out of here”, he called to Edwards and the other twin; who dragged the panting soldier out of the room, Flag following them to the door, still cursing.

Deadshot crouched in front of me, holding his hand in front of my face, a couple of fingers raised. “How many fingers am I holding up?”, he asked. “What are fingers?”, I joked; making him chuckle again.

He helped me onto my feet. “You are a hard one to kill, Chess”. “Nah”, I answered. “I can die plenty. I think my secret is, I just really don’t want to”, I said, and stretched my arms into the air, feeling my bones pop.

“Why didn’t you run? You could have made it through the window”, Diablo asked from behind Deadshot. “I wouldn’t have made it half a mile. I’m spent”, I answered. “I need energy to smile, and they’ve had me living on cat food for a month. Only just had a real meal yesterday”. “Que cabrón”, Diablo spat.

Politely refusing one of Crocs pocket-pizza slices; I went back to my box of belongings. Kneeling beside it, I quickly changed into the band t-shirt. It had been a snug fit once; but my kibble-diet had made it quite a bit looser.

Flag crouched next to me. “You good?”. He didn’t look at me, but kept his eyes on the ground. “That wasn’t supposed to happen”. I scoffed. “I’m fine. Just a few more bruises to add to the collection”. Flag exhaled. “You can keep the civilian clothes, and three items from the top layer of the box. Your combat equipment will be stored for you, until you need it”. He stood back up. “The rest will be destroyed”.

I scowled at him, and stood up, putting my hands on my hips; swaying back and forth a bit, deciding; then bent over, and started gathering the things I’d chosen. I felt his eyes on me. “Checking out the asset?”, I teased.

“Could you just for a second stop that shit? Stop flirting, and start being serious about the situation you are in!”, he growled at me. “Why? Am I getting in to your head?”, I twirled around, and pouted at him innocently.

He shook his head, and furrowed his brow, scoffing at me. “Just quit it, and do the job we brought you here to do”.

I stepped up to him, and looked him square in the face. “I’ll quit it, when you quit that good soldier bullshit”, I spat. “You had no right to go after me, and no right to keep me here”.

“I have every right”, he said calmly, staring down his nose at me. “You’re a scumbag. A criminal. The world would be better if you just disappeared”. “Oh?”, I asked; not breaking eye contact. “Tell me, what’s the difference between me and the Bat? That asshole is beating up people left and right; no badge, no warrant… He decides who he thinks is a bad guy, and drags them to the front step of Arkham, or airdrops them in to this shithole”.

I stomped away to grab the sack that had been over my head earlier. I stuffed the book, the makeup-purse, and finally the rabbit into it. I saw Deadshot and the others huddled in a corner; obviously trying to give me some space; and pretending not to be staring at the scene.

Flag stormed after me, grabbed my arm, and spun me around; holding me in place, as I struggled. “You are nothing like him. He brings down criminals. You kidnap judges, and torture them”. His face was inches from mine. “He has never stolen money from anyone”. “Maybe that’s because he is already the richest man in the goddamn country!”, I hissed at him. I looked at the squad in the corner. They didn’t seem to have heard.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”, Flag asked, and let go of my arm. I rubbed the spot he’d been holding on to. “Never mind”, I quietly answered, not wanting to get into it. The papers I’d seen in Lucius Fox’ safe, had made me put two and two together; but as I’d told Deadshot before, I really didn’t want to die – so mr. holier-than-thou Waynes secret, was safe with me. That was one wasps nest I was not putting my hand into.

Flags face had softened. “What happened with judge Kelper?”. “Your read the file”, I answered, not looking at him. “I kicked his ass”. “Before that”, he demanded. “What made you do it? If you’re not a bad guy, you must have had a reason”. I closed the box, and sat down on it. “Truth?”, I asked. He nodded.

“Kelper would show up at the club sometimes – slumming it. I knew who he was, because he was the judge at an arraignment, where I was charged with pickpocketing for the Hatter”. I folded my hands in my lap. “Someone caught you pickpocketing?”, he smirked, a slight warmth returning to his eyes. “Tetch hadn’t fed me in a couple of days. When my bloodsugar is low, and my energy is down, it’s difficult to keep up the mirage”, I admitted. “Anyway, Kelper would bring in whoever he was paying off, to further his political career, and wave money around; getting the performers to join them at their table. I was stupid enough to take some of it myself”. I winced; remembering how I’d sat on his lap, and played the part of willing participant in his little erotic adventure. Flag looked down. “I never let it go any further than a lapdance”, I said, actually worried he’d think even less of me than he already did.

“So, then what?”, he asked. I bit my lip. “Did you know he’s married? He’s got a beautiful trophy wife, and two teenage daughters, almost out of high school. Cheerleaders, blonde. Ditsy as fuck, but on their way to bright futures, due to daddys money, and mommys good looks”. “But?...”, he probed.

I sighed. “There was a girl at the club, Sarah, just turned 18; poor family, desperately trying to scrape up some money for college. One night, he invited her to join him and his friends in their limo. He said he’d give her a ride home, and maybe a recommendation for college”. Flags eyes turned cold again. I continued. “He kept calling her Stephanie, even when she tried to correct him”. I looked up at him. He was looking more and more aggravated. “She didn’t show up for work the next day, so I went to her place”. I ground my teeth together, before continuing. “Her mom told me she was in the hospital. When Sarah had refused to put out willingly, Kelper had held her down... When he was finished with her, he’d let his friends have the leftovers”.

I looked at my feet. “His youngest daughters name is Stephanie”.

I was jolted, when Flag kicked the box I was sitting on; clenching his fist, and cursing quietly. “Sorry”, he said, looking at me. I was unsure what the apology was for; the kick, or my story.

I stood up. “So, now you know. I beat that shitheads face into a pulp, clawed his skin; and made sure he’d never be able to do that to another person again”. Flag stayed quiet.

I picked up my sack of belongings, and went to face him again. “And just for the record, that last 13.000 dollars… Sarahs mom couldn’t afford the hospital bill, and became behind on the payments. They almost got kicked out of their apartment the week before I raided that safe”.

We stood there for a little while, staring each other down.

“I’m sorry that happened”, Flag said. He sighed. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the situation you’re in. You’re going to have to be a part of this team, if you want to ever get your life back”. He was almost apologetic. “I know”, I admitted. “And for the record; I am a bad guy”, I said. “A really good bad guy”. Flag smirked at me, and moved to the middle of the room. Apparently, our conversation was over.

---

“Alright people! Unfortunately, we won’t have a lot of time to get acquainted with our newest team member”, he called, grabbing the attention of the rest of the squad. “We have a new mission”. “That was fast”, Deadshot said. “Sorry, Floyd. You’re going to have to take a rest from the ball, and reacquaint yourself with your guns”, Flag answered.

“So. Here’s the brief…”.

Tag list:

@gloriousgam3r​

@hyp-oh-critical​

#rick flag x reader #rick flag #rick flag fic #rick flag imagine #suicide squad fic #suicide squad imagine #harley quinn #deadshot

[firebrands]

mahina lang ang boses mo, ngunit bumibilis ang puso | steve/tony

1.7k, T — Ateneo University AU. Drinking, flirting, kissing. And Sam & Bucky being gremlins. | stony bingo prompt fill: free | on ao3

***

“Man, I hate these lights,” Steve says, using his hand as a shield from the bright neon glow above them. Every time his friends had dragged him to Drew’s, he’d always complained: the lights, the sticky floors, the way some students had started drinking mid-afternoon so by six were already passed out or puking. But what Steve complained about the most were the drinks; Bucky and Sam were always trying to be efficient about their alcohol consumption, trying to find ways to get as drunk as possible on Friday nights without spending all of their money.

The drinks at Drew’s were awful. Someone had told him once, while he was in line for the bathroom, that the drinks were laced with MSG—“That’s why you get drunk right away, man. The MSG dehydrates you so you keep drinking.” Though a strange venue to share a rumor, Steve had felt that there was a grain of truth to it.

A plastic pitcher is placed in front of them, along with three shot glasses. They’d ordered their usual gin and pomelo mix, the drink looking sickly orange under the lights, rather than pale pink. Bucky cackled as he poured them shots.

Steve holds back on complaining about the use of shot glasses rather than actual normal-sized glasses, because Sam and Bucky had overexplained the beauty of the current vessel the last time they’d been here. Steve rolls his eyes at them before clinking their glasses together and downing their drinks.

***

Steve is leaning back happily on the plastic chair, tipsy and pleased to be spending his Friday evening with his friends, despite his earlier protestations. They’re still drinking, but they’re close to being drunk, and there’s a small part of Steve that worries about what kind of bullshit they’ll get into this time, because last Tuesday they’d dared each other to run across the four-lane street to take a piss on the lamppost on the island of Katipunan Avenue.

“No pissing dares,” Steve says, suddenly alert. “No piss dares.”

Bucky looks up from lighting his cigarette, then laughs. “You just want to keep the title, piss champ.”

“Fuck off.”

It’s in the brief moment of jostling that Tony Stark arrives.

Like every cliche popular guy on campus, Tony Stark’s arrival is always cause for fanfare; everyone in the bar turns to him in greeting, like moths to a flame. They all know him, or want to know him.

Steve can’t point out why—is too drunk to even try, but it sets his teeth on edge. He looks away and pours their drinks. He hears Sam’s voice over the din of the crowd and the bad music. “Tones!” Steve looks up with a jolt, and then there he is, grinning with Sam’s arm slung over his shoulder.

“This is Steve and B—”

“James,” Bucky says, waving at him.

“Hi,” Steve says, feeling too small in his own skin.

“Have a drink,” Sam says. He gives Bucky a meaningful look that Steve can’t parse, and with a start, Bucky stands up.

“Gonna get cigarettes,” Bucky says.

He stands and waves at them before hastily leaving. Steve looks down at the table, and the half-full pack of Marlboro reds.

“You can sit there,” Sam says, pointing at Bucky’s now vacant seat.

Steve realizes what’s happening, but it’s too late—Tony slides over and sits beside him.

Steve can’t explain it, but even the way Tony sits exudes coolness, and he feels helplessly drawn to him. Tony stretches out his legs under the table, his knee brushing against Steve’s thigh.

Steve swallows. He realizes the pitcher is in front of him. He pours another shot, and hands it to Tony.

“Cheers,” Tony says.

Tony catches Steve staring at him before Steve even realizes he’s doing it, and he winks at Steve before he downs his drink. In the moment that immediately follows Steve’s flush, he watches Tony’s throat work, tracks the expanse of skin.

Steve drinks hastily, and when he puts down his glass, Sam is grinning directly at him. In the corner of his eye he sees Tony pull out his phone, and Steve takes the opportunity to glare at Sam.

He’d mentioned his passing crush on Tony while the three of them were on a cigarette break in the smoker’s pocket garden (which students affectionately called the ‘smocket’) and Tony had parked right in front of them and waved at Sam before leaving.

“Who’s that?” Steve asked.

“Former lab partner,” Sam said casually. Then he turned to Steve, a slow, knowing grin forming on his lips. “Why?”

Steve frowned at him. “He’s cute.”

Bucky choked on smoke. “Yeah, I mean he’s Tony Stark.”

“He’s Tony Stark?” Steve nearly screeched. He’d heard stories about him, and of course—it was hard to miss the business building being named after his dad.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky said with a laugh. “It’s been a whole ass semester and you’d never made the connection?”

“I don’t know people,” Steve said tersely. “I mean there’s no reason I’d ever have crossed paths with him.”

Sam and Bucky shared a look.

“Stop,” Steve said shoving both of them. “Doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Tony taps his glass. “Come on Wilson, I gotta catch up.”

Sam gives Steve one last meaningful look before pouring their drinks.

“So how do you know Sam?” Tony asks.

“Oh, we’re on the football team together,” Steve says. He has to angle himself a little to face Tony properly when he talks, and half of him hates Sam for planning this, but the other half—the drunker half—is pretty happy about his situation.

“Oh of course,” Tony says with a little laugh. He raises his glass, and they all down their drinks. “Should’ve known you were a football player.”

Steve sputters. “Why?”

Tony laughs, turning to Sam with a disbelieving look on his face. “Why, he asks!” He turns back to Steve and gestures at him. “I mean look at you. This is not the body of a casual freshman.”

For the first time in his life, Steve is happy for Drew’s neon red lights. This way, Tony doesn’t see him blush.

***

What followed was a blur. Steve is only sure of a few things: first, that Bucky had come back with a fresh pack of cigarettes, second, that Tony had left to drink with another group of friends, and then another, and then come back to sit beside Steve as if he’d owned the chair, and third—and most importantly—Sam and Bucky were traitors and would get their due.

Sam holds up a finger. “I need to rest my eyes, real quick,” he says.

Bucky laughs. “We’re not falling for that bullshit again. Come on,” he stands, pulls out his wallet.

“I got this,” Tony says, waving them off. He’d moved to rest his arm on the back of Steve’s chair earlier, and Steve hadn’t known peace since; he’s been hyper-aware of every movement between them that could get them to touch, and not knowing if he wanted to or didn’t.

“No, Tony,” Bucky says, laughing a bit uncomfortably. “You barely drank with us.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says, reaching over to push Bucky’s hand away. “I got it.” Tony’s shoulder is flush against Steve’s back. Steve feels a little crazed, wants to have Tony touch more of him, but he stays still.

“Fine,” Bucky says. “But next time it’s on me.”

Tony laughs. “Might regret that, James.”

Bucky smirks and rolls his eyes before patting Sam on the shoulder. “Come on buddy, get up.”

Sam groans.

“Do you want to—“ Steve means to ask any of the following: end the night, go home, stop drinking, but he doesn’t get to because Tony moves and pours their drinks. He can’t believe Sam and Bucky are leaving him with Tony—Tony Stark, who he’d just met and had a crush on for months and now it was just going to be the two of them? In Drew’s? This is not how Steve imagined his first interaction (or any, really) with Tony would be.

Under the haze of alcohol, he feels the tendrils of his earlier anxiety once again take hold. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, didn’t want to be too obvious or forward, and now Sam and Bucky wouldn’t be there as a buffer—

“Let’s just finish this then we can jet,” Tony says, stopping Steve’s train of thought.

In his periphery, he sees Bucky tilt his head. “Take care of Steve,” he says.

Tony snorts. “Seems like he’s more suited to take care of me,” he says, playfully slapping Steve’s bicep.

Steve makes a choked sound that he hopes is drowned out by the music.

“How are you getting home?” Tony asks, because he’s new to this, doesn’t know their routine. “Do you need a ride?”

“Thanks, Tony, but I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive right now,” Bucky says, finally giving up on Sam getting up on his own and hefting him up by his armpits. “I’ll get him sobered up and get him a cab.”

Tony nods. “What about you?” He asks, turning to Steve.

“Oh I’m just down the street.”

Tony grins at him. “Cool.” They wave goodbye to Bucky, Sam slung over his shoulder and groaning, then Tony orders them another pitcher.

Despite himself, Steve smiles.

They spend the next half-hour drinking and talking, and when the other students and the music gets too loud Tony waves him closer, leans in so he can hear what Steve is saying. Steve follows, shifts his chair until their hips are almost pressed against each other. He’s not even sure what they’re talking about; common friends or the last movie Steve had watched, professors they’d liked, the banality of coursework—it didn’t matter, because each time Tony spoke to him he’d move closer, so close that Steve could feel Tony’s breath on his neck.

Steve laughs at something Tony said, and Tony pulls back to look at him, a pleased smile on his lips.

The realization hits Steve like a train, and before he can recover, Tony tugs him forward by his collar into a kiss.

Their lips stay closed, then a small, half-hysterical laugh bubbles out of Steve and Tony takes it as an opening, sliding his tongue into Steve’s mouth, and that—that’s definitely much better.

They pull away, breathless, and Steve laughs again. “Fuck,” he says.

Tony grins at him. “You wanna?”

#stevetony #superhusbands #stony #steve/tony #college au #steve rogers #tony stark #ateneo stevetony #filipino stevetony #lmao i went. off w this fic #things i write

[mochilicious-yoongi]

Title: Cigarettes and balconies

Pairing: MYG x reader

Warning: slight stalking?pining I don't really know what I am doing 😅,

Rating: teen and up

Tagging :@adventuresinwonderlust

It's always the same time, the same spot, you know he's gonna be there smoking his favorite black malboro. Might be or might not be wearing his favorite Epic high T-shirt collection. He always wears his biker boots even inside his apartment. You can even hear the sound of the heels knocking on the wooden floor. Why not? Your just a wall away from him and the studio type floor plan of the apartment doesn't provide soundproof walls. Somehow that's all you can hear. You can even remember when was the last time you've heard or saw someone in his apartment. Probably 3 months ago, when he moved in to the last door in these floor which is next to you. You stand up and sat down at the couch whom you chose to place in between your bedroom window and the open door whom you can freely see the man's pretty face without embarrassing yourself. Sitting atop of the cemented handrail, the black Marlboro between his fingers, He was playing with his silver lighters, playing a soft clicking sound as he closes and opens the lid. A small smile was painted on his lips.As usual, he occasionally glances beyond the dark skies and nightlights of buildings and vehicles. You were thankful that he is not wearing a hoody tonight, and you can clearly see his gorgeous face. His feline like eyes and small nose that can be of a female. His silver locks compliments with his vampire like clear skin matching his black aesthetics. And you're favorite expression, his pouting pink lips whenever you felt like he is thinking about something. He has a lean body, just enough muscle with a broad shoulder. It's always your favorite part of your day when your beautiful neighbor sits down for his cigarettes on his balcony for almost 3 months. Its a form of relaxation for you to see him after every day juggling of boring uni schedules,to tiresome shifts from multiple part time jobs. What is he thinking about? Is he in a relationship? Does he goes to uni too? Doesn't he have friends? Why is he often alone? For you the man is an Enigma. After an hour and a half the man stands up and call it a night. You saw him pauses a little but misses the way his eyes move towards the door of your balcony, after seconds of holding the door knob he just moved again to enter his quiet apartment. You moved your feet to stand up and close your balcony door. Satisfied at least that you were able to spend the quiet night with Enigma. After brushing your teeth you flop down to your bed. "Goodnight Enigma",you said and with a smile on your lips drifted to sleep.

Yoongi opened the door on his balcony, with his lighter and black Marlboro in his hand he sat down atop of the cemented handrail. As expected the door of the neighbors balcony is already open and he can barely see the small couch next to it behind the small window. After few minutes he can hear the faint sounds of feet padding towards the couch. He smiles to himself for the same routine that he and the pretty neighbor shares. He glances at the moving lights of vehicles and some buildings around the city. He was so used of sharing that silent intimacy that it felt like it was already part of his daily routine. After long hours of working as a waiter in a 5star restaurant and taking his final year at SNU as music major, it's feels good that someone is at home actually waiting for you. Well maybe technically you don't live together but the way his neighbor is waiting for him silently everytime to share the calmness of the night,like she can hear him voicing out his inner thoughts and struggles. He can definitely feel the connection between them. All Yoongi knows is that he is pretty when he saw him when he moved in to the apartment. She was alone with occasional friends visiting. He wants to know her name, what are her thoughts, is she free for a coffee? Unknowingly he pouts, he can't risk these just like that. What if she gets shy and won't stay with him on the balcony anymore? Too much worries filled Yoongi's mind. For the almost 3 months he is used to have her for a company. No he wouldn't want it that way. He needs help from the experts. He stands up and let's you take your rest. It's almost midnight and you deserve to rest. He stopped when he is already holding the doorknob and gather the courage to even say hi. But then you are way important, he can do it tomorrow at least. So he just stepped inside and close the door. After a few moments he heard your door closes. And he smiled to himself. "Goodnight pretty neighbor, sweet dreams" he says and goes to the shower to prepare for sleep.

#bts #min yoongi

[six-teenblue]

I miss veronica and zoe bro wtfffff I miss our little house so much :( I’m missing Marlboro so hard lately I feel like I just got shot out into the world with no connections after it closed

[incarnateirony]

Representation, Authorial Diversity, and more.

“I’ll take some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.”

Been a while since most of you thought about that line, hasn’t it? And for some of you it somehow sends some primitive lizard brain gaydar into overdrive and you can’t really pinpoint why, can you? It makes no sense, that line alone, and how it stands -- but between all of the talk of both Bobo Berens and LGBT media history, including The Celluloid Closet/Vito Russo or the Vito Russo Test, this moment actually puts a pin in a shift within our show, its handling of content formerly completely overlooked by creatives, and the importance of diversifying our writing crews that we all press for.

It was the moment our show leaned, and frankly-- should have been the moment the straights panicked. In fact, some of them did, just before it aired, and then everyone has played at oblivious since.

Before seasons air, we get news on new authors being added to teams, or other workers. Pre-S9 was no different, with fandom finding a tweet from Bobo Berens, our first open-closet LGBT author. I mean, Out And Proud. A true king.

The association if this is the mention of the Bechdel Test, a step aside of Vito Russo.

Now let us begin.

Well first of all I’m just gonna let everyone get a giggle at how Bobo handled the straight male knee coil:

But anyway the response to his initial tweet was a merry go round of concern trolling in the area of “OH DEAR I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU PLEASE ALLOW US THE NORMAL ASSBAGS OF THE FANDOM TO TELL YOU AN AUTHOR HOW STRAIGHT THE CHARACTERS ON THE SHOW YOU’RE WRITING FOR ARE” and I dunno, it’s comedy.

Whether or not Bobo was addressing SPN as a new project in particular -- and it, from a dark age of SPN I’ve covered the upheaval during -- this is important. Really, really important.

Let’s say that timeline does overlap Bobo’s, and he did implicitly believe it; he might have had to write them as Straight Guys; but his own deep-seated place in the LGBT community developed resonant text, he made change. Change enough that when his first script was put into motion, the showrunner took one look at it and, for the first time in recorded history, we had note of some sort of intent --

Misha went on to say “so that’s what we played there.”

Regardless of anyone’s misunderstanding about how the fandom riled themselves up prematurely and shot themselves in the foot by lighting a CW exec on fire in the middle of network level board/CEO rotation commotion, or whether or not it’s visible enough for anyone--

this, this moment, this content, created by this LGBT individual led to this first known forward motion of intentful creative subtext. People can hilariously try to argue semantics about it that summarily boil down to “I mean it could be metaphorical jilted lovers it could be this it could be jilted lover bros, it’s just a turn of phrase!” in a loop as they’ve done with this data for six years until it dies every time, but this was it. This was the moment.

There is a nuance in this sort of writing -- how easy would it be for Dean to come up and say, “I’ll take some beef jerky.” Dean’s the meat man, Dean loves meat! We’ve seen it in other, new, straight authors the first time they try to tick off the Dean checklist, but like many lessons, that extra line leading into that smile holds volumes of LGBT history unspoken.

I think several of us Old Gays(TM) have banged on about the necessity of reading the Celluloid Closet, because for as much as people think they’re chasing queer subtext around here, it’s like they have completely missed that there actually is like, a printed, accepted code of conduct on this shit, basically. That’s not exactly what it was released for, but if you’re LGBT and engaged in lit and over 40 like you’ve read and understand and know this.

I’m not going to sit here and over-needle that line; most of you felt it the second your eyes drifted over it; but the sum of it is -- why that, what charming secret comes with that smile, a dean we’ve never seen smoke either, how is this part of how Dean throws himself back before his ex buddy leaves more unseen, *why* is that the hook? These are ironically things that no lit crit study *beyond* excessive citation of Celluloid Closet will really capture. This is a form of queer coding -- not the villainous disaster type that queer coding actually *is*, but the subversive form as it’s begun to be casually addressed in the population with positive, resonant content by authors choked out by IP holders while trying to service an audience. Or sometimes, even starting to accidentally.

So you know, you can unironically double down on the simplicity of Dean implicitly probably being a smoker (a possible read of subtext!), and I think this is kinda where the bizarre split happened tbh, because dude bros double down subconsciously into each reading of this kind of coding-- Dean just smokes, or this or that, though it grows thinner by year. Not about why that line is tossed, and how, and does just set off some sort of TV pheremone we all swamp like a bee hive. None of these moments truly mean anything independently. But it is the perspective and voice the text begins to take. The difference between that and “Hey pal [chews on jerky before buying] marlboros and got any pie?” in one moment that knocked everybody around on their ass in the fray of it. And then it all just went gayer from there, as if framed by one sharp moment that set the rest of the tone.

Hopefully you’ve all read my giant post about the history of this all to remember what I mean by accidentally, but even Bobo posted on it before,

That’s all an aside to the general point but worth placing into the edge of the conversation here.

The simple fact is, an activist gay man joined the show, and possibly with ‘keep it straight’ notes wrote some stuff so resonant, due to his point of view in life and the world, that even the showrunner decided to further guide it in that direction. It blossomed a direction.

The direction was small and slow and meek at first, (well, in final product -- don’t get me started at how S10 looks if all the cut scenes were included) with subtext running as dull echoes in Colette (oh look he wrote that too), and maybe more obvious with classic heart songs -- but even this was more structured than “Misha inherited abandoned storyline they scrubbed the romance out of as best they could”, or “Sera Gamble is a dumbass” that just happened to feature great chemistry and some resonant elements, like Bobo mentioned, we all connected with. But to actually constructively choose to incorporate these, no matter how quietly, was... *new.*

And some called it queerbait and I’ve already given history lessons from other angles on why no, but also now why here, definitely, no.

By season 12 we gained Yockey, another LGBT man, another activist in his own way like Bobo, but his less in writing political stuff and more in writing LGBT specialist plays. And everybody loved him, and saw it, and Yockey gets a boat load of praise -- deserves a lot of it -- but sometiems I feel like Bobo gets trampled over without recognition of how he shifted the playing field, the calculated effort he started putting into mastering those accidental resonances into something new, and ultimately to guiding the new author crew, Yockey included, or Jeremy on this newest episode who thanked him.

The same man that picked up Wayward and connected Dreamhunter... back to his own work and moments. The insanity of yelling “HOW DARE YOU LESSEN DREAMHUNTER BY COMPARING IT TO DESTIEL!” when, dead ass, you’re looking at this author who has carefully incorporated work and, with an already resonant story, made another relationship familiar to us by making it similar. Because that’s how writing stories works! But either way, Bobo has been in here doggedly growing the breadth of the legitimacy of queer narrative in supernatural -- to the point that it HAS narrowly, quietly breached into text even if not “loud” or “visible” enough for some people -- and the point where the subtext is so wall to wall and flooding every piece of cinematography in shooting and not just set or lights but complete mise en scene -- a point where everybody OUTSIDE of fandom is just addressing this shit as what it clearly is --

...That’s something that came with bringing the scope of an LGBT male author into the show. Whether you like the volume he’s been allowed to take his work to or not is your own thing, but before yelling queerbait at any creatives, perhaps it’s time to play “sit down children, and learn to appreciate the activists who came before you and how they’re fighting for you right now”. You wanna yell at something, get organized, pelt the CW in a non-aggressive, non-light-on-fire way, do activism like the books Emily put together that are resultingly still on the current showrunner’s desk now 6 years later, but most of all, don’t take a shit all over content you would otherwise enjoy, at the expense of a man in the demographic you’re trying to represent, who has battled, LITERALLY, for both the women and the gays in this show. Wayward was his baby. This slow swing in S9 that turned into a loud din in S12? 

It wasn’t magic. It was a gay author. A gay author that has now climbed to be an Exec alongside dabb and the others and SURPRISE now suddenly everything’s so gay the whole goddamn world is seeing it. Literally SEEING IT, not just guys looking at each other with stories, but intentful, meritful choice in extremely bold cinematography choices that don’t require chasing a post-it on the wall, but instead are shot with care and devotion. Be that 12.19 Mixtape (OH DAT HIS) or 13.5′s Never Too Late (OH DAT YOCKEY. check what antis said to Dabb in his mentions after, even they saw it). Be that 14.18′s het drama PR promo (OH OOP DAT WAS HIS), be that 15.1-3′s entire tension and the openly addressed and so-called by media sources break up (OH DAT HIS), be that 15.7′s low key textuality (to which the new author thanked the elder for guidance, huh), or 8′s heavily shot domestic separation moment loudly filmed in the choicefully hollowed out and dimmed kitchen bereft of family -- this change? This had a moment. And you can find it.

I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.

So this has been eating at me ever since this whole topic came into play. 

Anyway full circle them trying to ride Bobo to Keep It Straight probably wasn’t their smartest idea ever. We gays are contrarian by nature so tell me to do it again, motherfucker. And now here we are in Destiel Divorce Season 15 as heavily managed by Bobo.

Everyone got so fuckin dramatic when Yockey said he was leaving like, tolling the burial bells of Destiel and-- like??? hello? BOBO? JUST? GOT? PROMOTED? Like Yockey didn’t make that entire platform all by himself, and hell, he didn’t leave without laying out unironic empty space of it. Yo guys, Berens done been here a WHILE to the point he’s now *callbacking his own season 9-10 material wtih him and dabb*. Like. Lmao. Guys. Guys listen. Listen. Think.

Whatever your weird goalpost is I’m not promising anybody’s anything is about to get hit. Whatever clown nose expectations you all have enjoy those and honk those loud and proud but remember most of those are yours. But respect the fact that Berens has essentially cornerstoned an entire queer canon within Supernatural discussion, of which others are included in as they joined.

And yes, queer canon. Not the way fandom throws it around for weird kissing spots, but articles of discussion of queer narratives, of which we can literally draw a wealth of episodes from LGBT authors or their understudies and literally point and go “all of that right there, officer.” Whether it’s visible or textual or undodgeable or marketed enough or glittery enough or whatever for everyone’s very unstable definition of “canon” -- Berens has literally cornerstoned an entire architecture of queer canon within this legacy show.

#supernatural #spn #destiel #bobo berens #representation issues

[magnusarchivestimeline]

Ashley Dobson Disappears (MAG – 001 – Anglerfish) (Approx. Date)

MAG – 001 – Anglerfish:

Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April 22nd 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Regarding: Figure in the shadows asking for a cigarette (Marlboro Red). Multiple missing persons.

People:

Ashley Dobson (missing May 2008)

Siobhan Dobson (presumed last name) (sister)

Sasha

Places:

Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh

Misc.:

Marlboro Red

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Key Language:

I was initially inclined to re-file this statement in the ‘Discredited’ section of the Archive, a new category I’ve created that will, I suspect, be housing the majority of these files.

However, Sasha did some digging into the police reports of the time and it turns out that between 2005 and 2010, when Mr Watts’ encounter supposedly took place, there were six disappearances in and around the Old Fishmarket Close: Jessica McEwen in November 2005, Sarah Baldwin in August 2006, Daniel Rawlings in December of the same year, then Ashley Dobson and Megan Shaw in May and June of 2008. Then finally, as Mr Watts mentioned, John Fellowes in March 2010. All six disappearances remain unsolved.

Baldwin and Shaw were definitely smokers, but there’s no evidence either way about the others, if they’re even connected. Sasha did find one other thing, specifically in the case of Ashley Dobson. It was a copy of the last photograph taken by her phone and sent to her sister Siobhan. The caption was “check out this drunk creeper lol”, but the picture is of a darkened, apparently empty, alleyway, with stairs leading up into it.

It appears to be the same alleyway which Mr. Watts described in his statement, the one that, according to the maps of the area, leads to Tron Square, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the photograph at all. Sasha took the liberty of running it through some editing programs, though, and increasing the contrast appears to reveals the outline of a long, thin hand, roughly at what would be waist level on a male of average height. I find it oddly hard to shake off the impression that it’s beckoning.

#mag 001 #anglerfish #cigarette #marlboro red #old fishmarket close #edinburgh #ashley dobson #siobhan dobson

[manlethotline]

I was going to write a quick analysis of what smoking in The Goldfinch means but like always I got very carried away and I think I found basically every time smoking gets mentioned in the book.  For the sake of my non tgf followers I’m putting this under a readmore, but here is an essay length examination of the thematic importance of cigarettes.  In The Goldfinch.  And in general.

A cigarette is one of the more thematically loaded props a character can have.  For years smoking and was used as shorthand to mean lower class, then turned into a symbol of decadence and vice as smoking became more common.  An air of bohemian intellectualism- intelligence with a touch of depravity- is not complete without a cigarette in hand.  For a while cigarettes were code for homosexuality, eventually loosening to general sexual promiscuity and eventually loosening even more to show a character was ‘cool’ with a touch of moral ambiguity.  And cigarettes will never shake free of the looming shadow of Freudian psychology- a cigar is never just a cigar, and neither is a cigarette.

Anyway, you could go on about cigarette symbolism for days, but we’re here, as per usual, to talk about The Goldfinch.  Because Theo smokes- we learn that on page one- too many cigarettes in his Amsterdam hotel room.  Now Theo isn’t exactly cool- though he is morally ambiguous, but more importantly later in the book we see who got him started smoking.  And as with all of Theo’s vices besides Pippa, it’s Boris.

Are cigarettes cool?  Oscar Wilde once said that a cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.  It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.  What more can one want?  Oscar Wilde was also sent to prison on indecency and sodomy charges- a sentence that eventually killed him.  Cigarettes were a key fashion statement in Dadaism, Decadence, and Bohemia.  Yet while smoking was adored by the ‘artistic crowd’ most upper class society folks wouldn’t be caught dead with cigarette in hand.  A pipe perhaps, but not a cigarette.  After all, cigarettes were first made by those who couldn’t afford tobacco picking up discarded cigar butts and retooling them thinner- easier to move with- a history still reflected in the name.  A working class activity.  In the late 1800s cigarettes were thought to cause insanity, among other forms of ‘degeneracy’- yet still people smoked.  The allure was too much to deny.  And by the advent of the silver screen smoking was accepted.  Cigarettes are cool.

So Boris smokes.  His room in Vegas reeks of Marlboros (gee Borya, why is your brand of choice the one most heavily marketed to rugged masculine sexuality), and that first afternoon Theo turns down the cigarette Boris offers him- though he does take him up on the beer.  So far this fits with Theo’s first impression of Boris as a homeless looking kid passing cigarettes back and forth, slotting Boris more in the morally grey badass zone of cigarette smoking.  Safe, familiar.

But this changes quickly- it is specifically pointed out that Boris lost his virginity to someone he’d bummed a cigarette off- a story he tells Theo while blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.  There’s a clear connection now between sexuality- specifically Boris’ sexuality- and cigarettes.  And not just sexuality, but vulnerability, Boris is smoking specifically as he admits that he doesn’t think she liked it very much, something a so-called Marlboro Man would be reticent to admit.  There’s also an obvious Freudian allegory here about phallic objects, but we’ll come back to that.

The next time we hear about Boris’ smoking, it is when he and Theo are lying in bed together listening to Mr. Pavlikovsky have sex with or otherwise terrorize two sex workers.  As if that wasn’t loaded with sexuality and vulnerability on its own, Boris has Theo light the cigarette for him, and they pass it back and forth as they listen to whatever is going on down the hall.  So somewhere between learning about Boris’ sexual history and becoming comfortable enough to share a bed with him, Theo has taken up smoking- though he’s obviously not completely comfortable with it since he mentions it makes him feel light-headed and sick.  And now we get to talk about sharing a cigarette!

So passing a cigarette back and forth, or lighting it for someone else has been used as a shorthand for intimacy and sexual tension basically as long as cigarettes have existed.  Back when the Hays code was in effect film-makers used cigarette sharing as a way to imply two characters having sex- especially same sex pairs who couldn’t even embrace on camera.  Along with sharing a drink (something else Boris and Theo do often) it’s an indirect kiss.  They lean in, breath hot on each other’s faces, and do a favor for each other with just a thinnest shroud of plausible heterosexual deniability.

Huh.  I promise we will get to phallic imagery eventually.

There are more scenes of cigarette sharing between the two in Vegas- after the night it’s implied they first have sex they share one, and there are a few other instances we don’t have time to touch on one at a time.  Suffice to say they’re intimate now.

But to say that cigarettes are sex is reductive.  When it’s Boris smoking, yes, it is sexually loaded, but Boris is not the only character who smokes.  Xandra and Larry smoke too.  And it’s not just that they smoke, but more specifically that they provide the cigarettes for Boris and Theo.  The night after the pool they aren’t smoking just anything, they’re smoking Larry’s Viceroys.  Boris steals Mr. Pavlikovsky’s lighter for Theo.  Their intimacy, their vulnerability, is stolen from beneath the noses of their fathers- it’s a secret, a transgression, something that they are getting away with rather than just doing.  Xandra actually calls Theo out for stealing her cigarettes.  It’s one of the few actually positive interactions between the two- after she promises to bring him and Boris some food for Thanksgiving, practically setting them up a date.  “Fine.  I’ll hook you guys up. Just stay out of my cigarettes.  I don’t care if you smoke.”  In fact it’s maybe the only time anyone besides the two of them acknowledges and accepts their relationship- implying she knows exactly what is going on between them.  For all the awfulness of Theo’s house it is something of a safe haven, especially for Boris, they aren’t taken care of, but they’re left alone, and the freedom of isolation is what allows them to find each other.  And cigarettes are not merely sexual intimacy, but emotional intimacy, and perhaps just a shred of domesticity, something that hints at a promise of a different life- the kind their father’s would never condone- together somewhere.

The beginning of the end of their Vegas safe haven is foreshadowed with smoking as well.  After Boris and Theo share a joint (not technically a cigarette but functionally the same act) Larry comes in, and not only remarks on the smell  “you reek a bit Theo” and that Boris is definitely involved “where are you boys getting this stuff?” but he goes so far as to take what's left of the joint out of the ashtray and pocket it.  Not only does he intrude on Theo’s private moment, he takes it away.  Metaphorically, he has stolen the safety of his home from his son- and when next he appears he hits Theo and forces him to ask for money- the final deconsecration of the Vegas sanctum.  But the damage is done as soon as he takes the butt out of the ashtray- Theo is no longer safe.

This has been a lot of talk about cigarettes as they relate to sex- but as with Theo returning to New York, we have to pry ourselves from Boris’ embrace eventually and talk about other characters.

Hobie smokes as well.  When Theo first meets him he lights a cigarette, and when he catches Theo staring says “Don’t tell me you want one too.”  Theo also specifically mentions Hobie smoking while cooking, one of the first times after his mother’s death that he feels safe, accepted once again.  So again cigarettes are an expression of vulnerability, not sexuality but rather a loving, compassionate vulnerability.  Theo and Hobie find each other after experiencing profound loss, and for Theo those days of healing, of first learning to put his hands to good use in the workshop, are entangled with the smell of Hobie’s cigarettes.  Cigarettes as safety, cigarettes as sanctuary.  Cigarettes as metaphor for emotional vulnerability, a way to feel close.  Common ground.

Hobie is obviously gay coded, he lives with another man, raises a child with him, cooks-he would fit right into the gallery of what gay characters looked like before gay characters could be explicit- and cigarettes are just another detail of that.  In some ways it’s another common ground between him and Theo- an uncomfortable conversation about men they have loved and lost that they skirt carefully around, yet to have a straightforward conversation about what exactly they felt for the men they shared their lives with, the men they lit cigarettes for and mourned bitterly.  Theo turning down Hobie’s offer of a cigarette in some ways exemplifies the opportunity missed by the both of them struggling to discuss their true feelings with one another.  Perhaps someday they can sit down for a smoke and finally talk about everything.

Neither Pippa or Kitsey smoke.  It’s another thing that makes Theo’s relationship with Boris seems so much more intimate than his relationship with either of them- even though has sex with Kitsey they still have each other at arms length, not sharing with each other, not even having this shared experience of vulnerability with each other.  In fact, Kitsey dislikes it when he smokes in her bedroom, slamming the door shut on one of the few ways that Theo actually can express himself, one of the few islands that occasionally crests over his waves of repression.  When he learns of her infidelities he grinds out a cigarette butt on her dresser- a passive aggressive note- he may say he’s fine but everything is not well, and all his rages and aches are compressed into a streak of ash on a Limoges box.  Doubt she’ll have anything to say about it.  Beyond that note of anger, there is barely any mention at all of Theo smoking in his adulthood- you could almost be fooled into thinking he was quitting.

Yet as soon as Boris reappears, so do cigarettes.  Just before he confesses to stealing the painting- one of the most honest scenes in the book- as he talks about how he was trying to have fun and be happy.  [Theo] wanted to be dead. and moments before broaching their relationship as teenagers, Boris is toying with a cigarette.  Not smoking it, not quite going that far, Theo isn’t ready yet, but reminding him that it’s there, that rekindling that sort of relationship is an option that he is more than willing to choose.  At the engagement party he appears with unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers- another promise he has yet to keep, a hint to Theo at what might come next, come along and find out, the only thing that’s made sense all night.  When he does eventually smoke a cigarette it is in Amsterdam, when he finally has Theo back in his good graces, ready to make the next move.

Also in Amsterdam, in their most triumphant moment, just having retrieved the painting and as Boris demands Theo ride alone with him, he lights a cigarette.  And now we can finally talk about phallic imagery, because as Boris puts this cigarette to his lips, he tells Theo that now we can go and get you a real blowjob.  It’s almost comical.

So anyway, cigarettes look like dicks.  Only a little bit off topic, let’s talk about Edward Bernays.  He was an ad executive back in the 20s, and the campaign he was most well known for was for Lucky Strike Cigarettes.  You see, most women at the time didn’t smoke, it was considered unladylike.  But Eddy knew that he was missing out on half the market, and decided what is considered one of the first great PR campaigns, series of ads with the slogan ‘Torches of Freedom’ that took advantage of the first wave feminist movement and branded cigarettes as symbols of rebellious independence, glamour, seduction and sexual allure.  It was insanely successful, and where many of our pop culture views on cigarette use stem from (along with the decadence art movement in the late 1800s).

But Bernays was more than just a lucky guy- he was actually working off of the ideas of his more well known uncle, a real piece of shit named Sigmund Freud.  And based off of Freud’s theories of subconscious desire, Bernays put two and two and realized that cigarettes are an obvious symbol for a penis- same as a gun or a paintbrush or maybe even a tiny sausage balanced precariously on a toothpick that your best friend has developed an odd taste for.  Bernays dove head first into the Id, because he was marketing to women, and it was safe for him to acknowledge that cigarettes are incredibly sexually suggestive without upsetting the delicate heterosexual identity of the smoking American male.  And the Marlboro Man, resplendent in his denim and cowboy hat, continued to be one of the most successful ad campaigns in history.   But cigarettes, unlike guns, don't penetrate others- they are delicately placed between your lips, held daintily as you suck and blow and taste the slightest hint of the Vodka aftertaste he left behind before he passed it onto you.  It’s intensely homoerotic- the man in the Marlboro ad puts a penis to his lips, adjusts his Stetson with a wink- don’t worry I’m straight.  Just like all the other cowboys.  Queer scholar Dennis Altman once put forward that because same-sex comradeship was particularly important in American life, there was a particular revulsion for anything that exposed the sexual nature of such relationships.

And my word, doesn’t that sum up Boris and Theo just perfectly.  An insistence that when Boris’s bloody lips met Theo’s raw knuckles they became blood brother’s, nothing more.  An assertion that it happens at that age sometimes, whatever, unfortunate mistake.  But in that moment, as Boris lets the cigarette touch the tip of his tongue, flicks a calloused thumb roughly over the edge of the lighter- so similar to the one he stole from his father and gave to Theo all those years ago- and lets his mouth smile around the promise of a real blow job- for a moment things are exposed, if only just in that secret Vegas language only the two of them know.  Rubbing his knuckles on my sleeve.  He insists on getting Theo alone- well and truly alone, come let’s get back to your hotel and then, well... who knows what he had planned.  What both of them were hoping for.  But he is smoking, he is making promises he intends to keep, inviting Theo back into that private little world of shared cigarettes that Larry tore them out of long ago.

And when they are interrupted by Martin and his goon squad, Boris- cigarette in mouth- stood frozen.  He has been caught with his hairpins down- interrupted in a moment of intimacy that was just beginning.  It is the same as Larry pocketing that joint- sorry boys, smoke break’s over.  In the fight he spits his cigarette in Frits’ face, defiant. Weaponizing what he feels for Theo- risking death to reclaim what is rightfully his because he WORKED FOR IT GODAMMIT.

Neither Boris nor Theo light a cigarette for the rest of the book.

Of course, we don’t know what exactly happens in Antwerp.

But, perhaps rather than meaning that that is a promise that remains unfulfilled, maybe they have moved beyond them.  They don’t need a Freudian stand-in anymore, because they can actually talk to one another.  Boris spat out his cigarette, showed without a crutch that he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for Theo, and Theo sees a half-smoked cigarette in a puddle of blood and answers Boris’ question with a bullet in another man’s brain.  A thresh-hold is crossed, and when they reunite things are changed.  They can admit their importance to each other and perhaps, in Antwerp, though Theo draws the curtains on the scene quickly, perhaps things are not nearly so symbolic as before.

So cigarettes are communication, vulnerability, understanding and intimacy?  To smoke is to love, to feel fully and hope for a better world?  Sadly, no.  Because smoking kills.  And so far this analysis has had a massive hole in it in the very conspicuous shape of a dead mother.  Or at least the shape of a box of ashes and porny newspaper ads abandoned somewhere in Central Park.

It’s much rarer to see smoking on film nowadays.  Partially this is a reflection of real life- smoking rates have been on the decrease since the 50s, and since most public places now can smoking, you have to go out of your way to see a character lighting a cigarette.  Much of this, though, comes from external forces.  Cigarette advertising has been banned on TV for decades, and since the 90s there have been stricter and stricter rules on how smoking can be portrayed in media.  Smoking cannot be shown at all.  Smoking can only be shown if the character eventually faces consequences in the form of bad health and social rejection.  Smoking can only be shown if the character smoking is portrayed as irredeemable, undeniably the villain, and perpetrates other unforgivable acts.

The reason Theo and Audrey were at the museum the day of the bombing is because Theo got suspended.   And though he fears it was for breaking into houses, he is pretty sure it was because he got caught smoking.  Or rather, standing around with Tom Cable while he smoked.  Had Theo never faffed around with cigarettes in the first place, his mother might still be alive.  

Which he feels all the more guilty for because Audrey hated smoking.  Lung cancer killed both her parents- banished her to an aunt’s house the same way her own death sent her son languish in Las Vegas.  Generational orphaning, all because of smoking.  No wonder Theo turns down Hobie and Boris’ offers at first- it is one of the ways he betrays his mother.  His first cigarette kills her, and each one after that pushes him further and further away from the version of himself he thinks she would be proud of.  When he shares that cigarette in Boris’s bed- surrounded by smoke and spilled beer and the smell people get when nobody cares about them- he dreams about her.  What are you doing here?  Go home!  Right now!  He has let her down in the most fundamental way he can- letting himself indulge in a vice he knows she wouldn’t forgive him for.  Another way he has let himself become like his father, just as he prayed never would be.

And yet Theo smokes.  He melts into Hobie’s cooking, into the sharp curve of Boris’ smile, into the forbidden pleasures of street corners and friendly faces lurking in doorways.  Each drag buries his mother deeper, hacking at his leg to free himself from the trap of loss, of what he will never be able to become.  Sorrow inseparable from joy.  Theo burns and is lungs fill with museum ash and chlorine and to clear his throat he lights a cigarette.

And another cigarette

And another cigarette

And another cigarette

Or, as they call them in Europe sometimes, fags.

#the goldfinch #Theo decker #tgf #tgf analysis #literary analysis #smoking tw #boris palikovsky #boreo