wool rich

the spy au that @philosophium ordered !!


Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.

He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.

He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.

“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”

Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot –  next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.

He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.

“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”

Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.

“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”

Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.

“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing us to keep you around, do you realize that?”

Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.

“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.

“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.

“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.

Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.

When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.

“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”

“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.

“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.

Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”

Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.

“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”

Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”

“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”

Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”

He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.

“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.

He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.

Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.

He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.

He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.

He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.

He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.

He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.

It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.

Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.

Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you. Got this. Got here first.

The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.

He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.

“We have to find Neil.”

Keep reading

  • ji dwi: i can't believe master hwi hwa made us do a slumber party as a means for us to bond together.
  • soo ho: this is so beneath our status- no offense, sun woo.
  • yeo wool: so, what's the first thing we have to do for this 'slumber party' or whatever you commoners call it?
  • sun woo: well, first we gotta strip.
  • ji dwi:
  • soo ho:
  • ban ryu:
  • han sung:
  • yeo wool:
  • yeo wool: ... well, if that's what poor people do.
  • hwarangs: *start unbuttoning their clothes*
  • sun woo: guys, i meant strip the sheets off the bed and put on new ones.
  • ji dwi: oh!
  • soo ho: i get it now.
  • ban ryu: yeah, that makes more sense.
  • han sung: so that's what you mean...
  • yeo wool: got it.
Almost every other worship song refers to Jesus as a lamb.
He was pure, innocent. The ideal leader, a role model.
And most importantly- white.
After all, how could the leader of the biggest kingdom on not-earth be anything else but white? Sure, he may have trudged through dust and mud and touched lepers and ate with prostitutes but, none of that stained his pure wool, right?
After all, he had someone wash his feet.
When I think of church, the first thing I think of is church people. Not God or his son, but people.
The glares.
The glares and their homeschooled children who go to youth group when they grow up and go on mission trips and meet their husband at bible college and settle down and procreate more glares. The glares that look at my short hair and assume things, and make me fear what they would do if they were right in their assumption. These glares, these people, they hide their judgments behind tight smiles and save them for dinner conversation.
The second thing I think of is church leadership. The pastor and the elders, who fold up their discrimination and stick it in the front of their bibles.
I think of my mother, who does more for the kids in our trailer park ministry than any of those men ever will, but will never be recognized as an official elder because our translation of this alleged great book says she can’t be.
“Pastor” is a word taken directly from Latin, and it translates to shepherd. It’s the age-old biblical model, a wise shepherd leading his sheep. As long as they’re the perfect, white sheep of course.
But are we sheep or are we lemmings, running off a cliff into hateful ideologies and “God hates fags” signs, simply believing that not only were our sins washed white as snow but Jesus was too?
And what about the black sheep?
Those who have come to worship but have been turned away, on account of their skin or who they love or who they associate with
Those subject to the glares of more perfect families with tastefully sheltered children
Those who just want to focus on God and not the trivial things a bunch of ancient men said he does and doesn’t like
Those who have been charged with appropriating the rainbow for sinister purposes
Those who’ve been told that salvation won’t wash over them because it can only be absorbed by white skin
This is for all the black sheep. You are the salt and the light. You are God’s hands and feet.
You are the ones who are closest to Jesus because he was a black sheep too. He was a man of color, born to marginalized, Jewish parents. The Roman Empire was out to get him. And religious leaders didn’t like him either. They claimed that his power came from the devil.
Doesn’t that sound familiar to you?
The sick, winding road of history has made the church more like the Roman Empire than the family of God.
It has left behind the black sheep, it places thorns upon their heads then glares at them judgmentally when they see the blood dripping.
The white sheep say they’ll love the sinner and hate the sin, but having a person’s “lifestyle” be a sin is a great way to get around that.
They’ll proudly wear their “What Would Jesus Do?” bracelets without really knowing who Jesus was.
So when Jesus is called a lamb, think of what he really was, a vulnerable minority, covered in the dust and mud of the earth, with rich, black wool.
— 

Black Sheep by Danica Moon

  • ban ryu: *gets pulled into a utility closet* what the hell? what's going on?
  • yeo wool: sorry, buddy. but desperate times call for desperate measures. you, my friend, are coming apart. everyone's concern; that's why we're all here.
  • sun woo: ... actually, i was already here having a cry.
  • soo ho: no. yeo wool is right, ban ryu. you're a fuck up. we want you gone.
  • han sung: yeah!
  • yeo wool: no, we don't... wait, who are you?
  • han sung: i'm just here to get a mop.
Birthday Surprises- Ron Weasley imagine

Request: Hi Lovely! I’d love a Ron imagine where it’s my birthday (I’m turning 16 on January 17th) and it’s very fluffy and awesome. THANK YOU!!! 💙🌷

*You didn’t leave a name so I went with Y/N like usual*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Y/N….” Gentle whispering drew you to consciousness early on a Sunday morning. You grumbled very lightly, squeezing your eyes tighter to block out the light from the open curtains around your bed. Then a soft hand rubbed its thumb over your cheek. “Y/N, wake up, love.”

“Ron?…Ron!” You jolted awake, staring wide into the adoring eyes of the ginger standing at your bedside. “How did you get in here?”

The boy grinned shyly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Fred and George helped me get up the staircase with one of their original–”

You cut him off with a grateful kiss on his lips. “The details aren’t important, Ronald.”

Ron flushed a light pink. “I just wanted to be here first thing on your birthday.” He smiled again. You had almost forgotten!

“Oh, Ron, thank you.” You threw your arms around his neck and he laughed into the crook of your neck. The both of you remained that way for a few more seconds until Ron pulled away to look at you.

“Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.” He laced his fingers with yours and pulled you from your bed. You laughed and snatched a robe from the end of your mattress as Ron pulled you out the door.

Down the stairs you followed Ron, to the common room couch, where Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and other fellow Gryffindors sat waiting. You gasped at the sight of them all in their PJ’s, catching their attention.

“Guys! I’m so happy to see you all here! And all for me…” You hugged Harry and Hermione at once, moving on to Ginny and the twins.

“I couldn’t do it all by myself, so I enlisted their help.”

“Enlisted… wow, Ron I didn’t know you knew such a big word.” George remarked. Ron glared.

“Shove off, George.” Snickers filled the room after his comment. You kissed his cheek and Ron was smiling again.

“Ron got you a present, Y/N. Harry, get that for me.” Ginny motioned to an area on the floor where you could not see.

“You shouldn’t have–”

“Nonsense! We love you, Y/N!” Fred exclaimed.

“Oi, she’s my girlfriend, you tosser!” Ron frowned. You only laughed, taking the relatively large parcel from Harry’s hands. Under the gazes of all your friends around you, you tugged at the crimson ribbon and shifted the lid away. You covered a loud gasp with your hand.

“I can’t believe this!” You held the gift up to your chest, scanning over the rich blue wool material. “My very own Weasley sweater!” The letter of your first name was embroidered into the front in Gryffindor red; the colors contrasting beautifully.

“Thought you might like it, Y/N.” Ron blushed again.

“It was my idea.” Harry chimed in.

“Shut it, Harry!” Ron argued.

“I love it so much, Ron.” You grabbed his face in your hands and held his lips to yours for who knows how many seconds. Ron pulled away even more flushed than before. “And I love you too.”

“Get a room, you two. Honestly…” Ginny giggled. You rolled your eyes, but kissed Ron again.

“You made my day perfect, Ronald Weasley.”

“Well come on then! There’s more festivities to be had on this day!” George proclaimed majestically. Ron grabbed your hand, pulling you along on your next adventure of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry it’s so short. But Happy Birthday! <3

Maybe Just One More

My mom knitted you a jumper au where Klaus is Caroline’s best friend, his mother thinks she’s a matchmaker, Rebekah is mentioned, and Kol is the love connection.


-

-


Klaus held the with the golden knitted ‘C’ in the front of the thick, rich wool sweater in his hands as his mother set up a white gift box for it. He placed it inside unsure of how he was wrangled into helping her wrap familial gifts this afternoon when he would much rather be at the grill waiting for her to show up with her friends. That or be upstairs in room really quiet and pretending he doesn’t exist like his step-father likes to say.


“Esther,” Klaus grumbles having caught the tailend of her speech where she decided he was going to deliver the gift, “Be reasonable.”


His mother smiles up at him as she wraps the box with the gotti wrapping paper that has the Mikaelson crest on top.  Mikael had come home with it last week citing owning a paper house as a reason to create such a vile black and gold concoction.


“I did not go through 10 hours of labor for you to call me by my given name when you’re upset,” his mother replied ignoring the rest of what he said.


“Fine,” he murmured with an internal eye roll, “Mother, forgive me, I’m still not doing it,” he tells her decidedly.


“Except you are,” Esther states with a fanatical demeanor, “Caroline’s like family and I knit for family,” she says determined and plotting something.


“So why can’t Rebekah be the one to give it to her?” Klaus tests his suspicious on her as she releases the wrapped gift on him.


“Because your sister hasn’t housed an ample crush on the girl since the seventh grade,” Esther states knowingly while crossing her arms.


“Mother,” he murmurs trying not to flinch as he felt his ears heat under her penetrative stare.


She lets out a soft laugh, “Will you just trust me? I have my best agent on it,” Esther says with a wave of her hand.


His jaw tightens at that, “What is Kol up to?” he asks cautiouslybonly to be met with eyes just as dangerous as his younger brother.


“You’re welcome,” she says instead of a strightforward reply because their family is physicallynincapable of those as she walks him to the door.


“Mother, you frighten me,” Klaus utters unwilling to plead for the information he desires.


“Good, now do my bidding before you see something unfortunate,” his mother tells him opening the door.


“Like?” he asks feeling her hand on his shoulder pushing him out and closing the door in his face.


He mumbled under his breath as he rounded the sidewalk debating on knocking and running or hoping she wouldn’t even be home. It was an easy thought, Caroline was involved in nearly everything this town put on. That both pleased him and put him in a mood of despair.


He looks up groaning on instinct,“Mother said I’d see something unfortunate,” he says looking at his brother jumping off Caroline’s porch.


His brother’s face lights up like Christmas, “Not yet,” Kol says rapidly knocking on Caroline’s door before darting off.


Klaus has a mind to drop the box and go after him when, “Klaus, hey,” Caroline speaks.


“Err, Hi, Caroline,” he responds taken by herbeauty, “I have a gift for you,” he says brushing his hair back.


Caroline smilled clinging to her door, “I mean my mother, I’m just delivering it,” Klaus clarified handing it to her.


Caroline reaches for the gift flustered as her eyes flickered over the new decoration, “Mistletoe?” she commented.


Klaus’ smile drops dramatically, “How’d that get up there?” she asked  in bewilderment looking to him.


“I hadn’t noticed it,” Klaus replied shifting from foot to foot betting he looked as red as the perfectly snug sweater she wore.


“Klaus, the gift?” Caroline points out extending her hand, this time getting ahold of it.


“Um, yes, here you are,” he says moving closer as her grip pulls him near and her lips brush his.


“Thank you,” Caroline whispers dropping her eyes to his lips, “For the gift,” she says with a flirtations sway of her head that exposes her neck perfectly.


“It’s a sweater, uh, Caroline, would you like to,” Klaus stutters out before she interjects in the best way.


“Yes! I mean continue,” she says preening as she hugs her gift to her chest waiting for him to go on.


“Dinner with me, Christmas eve?” he asks ducking his head down so all she gets is shy dimples and half hooded eyes.


“Yes,” she says playing with the fringed  end of his gray scarf, “And maybe just another kiss more,” Caroline whispers.


“For the road,” he agrees amicably as he wraps an arm around her waist drawing her near for a more memorable kiss.