#Ten brave men

[seachranaidhe]

Bobby Sands Corner

Bobby Sands grew up and went to school in Rathcoole but in 1972, when he was eighteen, the family home was attacked. They moved to Twinbrook, where Sands joined the IRA (Bobby Sands Trust | WP). A nearby installation on the footpath claims that Twinbrook is the “Home Of Bobby Sands“. This mosaic is near […]Bobby Sands Corner

[firecooking]

Something something parallel

[sweetteainthesummerx]

⋆·˚ ༘ * oh, my, my, my ⋆·˚ ༘ *

nhl masterlist !

pairings: quinn hughes x childhood friend!reader, jack hughes x platonic best friend!reader, quinn x artist!reader

warnings: angst and comfort, fluff

summary: you and quinn throughout the years, and how you fall in love <3

song: mary's song (oh my my my) by taylor swift

word count: 4.4 k

notes: I love lake quinn sm :)

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

our daddies used to joke about the two of us, growing up and falling in love, our mamas smiled, and rolled their eyes

"oh, she's so tiny!" ellen cooes, cradling the little bundle of pink, "and she has your eyes, birdie."

your mother smiles at the nickname her college friend had given her freshman year, when a bird had pooped on her head during a girl's night out.

it stuck (literally), and almost 10 years later, as her best friend holds her babygirl, she's reminded of everything they'd been through together.

"congrats, man. the first girl in the family!" jim slaps your dad on the shoulder, the two men smiling at their wives.

"oh, she's just precious." you yawn, and all of the adults are reduced to an awwing mess.

quinn toddles over, chubby toddler legs still unsure. he lands on his butt half a foot away from ellen, who lifts him up with the hand that wasn't holding you.

"look, quinny."

quinn reaches out a finger towards you, and jim is about to chide him when your tiny little fist locks around it. his wide eyes widen even more. you gurgle happily at him, and for the first time in a while, he goes completely still, enraptured by the baby in front of him.

"oh." your father whispers.

"well, that's your son-in-law now," jim laughs.

"hey, don't count out jack! they're closer in age, after all."

your mom rolls her eyes, as ellen snorts, "let's not pre-write our kid's futures before they're five, please."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

i was seven and you were nine, i looked at you like the stars that shine

"y'know, birdie," ellen starts, "the boys might be right."

"no, they cannot eat four pb and j's and then go to the carnival-"

"no, not the little ones!", ellen laughs, "our husbands. they might be right."

"oh, that? the whole son-in-law thing?" your mom grins, as she watches luke chase after you with a worm.

the two women are silent and thoughtful as you - screaming at the top of your lungs - duck behind quinn, who sternly tells off his little brother. your sticky hands lace with his, naturally, albeit a bit awkward the way only kids can be.

you absolutely adore quinn. he's your protector, the one you turn to more often than not. jack is your best friend, and you remind her of that often. luke is your baby brother, the one you coddle and fuss over.

and the boys adore you just as much; jack plays pirates with you all day, Luke follows you like a puppy, and quinn...

he's staked a claim on you that makes your mom laugh, but worry a little when your older and you inevitably find someone who isn't him.

it never occurred to her that he might be the one.

"oh my god." your mom says as your dad walks in with jim.

"ha! see? I know I put money on my son for good reason." jim says gleefully, and quickly pipes down at ellen's dirty look.

"jack is also your son, man." your dad shakes his head.

"seriously? you guys made bets on the future love lives of your prepubescent kids?"

"birdie, it's just a joke!"

he eats his words as quinn leads you through the door. you're in tears, a nasty scrape on your knee. he's got your hand cradled in his.

ellen and your mom fawn over it, how brave you were, but all you could remember is how quinn held your hand the whole time.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back when our world was one block wide, i dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried

when you're ten, you almost have your first kiss.

you're going through a phase, really, when all you would wear were your overall jean shorts, a big t-shirt and your red converses. you have little pen drawings all over your shoes and shorts.

now, when you look at the photos from back then, you cringe a little at how lanky and young you look.

you're with the boys at one of the neighbouring lake houses, a couple of other girls and a few guys too.

everyone there lived on the same block, so it was odd that you hadn't all hung out together before.

quinn can tell you're uncomfortable around the other guys, who are loud and frankly very obnoxious. even his 12-year-old self can tell.

he tells you that you can all leave and go get ice cream near the boardwalk, but you refuse. you're 10 already, you can handle a few new strangers.

somehow, spin the bottle is brought up and you find yourself sitting cross-legged as one of the older girls - who's kind and much more grown than you - tellsdyou how to spin the bottle.

your hands shake and the backs of your knees are slick with sweat, but you spin anyways. you want to seem cool and older too.

you watch the root beer bottled patter as it turns, the ting, ting sound dissonant with your thumping heart.

it lands on quinn.

your quinn who knows all of the words to the spider man movies, who gives the last popsicle to you and lets you tuck your feet under his thighs when you get cold.

this is a disaster, you think, because you don't know how to kiss! are you supposed to use your tongue? you almost gag at the thought.

quinn can see your very apparent panic, and the only thing on his mind was to make it of away.

he wants to hold your hand, but when you turned nine you had decided that boys had cooties, so you refused to touch him or his brothers.

"...we don't have to," he offers, scratching his neck. one of the boys boo, and you flush.

you shook your head, "i want to."

he smiles, shy and boyish and your heart goes into overdrive.

his face matches yours in colour as he scoots forward awkwardly, cupping your face the way he'd seen his dad do to his mom.

as he leans forward, you burst into tears. if you kiss him, and he's disgusted by your kissing skills - or lack thereof - he wouldn't be your quinn anymore.

you run out embarrassed, leaving quinn's hand outstretched and the older girl from earlier confused and worried.

you think that you had ruined it all, but later that night when quinn offers to take you to get ice cream and lets you get two scoops, you know nothing can tear the two of you apart.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back to the creek beds we turned up, two A.M. riding in your truck and all I need is you next to me

the year quinn turned 16, he gets his boating and drivers license.

when the first real day of summer - he doesn't count the days until he sees you and the lake house again - starts and he finds you making eggs and bacon in the kitchen, he gives you an offer.

"hey, chickie." he tugs playfully at the string of your apron. jim had given you that nickname because of your mom's. chickie, like a baby bird. jack liked to call you chicklet, and Luke followed suit.

the adults think you've outgrown that name, and only call you chickie sporadically.

it's become special for you and quinn, sacred even,

"hi, quinny." you answer in the same tone, swatting him with the spatula in your hand.

"give me a piece of bacon and i'll take you out onto the water. i'll even let you drive a bit when we're far out." he murmurs as you turn the stove off.

"really?" you squeal, and he winces jokingly.

"yes, yes! finally!" you throw yourself at him, letting the older boy catch you around the waist. he grins into your hair, his cheek muscles unused by the seasons without you.

"okay, kid. pipe down. where's my bacon?" he grumbles, but he smiles when you turn around to fix him a whole plate.

you forget in all of your excitement that he doesn't even like bacon.

it's pathetic, really, but he missed you. he still does even though you're less than a foot away from him, salting your scrambled eggs.

he finishes his food faster than you do, and leaves to set up the boat with your promises that you would hurry.

he's excited; he hasn't seen you since christmas, and then, he had to share you with jack and luke and his parents too.

that year, you and jack had become decidedly closer, and quinn knows he has to establish that boat time was for you and him only.

so when jack and luke both follow you onto the boat, whooping and screaming, he's pissed.

and on top of that, he has to drive the boat while you and jack banter and threaten to shove each other off of the moving vessel.

it wasn't fair: you're his person. you guys did gas station runs together, you always looked at him with sad puppy eyes when you were cold.

he'd always grumbled and give you his sweatshirt when you refused to bring a jacket and ended up shivering. you always begged to braid his hair when the sun was at it's highest and there was nothing to do.

so yeah, excuse him if he was mad that your time together was interrupted by jack and luke of all people.

so when you walk up to him, hair messy and wearing nothing but your bathing suit and one of his old hockey jerseys, he tries his best to ignore you.

"quinny!" you exclaim, nudging his shoulder, and once more when he doesn't answer.

he glances quickly at you, but one look is enough to make his chest squeeze in that way that it started to do since last summer.

you had always been beautiful, but you were starting to be seriously gorgeous.

your hair is windblown, skin tanned and freckled with eyes bright from the sheer novelty of it being summer again.

you'd started to fill out more; the tiny bikinis you - and he - loved made something hot tug in his lower stomach.

tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow in the way that always makes him soften like butter, "I thought you were gonna let me drive!"

"ask jack to teach you," he snarks, and regrets it immediately at the hurt on your face.

his chest tightens, like someone has taken the hurt on your features and shoved it between his rib cage so he couldn't breathe.

the two of you don't talk for the rest of the day.

quinn feels like an asshole, and he really doesn't like how you refuse to sit in your normal spot next to him during movie night, instead opting to tuck yourself between the edge of the couch and luke.

and the salt on the wound was when you don't laugh at the stupid jokes he makes for you, especially.

his mom asks him what he had done when he goes to get more popcorn in the kitchen.

"what? why did you automatically assume I didn't something?" he asked, offended.

"because, that girl sticks to you like a magnet," ellen smooths his temple, "and because no one makes you smile and talk like she does. you've been silent all day."

the next night, he shows up at the door of your room in the lake house your two families shared.

he knocks, and pokes his head in, "chickie?

you're at your table, drawing again like you always were.

he keeps the little sketch of him you made last summer in his wallet, tucked under the picture of all of the hughes boys and you.

you ignore him, and he flops on your bed. the floral sheets your mom bought when you were 11 smells like you. he tries not to be creepy and inhale - at least too noticeably.

"gas station run?" he asks.

you finally spare him a glance, "quinny, it's past one o'clock, and it'll take at least 20 minuted to get there."

"please? I really want chips."

you sigh, ever the martyr, and agree. neither of you mention how the hughes stock up enough snacks to last at least 2 months the beginning of every summer.

the battle of who cracks first kept on, until finally, on the way back from the gas station, quinn sighs, "I'm sorry.

you frown, clearly not impressed, "I don't even know why you're sorry."

"god, this is embarrassing-"

"quintin, i swear-"

"i wanted the boat ride to be just us two!" he exclaims loudly.

there was a beat of silence, only the chirp of crickets that crept in the tall grass you could hear through the open windows of jim's truck.

the light on the radio shined, 1:59 AM.

"what?" you ask, a little confused and very much flustered.

"i missed you, chickie, and jack is always monopolizing your time! you're my person and-"

"are you jealous?"

"what?"

"oh my god, you are! you're jealous!"

"no!" he splutters, grateful that it's pitch black outside, because he can feel his ears heating up.

you laugh, tugging at one of his curls, as he grumbles something about not letting you eat any of his salt and vinegar chips.

"quinny?" you ask a little while later, when he's pulling back into the drive way, "y'know that you're my person too, right?"

you look soft and sleepy, under the light of the car, in one of his hoodies and sleep shorts.

he swears he turns into liquid in the drivers seat.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

well, i was sixteen when suddenly, i wasn't that little girl you used to see

"I wouldn't worry about that, chicklet." jack throws his arm around you, and you roll your eyes at the many girls starting to glare at you.

"I don't know what you're talking about." except you do.

there's a girl flirting with quinn, and she's pretty. she's got tattoos on her arms, and she's tall, almost tall at him.

you take a break from the self-deprecating comparison between yourself and her to admire quinn for one second.

he's gotten so tall and broad, all the signs of boyhood gone, except when he smiles that special smile for you. the one when his eyes get all squinty and he bares all of his pretty teeth.

your heart twists, because he hasn't smiled at you like that all summer.

you don't know what you did wrong. maybe he's outgrowing you. he'll be a college man next fall, and you're still in high school.

he's got the whole world in front of him, and well, you couldn't blame him if he didn't want to settle for you.

you realize your feelings for him the beginning of the summer.

or you uncover them, because if you're honest, they've always been there.

and right now, you're wearing your heart on your sleeve, because he looks so handsome in a tight black t-shirt and shorts, a backwards cap on his curls.

his biceps look huge, and between the teenage hormones and the two shots in your system, you want to climb him like a tree.

the more romantic side of you wished you had your charcoal and parchment, so you can copy down his likeness for when your old and greying and you can't remember how he looks illuminated by the moon and bonfire.

"yeah, sure. you're clueless." jack snorts, and he makes his way to the drink table at the party you're at.

you pass by Luke, who's preoccupied by a girl way too old for him, and go sit closer to the fire.

you're mad.

you're mad because you've dressed up real cute, in a tiny black tube top and denim shorts.

you're mad because your hair is curled the way quinn likes it.

you know that for a fact because every time it looks like that, he comes up behind you to wind his fingers through a strand. it was a hassle, and he won't even look at you.

"what's a pretty girl like you doing alone?"

it's a boy with mussed, brown hair and a nice smile.

he's cute. peter, or pierre, he introduces himself. he reminds you a bit of the boyfriend you had first semester of sophomore year.

you've had boyfriends, and quinn has had his relationships, but summer was sacred.

that's why you felt ill when you flirted with him, not because quinn was a mere 20 feet away, starting to glance over and frown.

quinn has always been a jealous motherfucker; you'd give it 5 minutes before he comes over.

you try not to gloat when he comes over in 2.

"hey, chickie. time to go." he tells you, taking you cup and winding an arm around your waist.

you roll your eyes, pushing him off, "no, I'm good here,"

quinn crosses his arms and puffs out his chest, biceps flexing in front of you.

the boy smiles - you've already forgotten his name, something p - and shrugs at quinn.

he's mad now, you can tell, but you wrap you're fingers around the other boy's elbow to egg him on.

"oh, for- that's it. c'mon."

suddenly, your feet are swept out from under you, and you're thrown over his shoulder.

you frown, realizing that you're in the air.

"hey!" you protest weakly as people turn to look at you. quinn continues his trudge all the way to where he's parked his dad's truck and dumps you on the hood like you weigh nothing.

"what are you doing?" he asks, eyes dark, "that guy is no good-"

"no! what are you doing?" all of your frustration pools in your throat, and embarrassing tears are starting to prick at your eyes.

"you won't even look at me all summer, you're flirting with some girl and you get mad at me? you're being such-"

he shakes his head, looking as exasperated as you feel.

"do you know how hard it is-" he breathes out shakily, "how difficult it is to control myself around you?"

"what?" you ask, heart beating in your ears, "what?"

"i have been in love with you since i was 12, chickie." his tone is begging, and so are his eyes.

he looks pained, and you want to relieve it so, so badly. but he still won't touch you. he's hovering away from you, like he has for the past month.

"i love you, and you see me nothing more than a brother, like how you see jack. and it hurts, here," he rubs the heel of his palm between his ribs, "to know that you'll never want me the same way."

"quinn-"

"no, let me talk. I've spent the past 6 years pining after you. I've tried to move on, but all...nothing compares to you. I want you so bad, chickie, but..." he turns from you, head in his hands.

now, if you weren't like 3 beers and 2 shots deep, you would realize that he can't really go anywhere because you're quite literally on the top of his car.

but drunk you is clearly a dumbass, because you think he's trying to leave. so you tell him what's actually on your mind.

"i love you!" you blurt out.

he turns slowly, "what?"

"i love you too. i thought you didn't want me because you're leaving for college, but i want you so bad, please-"

the next thing you know, he's between your legs, so warm and solid, pulling you in by your cheek like during that spin the bottle game 6 years ago.

you let him kiss you for real this time, you let him push up your shorts to feel more of your skin, you let him lick into your mouth.

he pulls away, and you whine, tugging him in again.

he laughs, which makes you laugh in turn, and you slide down the hood as you giggle. he catches you, because he always does.

"i love you." you tell him, and he flushes, nuzzling into your neck.

"say it again," he demands, just because he can.

"i love you, my quinny." you coo, and he wants to crawl into your skin and settle there forever.

"i love you too, chickie."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

oh, my, my, my

"told you so." Jim tells the rest of the parents.

the four of them - the weirdos - are on the second floor, leaning on the bannister as you make breakfast with quinn.

well, you make breakfast and he's distracting you.

he's got his arms wrapped around your shoulders from the back, and the two of you waddle like a pair of penguins around the kitchen gathering ingredients for pancakes.

you're giggling, and he's got a half-smile on his face.

you look so happy together than ellen and your mom are ignoring jim's gloating.

they are even kind enough to ignore the exchange of money between the two men, after all, your dad had bet on jack and lost.

"i can't wait for their wedding."

"hold on, now!"

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

a few years had gone and come around, we were sitting at our favorite spot in town and you looked at me, got down on one knee

you're on Quinn's lap, content and warm. the two of you had gotten up to watch the sunrise, first day of the summer at the lake house.

it's nice to have everyone in one place again, the two of you coming from vancouver, the boys from new jersey.

the past couple of years had been hard; a year or two long distance, until you went to study architecture at UBC after quinn had been drafted.

this year, 24 and 22, you finally get some rest and the promise of settling down more.

quinn's captain, and you have a good job that lets you work remote and do what you love.

and more importantly, the two of you are always together.

"babe?" quinn asks, running a hand down your arms, "c'mon, let's go to the dock?"

you don't protest, just happy to be at your childhood lake house.

he leads you there, like he always does.

"pretty." you stare out at the water, orange and pink sky meeting in the still horizon.

"yeah." quinn gives you a smile, rare for anyone else.

but he has always smiled for you, and you greedily hoard them in your memories.

"got something to show you," he pulls his wallet out, the two pictures in the clear flaps catch your eye.

one is a polaroid of you and your boys. quinn is 15, jack is 14, you're 13 and luke is 11. all of you are lanky and awkward, wrapped around each other and grinning ear to ear.

the other is also a polaroid, taken by ellen a year or two ago, when all of your parents came to visit your Vancouver apartment.

quinn's arm is around your shoulders and you're clinging to his side, one hand curled around his waist and the other on his chest. you're smiling at the camera, and quinn is smiling at you.

"cute," you tell him, but he digs a finger into the little pocket.

"fuck," he swears when whatever he's looking for doesn't come out.

"here, let me," you offer. you retrieve a piece of thick parchment with your smaller hands.

it's a sketch of quinn you did when you were in your early teens.

it's not great, you have to admit. the lines aren't smooth like how you sketch now, but the ink and paper is in pristine condition.

"quinn...you kept this?" you ask softly, oddly emotional.

when you look at him, he has a weird look on his face. he scratches his neck.

you stare at each other for a moment, the familiarity of your love almost stifling in the cool morning air.

and then he drops down on one knee.

you start crying, immediately.

that sets him off, and the two of you are blubbering as he tries to get through the speech he wrote in his notes 7 months ago after he got the ring and you were in the shower.

he tells you he loves you, how he's never going to leave you, that you're going to build a life together, just like how you've done everything together since you were kids.

you believe him, because your quinn is nothing if not earnest and steady.

you let him slip the simple ring onto your finger, and he lifts you up into strong arms to kiss you.

you're so deliriously happy that your teeth clash with his in a smiling kiss.

your families cheers from the porch, and you laugh, watery and heart full.

jack runs up first, swinging you around and clapping his hand down on quinn's shoulder.

Luke kisses your cheek and hugs his older brother, as ellen and your mom hug you together.

jim wraps his arms around you, pressing his lips to your forehead, "thanks for helping me win the bet, chickie." you chuckle, reaching for your dad next.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle, our whole town came and our mamas cried, you said I do and I did too

the wedding takes place a year later, in a small winery near the house, because ellen and your mom refused to let you have the wedding on the dock.

this was your compromise, because it's a small affair.

your dad walks you down the aisle to quinn. you're smiling, like there's a hanger in your mouth because you're just so happy.

he cries when he sees you, and so do the other hughes boys.

you hear your mom and ellen, tears meeting shaky smiles on their faces.

your own college friend, your birdie, fixes your veil and holds your bouquet.

sweet promises are exchanged in your vows, and when you have your first kiss as mr. and mrs. hughes, all of your loved ones cheer.

quinn sweeps you off your feet and bridal carries you to a change room so you can switch into your reception dress.

he sees you later as jack, who volunteered to be the mc, announces you guys as mr. and mrs. hughes.

quinn's eyes are hot and dark as he sees your smooth skin under white lace, and whispers something into the shell of your ear that makes you pink.

you dance together, with his brothers and his dad, with your own too.

but the last dance is saved for the two of you.

"i can't wait to grow old with you, chickie." he whispers romantically.

"you'd make such a cute old man," you tell him, and he rolls his eyes.

you laugh, and so does he.

forever sounds real good to you.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[jorindasfate]

My university history course literature includes a book on women's history. Entirely written by two men. It has a whole chapter on "transgender history". The first person they bring up is Ulrika Eleonora Stålhammar, a swedish woman from the late 17th- early 18th century who started dressing as a man and took a male name to marry her wife Maria Lönman. After ten years or so she started presenting herself as a woman again. These men are SO confused as to why. Why would she ever stop living as a man? And if she was a lesbian, why bother living as a man in the first place, considering female homosexuality was never formally outlawed in Sweden? The entire time they refer to her as a trans man.

Why oh why could a woman in the 18th century possibly be uncomfortable living as a woman? Why oh why would a woman in the 18th century not just live openly as a lesbian? What reason could she POSSIBLY have had to pretend to be a man? Nah, no critical thinking here. She was obviously a man all along, that's the only reasonable explanation. This is what they're making university students read for history.

Stop discrediting these brave women. I know you think you're being inclusive and progressive by imagining they were Actually trans, but you're not. All you're doing is perpetuating the myth that all women are and were submissive and content in their role as second class citizens (if even that). If every female person who was gender nonconforming in the Olden Times was actually a man all along then the actual women didn't have it that bad, right? They never rebelled against their societal roles before the women's voting right movements, right??

[holdmytesseract]

Hello I was wondering if you could do a Daryl Dixon in the first few seasons when he got shot and an arrow to the side. Where the reader is taking care of him while he is recovering.

Approaches

Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader

Summary: When Andrea mistakes Daryl for a walker and shots him, you are here to take care of the injured archer; causing the both of you to get closer...

Set in Season 2!

Warnings: Andrea? gunshot, weapons, TWD stuff, blood, injuries, fluff, idiots in love?

Word Count: 1,7k

a/n: I had a lot of fun writing this! I never wrote S2 Daryl before, so... Very exciting! I hope you like it, nonny and thanks for requesting!

Daryl Masterlist °☆• Masterlist

You were in Dale's RV, peacefully napping on the little bench with your back pressed up against the window and your body squashed between the back rest and the small table. Your actual plan was to study the map Hershel had given your group, in order to search for Sophia - and not to doze off, but well... Your body had a different opinion on your priorities. And you'd have definitely slept for another while, if not a loud noise ripped you cruelly out of your sleep.

You shot up; heart hammering against your chest. A gunshot. It was a gunshot! "Shit," you cursed and scrambled to get up. On slightly wobbly feet - due to your rushed movements, you more or less stumbled down the few steps of the RV and immediately ran to the front. You saw Rick, Shane, T-Dog and Glenn up ahead on the meadow in distance waving and shouting something like mad men.

"What happened?" You asked and looked to your right, where Dale stood on the little ladder which led to the RV's roof. Andrea kneeled on top; rifle in hands and smiling victoriously. "Apparently a walker made-," was all Dale could say, before he got interrupted by quick footsteps coming from the house and Hershel's voice.

"What on earth is going on out here?" He yelled; all the other's gathering around him. All eyes were directed on the four men, but when they started to crouch around the 'walker' and lift him up to his feet, everybody soon realised that the walker was definitely not a walker.

"Oh my god, is that...?" Andrea spoke almost in a panicked voice; quickly ushering Dale down the ladder, so that she could climb down as well.

You took a few steps forward; squeezing your eyes shut to identify the 'walker', but deep down, you already knew. No ten seconds later, your eyes widened; heart rate picking up again. "Daryl! Oh my god, that's Daryl!" You started to run; Andrea following you behind.

"I-Is he dead?" You asked Rick and Shane - who had each draped one arm of the archer over their shoulders and carrying him, in a quivering voice. Rick shook his head. "Nah, just unconscious," the leader answered; then turned his gaze to a shaken Andrea. "Bullet only grazed him."

Slight relief washed over you, but your worries nevertheless didn't cease. Daryl looked bad. All caked in dirt and mud; his top soaked in blood. You couldn't tell if it was his own or from walkers.

Chewing on your thumbnail, you watched how Shane and Rick dragged the archer inside the house, so that Hershel could take care of his wound. You hesitatingly followed them and sat down on the steps of the porch; soon getting lost in thoughts.

It wasn't like you and Daryl were a thing or something. Actually not at all. However, you had grown very fond of him the past days and weeks. Something intrigued you and seemed to draw you closer to Daryl. You liked him. A lot. Most of the group only saw his rough and edged exterior, but you also saw that he had also a different side. His selflessness. Braveness. Protectiveness. You knew Daryl was a good man.

Almost everyone of the group had noticed, of course, that you had cast an eye on the crossbow-wielding redneck. You weren't quite subtle in your words and gestures; how you acted around him. You, though, you were oblivious to the others observations.

"Hey, Y/N," a voice urged to your ears and caused you to snap out of your thoughts. Turning your head to the left, you saw how Lori placed a hand on your shoulder. "You okay?"

You gave her a soft smile. "Yeah, sure." She nodded and gestured towards the main door. "You should go to him," Lori said and gave you a wink as she passed you by. "He's upstairs." Your eyes followed the brown haired woman, before they travelled over to the door. Biting your lip, you stood up and made your way inside.

Just as you set foot in the hallway, you saw Hershel exiting a room to the left; some medical stuff in hands. The older man saw you approaching and gave you a nod. "H-How is he? Is it bad?" Hershel shook his head. "He'll live. A few days of rest and he should be a'right again." Now you were the one who nodded. "Thank you." He gave you an uptight smile as he passed you by. "Can I, uh, go to him?" "Of course." With those words, Hershel was out of your sight; left you standing alone in the hallway.

You stared at the doorhandle for a moment, took a deep breath and knocked. A gruff 'Yeah' coming from inside the room allowed you to step inside. So, you did.

Gently closing the door behind yourself, your eyes fell on Daryl, who was snugly wrapped up in a blanket on the bed; a bandage around his head. At the sound of your footsteps, he turned; now facing you.

"Hey," you softly greeted him; giving him a small smile. "Thought I'll come look after you..." You were still concerned about his well-being. After all, he was shot - even though the bullet just grazed. "How are you feeling?"

Daryl shook his shoulders with a grunt. "'M fine." You weren't neither convinced by the answer nor were you believing that he was telling the truth, but you decided to leave it for now. So, you just nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him; gently placing a hand on his arm. Your skin on his didn't fail to send a shiver down your spine. This bold, simple gesture was already enough to drive the butterflies within your stomach wild - and not just yours...

You were totally oblivious to Daryl's slight flinch as you suddenly touched his arm; eyelids fluttering for just a moment. It wasn't like the others from the group hadn't 'touched' him before... A clap from Rick on the back, Carol's hand on his shoulder. Simple gestures, which he usually wasn't fond of. Bad memories were connected with touch, so he learned to avoid it. But your touch... Your palm on his forearm... That was different.

"What happened?" You whispered. Daryl could see worry in your eyes. Honest concern. You didn't just ask out of politeness, no... You meant it.

Once more he shrugged his shoulders; trying to play it cool. "Horse threw me off, fell down a slope 'n well... Caused one of ma arrows to kinda impale me." Your eyes widened. "Hang on, wha'? You got impaled by your arrow?!" "Yeah, 's not a big deal." You felt how your heart sped up. "Not a big deal?! Daryl, you could've died!"

He shook his head. "Nah. I ain't jus' die like a pussy. 'S a boring death. 'Sides Hershel got me fixed again."

You blinked; little bit overwhelmed by the information and his words. You swallowed; worry taking over then once again.

"Are you in pain? Is there something I can do for you?"

And that was the moment Daryl's cool façade started to crumble down entirely. You were so sweet and kind to him - something he didn't deserve. And yet you willingly gave it to him. From that day on, Daryl stopped pushing you away. He let you stay with him while his wounds healed; let you entertain him with a book you read out loud or some of your funny childhood and teenager stories. You brought him food, made sure he stayed hydrated in the Georgia heat and cleaned his wounds and changed the bandages. You were no nurse, but you had at least a little experience.

"I don't hurt you, do I?" You asked while you carefully dabbed the wound on his temple, where Andrea's bullet had grazed him. "Nah, ya don't. 'S all good." "Good." You gave Daryl a small smile, before you concentrated on cleaning the wound again. Daryl's blue-grey eyes watched you intensely; saw the frown on your face and the tip of your tongue poking out between your closed lips. His heart fluttered. You looked cute - and he could've watched you for several hours like this, but unfortunately you were way to quickly finished and before he could blink, you had patched his wound again and with that your touch was gone.

"There you go. All finished." "Thank you," Daryl croaked out; his voice definitely more hoarse than usual. You nervously tucked a loose strand behind your ear, "Of course." before meeting his gaze; looking into his beautiful blue-grey orbs.

The tension between you and him was literally cuttable with a knife as you stared into each other's eyes; totally lost. Neither of you didn't even notice how you moved closer. Daryl propping himself up on his elbows, while you leaned down; on your way to meet him halfway.

But when the redneck's brain finally managed to catch up with the situation he was in and suddenly realised that he was inches away from kissing you, his mind panicked and immediately went to pull up the invisible walls he had built around himself through the years - and so Daryl turned his head away, before your lips could touch his; clearing his throat.

"I should... I should get some more sleep."

You immediately sat back on your haunches; the beautiful, intimate moment gone. Bursted in front of your eyes like a bubble. You cleared your throat as well; nodding. "Yeah, I, uh, I should go, too. 'S getting dark soon, so, uh, time for dinner, right?" You tried to stay cool and just play off what happened a few seconds ago, but you were not very good at it - and Daryl noticed. Nevertheless, he played along.

"Yeah, right."

You gave him a soft, uptight smile and got up. "I, uh, I'll come back later to bring you dinner, okay?" "Alrigh'." Another awkward smile crossed your lips, before you went to leave hit tent; zipping it shut behind yourself.

The moment you were gone, Daryl led himself fall back down on his sleeping bag with a frustrating groan; rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wanted to kiss you. He really wanted to - but he just got cold feet. His fear of letting someone getting too close to him in the way.

He groaned again. "Ya fuckin' coward..."

Tags: @suniloli @stitchintimefan @celtic-crossbow @fictive-sl0th @loz-3 @erebus-et-eigengrau @km-ffluv @fuseburner @sweetz1919 @in-this-minute @mandywholock1980 @lou12346789 @mischief-dream @crimson25 @buttercupcookies-blog @salvinaa @javagirl328

[blingblong55]

My kind of love -Keegan P. Russ

Based on a request:

Just a thought : Keegan strikes me as the guy who would hold wife! reader close to him when they sleep in their bed. Or he'd carry her when he finds her asleep on the couch. ---- F!Reader, fluff/romance, established!relationship, boyfriend!keegan, cuddling ----

A/N: thanking Bon Iver and Niall Horan for this fluff🙏

It's four in the morning, Keegan comes home after nearly ten months of deployment, his duffle bag placed on the floor. Steps soft to not wake you up, after all, he is meant to surprise you with his early arrival. As he was about to go and check on the dog, who slept by the sofa, he noticed a blanket, your blanket. He approaches you, his gaze softens the second he watches his beautiful sleeping. You look so peaceful, so calm and in this moment when things for months went so wrong, this view is all he can adore.

"My love, I'm home," Keegan whispers, in his arms, he carries you to bed. They say people have a certain amount of luck and you are proof of that. Maybe out there in the cruel world, he doesn't have much luck but in this place, a warm, cosy and safe place he calls home, he knows luck is there. No one can say they are lucky because they don't have you and he does. A million men can say your name, a million more can watch you but just one gets to come home to you. One man in a sea of billions gets to kiss you, to listen to your ramble about crazy theories, to listen to you hum a tune and to love you and be loved back.

That man is him and in this precise moment, he knows why he proudly waited day and night to hide that ring in his pocket. If he wasn't a romantic, he would propose to you right here right now but he wants that moment to be magical because his precious girl deserves it. "Keegan, it's you," your voice so soft. Fuck, why must you make his heart melt like this? Why must you- damn you! Why do you love him? Why do you see what others don't and why must you make him blush just from the sound of your voice? Couldn't you be any less cruel to his weakened heart? Oh but he loves it, he loves that voice, that touch and stare, he loves the kisses and the 'Did your job go well? Are you hurt? Did you miss me?' he loves it all.

"Of course, it's me, darling," he sets you down on the bed and covers you with the sheets. "I'll be back," his lips touched your soft skin before leaving to take a short shower. You lay in bed, not being able to sleep without him anymore, you wait for him. Once he snuggles to you, you can feel his fresh skin, how his embrace wraps you with love and with care. "Did everything go to plan?" you ask as you nuzzle your face on his chest, a low chuckle escapes his lips as he brushes your hair. "It did, which is surprising," he kisses the top of your head and drapes his leg over yours.

In a warm bed, you and he lie, legs intertwined like they are the perfect match. Your back to his chest, soft breathing filling the room. As you close your eyes, he finds himself admiring your beauty from his angle. His arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close for the rest of the night as the other arm caresses your head. His fingers brush through the hair, and slowly, they make their way to your forehead, where he slowly catches himself falling asleep.

Until morning and maybe even after being awake, he keeps you in his hold and under those warm bed sheets. "I love you to the moon and back- no, let's keep going beyond the moon," he whispers as he keeps holding you close. If only he dared to propose already and make you his missus. But only the brave wait for the exact right moment.

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[thatbadadvice]

I (15f) am slightly worried that I led on some guys I did not mean to lead on.

There are two guys that I've hung out with over longer spans of time or regularly.

1. Hung out with him for several hours non-stop cause he was fun to hang out with, and we took a walk in the forest aswell, he got (slightly) touchy but not that much.

2. Works in a shop in my small city and I go there almost weekly just to hang out but always buy something, he sometimes offers me drinks for free (twice by now) or reduces the price.

They both got my insta too

However, the problem is that a) I'm not looking for a relationship and, more importantly, b) they are both in their 20s.

I took care to mention that I am only 15 to both of them but idk if that changed anything. Any advice? I also don't want to confront them directly cause I might have just interpreted it like this.

Hello, anonymous!

Thank you for writing in. I am delighted to inform you that you have excellent judgment for wondering what the hell is going on here, and for questioning these guys' behavior toward you.

Grown-ass men — and that is what dudes in their 20s are — bear the burden of not being weird to, for, or about young women of your age. It is the grown-ass men of the world who are obligated not to make you, or young women like you, feel weird about literally anything. In fact, grown-ass men should go out of their way, on purpose and with gusto, NEVER to get even within ten million football fields' worth of "(slightly) touchy" with a gal of your age. So that's my read on Mr. Walk In The Woods. I have less to say definitively about Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks, but I trust your judgment: if you feel like Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks is sending some ~ signals ~, you're right about it.

It sounds like both of these Grown-Ass Men are trying to make pretty creepo moves, so let me be clear: nothing you could ever do could even possibly in the most remote sense amount to "leading them on," because you are not responsible for the behavior of Grown-Ass Men.

I think you know this, or you wouldn't be asking the Bad Advisor this question. You know they're being weird. You know you haven't done anything beyond exist in these dudes' general sphere, which you are entitled to do! You are allowed to exist in the world without having to swat off the advances of older guys! It really sucks that girls and women can just be living our regular-ass lives and have dudes be at us like this. But you're not responsible for their decisions — whether it's a decision to offer you free/cheap drinks (with strings attached, implied) or to get (slightly) handsy during a walk in the woods.

The fact that you told both of these Grown-Ass Men explicitly that you are 15 years old should have sent both of them spinning back into the sun with shame and embarrassment, not that they probably needed it spelled out, but GOOD ON YOU for making it so clear. That is actually terribly brave of you, and they should have fallen all over themselves to not fall all over you subsequently. They should be mortified about their behavior.

You did not misinterpret their actions; and if you did, who cares? Some dudes who weren't hitting on a 15-year-old will continue to not hit on a 15-year-old? Girl, your self-preservation instinct is INTACT and WORKING. It's on them not to be creepos. Any Grown-Ass Man who is on the level and not a weirdo would 1000000000000% never need to be told "Hey dude, I'm 15" in the first place. You have good judgment. You are reading these men correctly.

So what do you do about your good judgment? Well, first — no more walks in the woods. Suddenly you have an urgent appointment that precludes all walks in woods! The benefit-of-the-doubt ship has sailed. Dude got handsy and you dislike it. Dunzo. You are unavailable for future walks in woods (or anywhere). You've got a test to study for, a practice to go to, some buddies to hang out with elsewhere. So sorry, no-can. Dude can find a 20-to-90-something-year-old woman to paw up under the canopy if that's his jam. There are scores of women his age and older who'd be glad (i guess?) to get felt up while some dude shoves them ~ romantically ~ against the bark of a moldy Hackberry.

As for Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks — look, I appreciate the appeal of a discount beverage — but I think you gotta be prepared to aggressively (politely) pay for your drinks. Dude says "This one is on the house" and you DGAF, because you've got $5 cash and you're laying it on the counter with a smile and saying "I really appreciate it, but I'd like to pay for my drink — you get it!"

It's the "you get it!" that's really the key here. It's polite, but clear. It demands that these Grown-Ass Dudes do the work of not getting it and saying so if they're gonna be that dippy about it. You can use it on Mr. Handsy In The Woods, too. You can't do X, Y, Z because Reasons -- "Gotta get back to piano practice, it would be weird if I stayed here, since we're just friends! You get it!"

You shouldn't have to do the work of offering these dippos the "you get it" out, but it's a safe and reliable way of making it clear that they better the fuck get it. Like, they better the fuck understand that you are 15 and they are being weird about this whole deal.

Practice:

"Oh, I'd like to chill but doing another big long hang alone together would make it seem like we're going out or something, and that would be weird -- you get it."

"I appreciate the discount, but if I keep taking these drinks, it'll seem like you LIKE me or something. That's weird, right? You get it!"

If either of these Grown-Ass Men gets sketchy about these very polite brush-offs, that shit is on them and will only confirm what you know: you have great judgment. These dudes are weird. If they're going to be weird, you can be so polite that they have to explain why, specifically, they are being weird and don't understand what you are politely saying, which is that their interest in you is weird.

You have not led these Grown-Ass Men on by existing in their universe. You have not led them on by being polite to them and tolerating their inappropriate advances to preserve your own safety. The concept of "leading on" is bullshit, fucked up, heteronormative dipshittery that puts the burden on women, mostly, to account for the crappy behavior of men who can, do, and should know better. I assure you these men know better, and they think you don't. That's why older guys pursue younger and teen women in the first place — they think they get to be the big men in charge, because they're afraid they can't manipulate women their own age.

Here's what, though: they can't manipulate you, either. You are clever, self-possessed and a great self-advocate. They're being weird. You're being smart. Make sure they know it.

[serene-faerie]

Thinking about the gradual corruption of the Lay of Leithian in late-age Númenor.

The King's Men tell the story of a Beren who is "bewitched" by Lúthien's dancing. He is enamoured not by Lúthien's singing, but by her Elven beauty. They speak of a Beren who rescues Lúthien from her treehouse, stealing her away from Doriath. To the King's Men, Lúthien is a damsel in distress, oppressed by the ways of the evil Elves, and Beren is just a mortal man who "liberates" her. The King's Men erase Beren's genuine love and respect for Lúthien. They get rid of Beren's oath to Thingol. And most of all, they erase Lúthien's agency in the tale; they erase her own brave deeds like fighting Sauron and singing Morgoth to sleep. Instead, they give the credit to Beren alone. At this period, Elves aren't yet completely hated, but they are exoticized and fetishized by the King's Men. And they exoticize Lúthien so much until she is just a submissive Elven princess who is nothing more than a prize for Beren to "win".

The King's Men erase the sacrifice of Finrod Felagund and the ten brave Elves of Nargothrond. They ignore the hunting of Carcharoth, Beren protecting Thingol at the cost of his own life, and Lúthien's pleading song to Námo. To the King's Men, the Quest for the Silmaril ends when Beren takes the Silmaril from Morgoth, then brings it to Thingol and Melian. To the King's Men, Lúthien's immortality was stripped from her by her cruel parents, and she was banished from Doriath for daring to love a mortal man. They erase Lúthien's own choice, they ignore how Thingol and Melian accepted Beren in the end. And fundamentally, the King's Men misunderstand the lesson of the Leithian, that Lúthien chose mortality of her own free will for love.

Under the King's Men, the Lay of Leithian is stripped of everything that made it so beautiful and poignant. It's no longer a story of love and hope, but a story about a submissive Elven princess who runs away with a strong mortal man to escape the tyranny of the Eldar.

But thankfully, the true Lay of Leithian was well-preserved by the Faithful Númenóreans.

[konoheya]

naruto men that would unironically call you pookie !

naruto, obito, kiba + honorable mentions for sai & gara !

naruto uzumaki: heard kiba use it when referring to his partner a few times and it was jokingly tossed around when they went out for drinks one friday night. filled with liquor courage and newfound knowledge, he slammed the door to your apartment open like he owned the place, before his squinted eyes focused on you. he announced his presence with a loud “HEY POOKIE!” and attacked you with a million kisses and curious fingers that quickly snuck under your pajama pants. you’re confused, but naruto is being so gentle yet firm as he kisses you that it’s easy to forget that he just came home hammered and with an awkward nickname for you that’s just so him. two minutes later he passed out face down on your bed, all sticky and warm from drinking.

wakes up the next day like nothing happened and greets you with a hungover “morning, pookie..”, before he tries to unsuccessfully manipulate you into cuddling for another hour. doesn’t let the nickname go even after 20 years of marriage and three kids.

obito uchiha: he suffers from stupid simp man disease and it’s terminal. when he was being cocky and bragging about how amazing and kind and brave you are to kakashi, it slipped. “my pookie-“ and he freezes up like a deer in headlights. obito has never called you pookie before, well- not in public at least! it sends him into a stuttering frenzy as he tries to explain himself to a rather confused kakashi (bless his heart, he thought pookie was exclusively used in icha-icha). when obito unsuccessfully explains himself, teasing ensues. the uchiha comes home all sullen with his shoulders slumped and wraps his arms around you from behind, hiding his face in your hair. you can tell how embarrassed he is based on how warm his cheeks are- he must be blushing. obito is the most irresistible when he’s so open with his emotions, courageously confessing that he adores you or shyly asking for a kiss, which is why it’s almost impossible to not tease him when he’s this vulnerable.

“everything okay? you seem down today, loverboy.”

he grumbles in response.

“obito? use some words please?”

“… it’s nothing.”

and when his brain adds the dreaded ‘pookie’ to the end of his sentence, obito knows he has to confess his sins to you before kakashi spills the beans and asks you what embarrassing nicknames (plural!) you use for him.

kiba inuzuka: yet another victim of the stupid simp man disease. of course he uses pookie on a daily basis. what’s for dinner, pookie? you ass looks great today, pookie. gimmie a kiss, pookie! kiba has no clue where he heard the pet name, but he looooves it, so much so that he overuses it. he sometimes goes for unbearable variations of it that he is certain will irritate you; kiba says them with the most annoyingly flirty smirk you’ve ever seen (pookums, pookie-bear, pookie-wookie if he wants you to groan and roll your eyes). overall, his main goal is to fluster you in any way he can. can you blame a man who desperately wants to see you red and bashful, clinging to him and asking him to stop because you’re in public and people are staring? god, you’re too cute when you whine about how mean he is being. but he can’t help it! people need to know you’re his and only his, pookie!

this is where his cuteness agression shows- he just wants to squeeze you in his beefy arms and never let go when you’re like this!

the only way to get him to stop is to return the favor- call him a nickname that’s equally as cheesy and stupid, if you can think of one that is. kiba can get very creative and isn’t afraid to humiliate himself a bit if that means that you’ll blush ten times harder than before.

sai and gaara would suffer the same fate- two socially awkward guys who read/heard somewhere that nicknames are a good way to make friends.

sai has liked you for a while and wanted to tell you, but the books he read all said the same thing- hinting at your crush is the way to go. why tell the person directly, when you can make it unnecessarily complicated? and so one day when sai was supposed to meet up with sakura and you, he decided to greet you with a wave, a confident “hello, pookie” and the most polite smile you’ve ever seen. sakura was giving sai an earful about how it’s inappropriate to use pet names he gave you in private in front of your friends, and you were on the verge of passing out from how genuine sai sounded. if you replayed the moment enough times in your head, you could catch the glimmer of pure affection in his voice that tugged at your heartstrings.

gaara had a similar situation, except it was kankuro who put the nail in the coffin and convinced him that calling you pookie was the way to your heart. poor man decided to test that theory when you came in with a report later that afternoon, bruised, dirty and disheveled from the mission you were sent on. as you handed him the papers, you could hear a gara mutter a small “thank you, um… pookie.”

you almost combusted when he tilted his head in confusion, looking extremely endearing as he observed your flustered reaction. was i successful?, he thought as he watched you stutter out questions regarding the nickname with warmed cheeks.

[lostmymind-0]

My brothers rival / OP 81 x Sainz!reader

Masterlist

AN: sorry that it comes this late but the past week was crazy busy

It was no secret that Carlos Sainz and Oscar Piastri were not the best of friends in the Paddock. Some would even go as far as calling them enemies. But there was something about Carlos that Oscar loved dearly. It was his little, twenty year old sister. the same sister he as well as his father were crazy protective of. Y/N was the princess of the Sainz family. Her brother and father would drop everything just to make her happy. But they were also not hesitant to scare away any guy that even looked at her. The last boyfriend the young girl brought home had broken up with her after a talk with both Sainz men.

So it was no surprise that the young couple had to sneak around. At least until Y/n found a way to tell her brother and father about her boyfriend. Luckily did she had the support from her mother and sisters, who helped the couple sneak around. They also adored Oscar. He was treading the young girl like royalty. To say that she got princess treatment was an understatement. That girl got queen treatment. From ordering her favourite flowers in advance so they would be there when she arrived at the hotel to carrying her when her heels were hurting, Oscar did everything.

The Spanish girl had just arrived in her boyfriends drivers room when the door busted open. “Oscah, where is my…? Y/N?”, the voice of no other than Lando Norris yelled, making the couple jump apart from their kiss. “Don’t tell Carlos!”, was the first thing the girl yelled as she made a step toward the brit. “You are really snogging the one person on the grid your brother hates the most?!”, Lando asked laughing like the idiot he was. “Mate, please.”, Oscar chimed in as he noticed how his girlfriend started to bite her finger nails. “Fine! I wont tell him but you better not knock her up! I don’t want to go to your funeral, mate.”, Lando said and left them alone.

The bad luck seemed to follow the couple. it was the Sunday when her father accidentally walked to the girls room right as Oscar was saying his goodbye to her with a kiss. “Y/N Sofia Alejandra Sainz Vázquez! ¿qué demonios estás haciendo?”, her father yelled, making the Australian worry for his life. “Papá, no te enfades. Le quiero de verdad. Por favor.”, the youngest Sainz begged, using her best puppy eyes to get her father to soften his mood. “Sir, I really love your daughter and only have good intentions with her.”, Oscar added, offering his hand bravely to the elder Spanish man. “We will have dinner tonight. There we will talk more but you will stay with me till then. And your brother will also be at the dinner.”, Carlos Sr. said while shaking Oscar’s hand rather firmly.

For some reason had Lando make his way into the family dinner after the race. Most likely to experience the drama first hand. Y/N was walking into the restaurant with Lando while her brother was talking to their sister, Oscar was already inside. “He is going to die.”, Lando kept teasing the girl. Rolling her eyes she slapped the brits shoulder before walking over to her mother. “Please don’t let them kill Osc, Mamá.”, she begged, making her mother smile. “We won’t let them hurt him. He is a part of the family for as long as you want him to be.”, Reyes assured her daughter. Walking into the restaurant Oscar spotted his girlfriend immediately. His smile was wide as he walked toward her to pull her in a hug and give her a quick kiss. Normally the kiss would last longer but he did not want to be killed in the first ten seconds of being with the entire family of his girlfriend. And his teammate. Right as they pulled away did Carlos Jr. start yelling curses in Spanish demanding to know what was going on. Y/N turned to her brother, whose face was just as red as his race suit. Placing a hand on his arm she said, “Carlos, I really love him. Please be nice. For me.”. Looking between his sister and the Australian Carlos took a moment before letting out another curse. “Fine! I will be as nice as I can but I still don’t like it! And I will gladly push you into the wall if you hurt her!”, he yelled pointing at Oscar who held his hand up in surrender. Sitting down the two Sainz men had to realize that they were the only ones in the family that were not wrapped around the Australians finger. All the Sainz women seem to be in love with Oscar. “Mate, be happy she is not with some random guy. Plus I will report it if he should misbehave in the McLaren garage.”, Lando tried to cheer his friend up who looked like he was about to jump off a bridge.

“Oscar is such a good young man. He is very polite and charming.”, Reyes enthused about the Australian to her husband and son on the way back to the hotel. “I also really like him! He is really treating her well.”, one of her daughters agreed. “But why does she need a boyfriend in the first place?”, Carlos Sr wanted to know. “Let the girl be happy. She is twenty and not two.”, the second daughter chimed in.

At the same time did Oscar help Y/N braid her hair for the night. It was their nightly routine. He was braiding her hair before bed while she told him about her day. Or some other things that exited her that day. “I am really glad that my brother and dad now know about us. I really hated hiding it from them. It made me feel really bad.”, the girl told him, making him grunt in agreement. “I am happy if you are happy. Do you know also want to make it social media official? I know you wanted to soft launch for a while.”, “Can I?”, she asked, so excited that she almost messed up his braid. “Of course. I think my PR team would be happy to see that I am not a loner after all.”, he joked, earning a kiss from the girl.

[alien-magnolia]

Being Jake Sully’s Babygirl

Fic description: 18 + minors DNI!! Domestic life with your husband, Jake, has never been better. He was Toruk Makto, and even, he needed someone to care for him after a long day in the forest. Dom!jake Sully, subby!fem reader, breeding kink, service kink, corruption / innocence kink, daddy kink, size kink, bj, lil bit of age gap (dilf Jake!)

It was almost eclipse, the sun and moon meeting to form a golden halo in the Pandoran sky. You loved domestic life with your mate. Before you met him, you were just incomplete, both emotionally and physically. Who knew you had such an urge to be cared for, to be doted on, I mean it was predictable, you were just so helpless on your own!

You grew up in the Omaticaya as amongst the slowest and one of the weakest, you could never be taronyu, hunter, although you did have your own ikran. You were a healer instead, and vowed to yourself to never associate with men who are taronyu. You feared they would soil your good nature. You feared them, you were a gentle little thing that should just keep to the healers. That changed when Jake Sully came around.

His (previous) human nature puzzled you, yet that was what you loved about him. He was so brave, not afraid, he had a strong heart! You knew that you’d do anything for him, and that he felt the same. He vowed to you, to always protect and care for you, as your mate, when the two of you finally mated under the tree of voices. 

He stayed true to that vow. He woke you this one morning, his large hand rubbed gentle circles in your back as you woke up to look at him. “What is it, ma Jake?,” you murmur sleepily, making grabby hands at him, the secret sign the two of you had for a kiss. He chuckles and obliges, leaning in to kiss you gently. “I have a big hunt today with the war party. Just wanted to let you know, ma muntxate.” You are concerned. “Ma Jake. You won’t get hurt, right?,” your doe eyes stare back into his. 

“God damn. She’s gonna be the death of me,” Jake thinks to himself, as he thinks of ways to reassure his mate. “I won’t, ma yuey. I am Olo’eyktan, don't you worry. I’ll think of you on the hunt.” You smile, a sigh of relief. “I’ll miss you, ma Jake. Don’t know what I’ll do without you,” you say, as you reach up to cling onto him for a bit. That was one of your favorite things to do, was to just stay wrapped up in his big, strong arms. It was the safest place in the world for you!

“You’ll hurry back soon, ma Jake?,” you ask innocently. Jake chuckles. What he wouldn’t do to just miss the hunt entirely so he can stay home and fuck you until you couldn’t walk. Obligations as Olo’eyktan called. “I Will, don’t you worry, sweetheart. You just stay home today, ok? No going out into the forest or nothin.’,” he chides at you. God, he was so overprotective, and you loved it!! 

You agree, he gives you another quick kiss before he gets his weapon and sets off on his ikran to meet the others in the war party, they were at the edge of the forest. You decide to tidy up around the hut for him, but not before getting dressed for the day. 

You opted with a lovely blue-green bead top, with a shell necklace and a few pink feathers for your hair. You felt the hut would look a little better with some flowers inside, so you went out into the forest to find some. Jake usually scolded you if you went out by yourself, for some reason, that made you feel more love for him. You scatter the blue-green petals and leaves all over the hut. 

Next is dinner. Usually, Jake was the one bringing it back to you, but you couldn’t wait for all the praise that was to come if you made him something. You loved it when he praised you, it made you feel so warm and fuzzy!! You went out to pick out some teylu worms, and made a little fire to cook them over. After they were cooked, you put them on a leaf with some flowers scattered over it, and left it wrapped up in the hut. He needed rest too, after all. The fact that he had ten years on you didn’t help, either. He wasn’t that young anymore, and you just wanted to take care of him, like a good little house mate should! 

Eclipse was starting. He will be back soon. For the finishing touches, you wrapped a few leafs around your hips, a makeshift shirt. You knew this was similar to what humans wore. Maybe your mate will like it. You hear the screech of his ikran outside. He was back. You quickly unwrap his dinner, and scatter over to the door to wait for him.

 You hear him climb up the tree, using his muscles to drag up whatever he got from the hunt. He walks through the doorway, slamming a hexapede wrapped in a large jungle leaf onto the floor. “Hey, sweetheart. Had a good day?,” he asks, with a bit of pep to his tired voice. “Yes, ma Jake. I did,” you slyly remark, coming up to him, so he could get a full view of you. He raises his thin eyebrows, yellow eyes hungrily gazing over your decorated little body. 

“Got all dolled up f’me, sweets? You look fuckin’ adorable. C’mere,” his large arms open up to you, which you gladly run into. His fingers tilt your chin up, keeping your head in place as he gives you a long, sweet kiss, which you gladly accept. “What’s all this, huh?,” your mate teases, his smile growing wider as he takes a look around the marui hut. “Did this for you, ma Jake. Want to take care of you. Make you feel good. It is what humans call, a housewife?,” you say, innocently, with a hint of confusion. 

Jake grunts again, his ears folding back, his tail erratic, matching yours. “Is something wrong, yawne?,” you ask. You wonder if you did something wrong. He was supposed to like this! You quickly think of what to do next, since it looked like he did not like your little surprise for him. Jake chuckles, his voice a bit deeper than before. “No, sweetheart. I’m just a lil’ shocked you did this all f’me. You wanna be my housewife huh? Little wife, mate, to take care of her warrior when he needs it?,” he coos at you, his voice slow, deep. You nod quietly as he walks over to the far end of the hut, sitting down, his hands working quickly to untie his loincloth. 

His cock springs up to attention, a large vein on the side pulsing, had you drooling at the sight. “You gonna listen to daddy?” You nod eagerly. “Good girl. Now crawl on over to me, princess,” your mate says as he taps his lap, his cock all angry and waiting for you!! You drop down onto your knees, he smirks, watching you like a predator watches his prey, as you begin to slowly make your way over to him. 

Your dainty little hands grab his large, blue thigh, as you reach his lap, waiting for his next command. “Want y’a to give Daddy’s cock here a nice lil massage, yeah, kid? Nice and gentle.” You nod, the sight of his cock just made you so,so, squirmy! You arch your back, lowering your head so his pulsing cock is at eye level. You reach out your hand to cup his balls gently, you just couldn’t wait to see them swell!!

You use both your palms to cup his balls, you bring your lips down to give them a little kiss <3 after that, moving up to give his cock a few kisses as well,  your tongue tracing that vein on the left of the shaft. You hold eye contact with him, his yellow eyes dilated, his broad chest heaving. “God damn. That’s a good girl,” he lets out a low chuckle, with a hint of a purr. He only purred when he was with you, and you were so lucky to see this side of him. 

His hand, as large as your entire face, comes down to stroke your cheek and rub your head a bit. He was pleased. Good. You just wanted to love on your mate!! “Fuck. How’d I get so lucky, huh? Got a sweet lil’ thing like you around to keep me young.” You nod, giddy with a huge smile adorning your face. You could take his cock all day, only if he’d let you.

One thing you loved about being his mate was the age difference. Jake had around fifteen years on you, his voice was so much deeper than the Na’vi men your age, you loved his stocky arms, you’d sometimes nuzzle your head into his neck, his large head, chiseled jawline!! Younger Na’vi men had none of that. Most essentially, they never had that caring, guiding, almost dad-like way to them. Jake did. Ever since the two of you mated, Jake knew that he had to protect you, love and dote on you. You were his sickeningly sweet and helpless other half. You were his babygirl, and he’d kill for you. 

Your mind drifted back to your most important object that you presently had to attend to. Your mate’s twitching cock. You scoot forward on your knees, folding your legs under you and opening your mouth. Jake chuckles. “There’s a good girl. Didn’t even have to tell you, and you’re already on your knees f’me. Open up, sugar.”

He stands up, towering over you as the leaking tip of his cockhead pushes past your wet, blue lips. You close your lips around it, sucking gently, your tongue traces around the entire tip itself!! His cock just was so big compared to your mouth. You started to gag a bit, but you held those tears back, you didn’t want to disappoint your mate. He only deserves the best, after he spent such a long day in the forest.

 “Aww. Too big f’ ya?,” he taunts. You quickly shake your head, afraid to disappoint him. “That’s what I thought, girl. You got me all nice and wet. Want you on the bed though, sugar,” he condescendingly notes at you, tapping on the mat the two of you slept on, as if he was calling on some kind of pet. 

You quickly move to the hut. It was routine --- you knew what to do. Jump on, on your back, legs open, face forward. Jake slowly moves in, a predator admiring his meal. You feel a little shy, a little vulnerable, you always did when he simply stared at you like that. “Hey.” 

Your eyes quickly moved onto him. “Eyes on daddy, sweetie.” You do as said. “There ya go. Not that hard, is it?,” he asks, cool and collected. 

You nod -- slow, like a scared little lamb. Your small hand coming up to trace patterns on his stomach, toned, with a bit of pudge to it. His broad chest, sometimes you wondered how many stripes he had on him. Those wide, stocky, veiny arms always distracted you, though. It did not help that those same arms were gripping your hips, squeezing your plush, little, body. 

“Fuck, sweetie. Gotta be in you.” He teased you, you shuddered, as he moved in between your legs, swiftly lifting your thighs to drape over his shoulders, with no effort at all. “Open up f’daddy, sweetheart,” he coos at you, as his cock pushes into your dripping, sopping cunt, his throbbing length filling you up, so, so, sweetly!! His now swollen balls lightly touch upon you as he begins to thrust, at first slowly. 

You had your eyes closed for a second. “D’aww. Daddy’s cock too much for his little mate? Eyes open. Don’t make me tell you again.”  A threat. He was in a certain mood. You were there for him to use. You quickly open your eyes to see him towering over you, grunting as he works you to orgasm. You were just his little house mate after all, and you should not have to do any of the work here. Here, he takes care of you!!

One of his large hands comes to pin yours down onto the mat, effectively restraining you. You try to wiggle free, yet his grip was tight, like molded metal. You knew — whenever he had you pinned like this, it was some of his predatory instincts shining through. It just made you even wetter. 

“Daddy…,” you wail out, as he starts pushing in and out of you, at a faster speed, his cock sending you into another world!! He buries his face into your neck, you feel his sharp fangs graze your shoulder slightly, biting down. His grunts turn to growls, hisses, your moans into little yelps and squeals. He was in control as a hunter in the forest, he was in control here, as your mate, your daddy, who took care of you, loved on you, and at the same time drove you insane with his special way of looking after you!! 

“Yeah, sweetie. Lie there and take it. Daddy’s almost done, yeah? Taking this cock like the perfect little girl you are, yeah?,” he grunts out, you feel him twitching inside you. “Want your knot! Ma Jake, please!!,” you beg him. He growls in response. You only were so pathetic for him. Just for him. Your man. He brought you over the edge, along with him. The both of you were so distracted by each other: ears folded back, tails erratically swishing, like two animals in heat, that Jake ended up giving you his knot. 

You felt it swell inside you, basically it was just an evolutionary safeguard — making sure his cock stayed in you for quite some time. Making sure you were bound to carry his child. 

“God damn,” he huffs out, a bit less delirious than he just was. “Gave you my knot, sweet thing. Looks like every Na’vi in this damn village is gonna know who y’a belong to, huh, girl?,” he softly says, as his lips give you a few pecks on your cheek, his hand cradling your face now.  “Yes, ma Jake. I’m yours,” you sweetly purr back at him. You lay your head on his chest after he has flipped the two of you over. Your ear against his squishy (but firm!) chest, you hear his slow, deep purrs compared to your faster ones.

He had his baby girl all knotted under him, he came home after a tough day in the forest to be comforted by the soft womb of his mate. She was so unlike him, and that made his attachment to her grow stronger, every day. 

She felt the same, she loved having a big, strong warrior to provide for her!! She loved that she was going to have this big, strong warrior’s child soon, too.

If you like this post pls help a writer out and reblog 🖤

Avatar taglist: @aerangi @jake-sullys-whore @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @23victoria

[seachranaidhe]

National Hunger Strike Commemoration 2012

Here is a board announcing, and a gallery of images from, the hunger strike commemoration in 2012, Dungiven. M08672 [M08658] [M08659] [M08660] [M08661] [M08673] [M08674] M08675 [M08676] M08677 M08678 [M08679] M08680 M08681 M08682 M08683 M08684 M08685 [M08686] [M08687] M08688 [M08689] M08690 [M08691] [M08692] [M08693] [M08694] M08695 M08696 [M08697] [M08698] [M08699] [M08700] [M08701] M08702…

[gh0stswh0re]

just thinking about free use with cod guys, and how they'd treat u like a cum dumpster while also spoiling u rotten 24/7. f! reader, this deserves a real fic but i'm kinda lazy at the moment (having a tummy ache but i'm being very brave about it 😼😼 /j)

simon fucking ur brains out - holding your wrists above ur head in a tight grip and ur legs closed around his waist. absolutely no harmony in how his hips lose the steady rhythm as his pounding gets quicker, grows more primal as if all he cares about is chasing after his own pleasure, and how his kisses get rougher and his hand lets go off ur wrists - a faint bruise already appearing in the shadow of his fingers - just so he can grope at ur breasts, fingertips pinching the sensitive nubs. and then soap walks in, unbothered like it's ur normal monday-to friday activity - only when u moan, loud and shameless, begging simon to allow u to cum (whatever it took - pleas of "please, sir, 'been so good" to shallow promises of how you're gonna suck his dick first thing in the morning), johnny's eyes shot up to u, carefully watching u as pure ecstasy drowns out ur senses, and u feel bare and naked and so fucking sore. he'd simply walk over to the couch, his palm groping the bulge in his pants as he sits down. simon continues with lazy, slow thrusts - he has a habit of fucking u through his climax, up until the both of u feel his dick growing limp inside ur fluttering cunt.

sucking könig's dick (you'd do it under the table - the sight of u hidden from all the other men, only the wet noises of ur mouth betraying ur sinful activities - but since the man's like 6'10 his legs don't rlly comfortably fit under the table), his hand gently petting ur head, as he drowns in u praise - thanking u for being such a good girl slut, taking him all in - deep in ur throat - despite the struggle being obvious as tears fall down from the corners of ur eyes, snot running down ur chin as u nearly sob. apart from that, all the other men in the room seem to ignore u - occasionally readjusting the tight fabric of their pants, smirking as they listen to ur pathetic whimpers.

after a while, after every guy's been sucked dry, they get bored of their tiring discussions of the ten new ways of making things go kaboom - and they all start paying their full fucking attention to u. laying u down the wooden table, watching u hiss as the cold surface hits the hot skin of ur back. and for a moment, the whole room goes silent, as they all admire ur fully naked body - ur chest rising with every breath (filled with pure anticipation), the hickeys and bruises down ur ribcage slowly fading, the bitemark on ur hip being price's handiwork (and fuck, he's damn proud of it, too) and how ur pretty little cunt glistens with the wetness of ur arousal - u are utterly perfect, but that doesn't protect u from them ruining u - physically, mentally, spiritually cuz there's no way u are seeing the gates of heaven after tonight; too many sins committed, far too many stutters of lord's name in vain. gaz would be the first one to touch u, slowly gliding his hands up and down ur sides, quietly hushing u "i know, doll, i know" bringing his hand down ur tummy, ghosting over ur cunt "-'s gonna be alright". a minute or two pass by, and he already has two fingers inside u, hitting that spot inside u perfectly before he's given the clear orders - "flip her around, on her belly" price muffled under his breath, groaning as he sees a perfect view of ur perfect ass. "small circles, she loves those" ghost jumps in, his dick already in his hand, his thumb swirling around the leaky tip.

alejandro eating u out fucking u with his tongue, his needy mouth swallowing ur arousal as his fingers pump in and out of ur clenching cunt. ur hand entangled in his hair, as soap forces two fingers inside ur mouth - slapping ur cheek lightly each time the pressure becomes too much and u can't help but bite down on his digits.

thigh riding with ghost - sitting down on his lap, and him noticing u growing impatient, restlessly switching positions and unintentionally bumping ur ass back onto him. one hand grips ur hip, his knuckles turning white, as he flexes the thigh muscles, encouraging u to move. he'd watch u picking up a higher speed, and u could have sworn ur wetness already leaked through ur panties, soaking the fabric on his clothed thigh. feeling his erection borderlining on pain, he'd place both hands on u, stopping ur movement altogether - "off, now" ordering u to sink down to ur knees and to hump his boots - like a bitch in heat. he'd be genuinely scared of bumping his hand against his dick, of cumming right then and there - just the sight of u grabbing at his leg for the smallest bit of support, while quietly begging him is enough to make him fold.

stealing hoodies but make it 5x or 6x lol. no complaints from any of the guys, except simon who playfully pulls on the strings, teasing u. könig just sighs the moment he sees how his large shirts hang off ur small frame.

nothing but utter respect and adoration for their princess, their queen - rarely anyone ever dares direspecting u. but if that creepy drunk guy at the back of the bar grabs ur ass as u walk by him ... he's a dead man, long time goner, before the morning sets.

[thenightcallsme]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[esamastation]

Shizuroth, aka, SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun, aka, sgsss... Part twenty-eight

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven,

Warning for vomiting in this one.

-

Sephiroth can barely keep to his feet as Angeal walks him to the elevator. Angeal has never seen him like this, and it worries him. It doesn't seem normal, even in terms of usual SOLDIER side effects. He itches to ask what did Hojo do to the man… but this is not the time.

He'd never been so aware of the fact that Sephiroth is younger than him and Genesis. He never looks or acts like it, if anything, he acts older than he is. Usually.

The SOLDIER milling about in the hallway part for them, but not happily - and Angeal is also aware what it must look like from their perspective. In order to hide the fact that Sephiroth can't keep his balance, Angeal has to keep a pretty firm grip on his right arm - and he's carrying Masamune for Sephiroth too. It must look like he has his fellow First somehow detained.

"At ease," Angeal tells them, and it puts precisely none of them at ease.

"Um, sir," one of them says. "Where are you, uh… assigned? Next?" He's looking at Sephiroth.

If Angeal didn't already suspect that Sephiroth attacked none of them, this would've put an end to that fear. Though Sephiroth is considered an intimidating figure, none of these men look at all scared of him. If anything, they look scared for him.

Sephiroth clears his throat, his arm in Angeal's grip tensing. "I'm headed to Wutai," he says then. "Apparently."

A reaction runs through the SOLDIERs, and some of them exchange pointed looks. Some look worried, hesitant - others look determined.

"Good luck, sir," one of them says bravely.

"We'll meet you there," another says, more bold than brave.

Sephiroth looks at the speaker and then lets out a quiet, "Hmph," and reaches out to pat the man's hair with his free hand. "I'll be waiting."

Angeal arches his brows, and SOLDIER Third Class being petted gapes in shock. Sephiroth chuckles and gives the man's hair a little ruffle before his hand falls.

Sephiroth… must still be out of it. They better take the short way to the airport.

"Come on," Angeal says, clearing his throat loudly. "We're going to be late."

Sephiroth hums, and with the SOLDIERs around them throwing little farewells and good luck wishes, Angeal drags his fellow First to the elevator, hitting up. They'd have to get through the office floors on foot, but thankfully the stairwell is relatively private. Much less so than the lobby. Hopefully they wouldn't see anyone.

"Sephiroth," Angeal says, adjusting his hold on Sephiroth's right elbow while the man sways against him. "What happened?"

"Mn," Sephiroth hums, hanging his head. "Before or after I destroyed the training room?"

"Ah, before?"

Sephiroth is quiet for a moment. "I trained. I - tried to - hmm," he stops, looking unhappy. "I was trying to work through something. And I was interrupted. It… threw me off."

"Badly enough that you tried to kill Professor Hojo?"

Sephiroth blinks and lifts his head. It looks like it takes effort. "I tried to kill Hojo?"

"That's what they told me."

"Oh. That was him? I don't - I wasn't thinking clearly," Sephiroth mutters and runs his free hand down his face. "What a way to empathise with Liu-shidi."

"Who?"

"... No one," Sephiroth sighs and lets his head hang again. "Ah, I feel like shit."

Angeal hums sympathetically. "You look like it too. When was the last time you drank something?"

"Depends on what time it is?" Sephiroth groans and Angeal tells him. "Ah. Then it was five hours ago."

And Sephiroth had been exercising, then had a breakdown and has been doing who knows what. "We'll get you an energy drink before we set off," Angeal promises and gives him a look. "You know, you don't usually train in the virtual training room. Not unless Genesis drags you, and even then it had better be late."

Sephiroth snorts. "I wonder why," he mutters and then lets out a little urp noise and clasps his left hand over his mouth. He looks very pale, and there are beads of sweat on his temple.

"Hang on, we're almost there," Angeal says urgently and looks up at the floor numbers scrolling by. "Just a few more -"

Just as he says it, the elevator comes to a halt - on floor 66. The upper science floor.

Angeal feels a terrible sense of foreboding as the door opens - and Professor Hojo stands beyond it, flanked by two infantry troopers and shadowed by four laboratory technicians.

"Ah, Sephiroth," the professor says, hand on the elevator button, sounding somewhere between smug and pissed off. "There you are."

"Professor," Angeal says, wary, wondering if this is what the Turk meant. "Apologies - we're on our way to assignment -"

"You have arrived, congratulations," Hojo says impatiently. "Come right this way - laboratory one."

"I'm afraid we have orders, professor, it's important -"

"There is nothing more important than science!" Hojo says sharply. "Now come along. There are tests we need to run, and the more time we waste the more invaluable data we lose!"

Angeal hesitates. Hojo is a department head. Lazard is just a Director of a sub-department - Hojo's orders trump his. And - and is Angeal really supposed to fight other company employees? That's - that's treason. Shinra has its issues, of course, but…

Hojo doesn't wait for him to make his decision - the Professor steps up and grabs Sephiroth's wrist. "Come along, boy, it's time for -"

It's like the world slows down.

Angeal has a grip on Sephiroth's right elbow, holding him up. Hojo has his left wrist and is pulling. Normally it wouldn't be strong enough to even bother Sephiroth. Normally a man of Hojo's slim build wouldn't be an issue. But these aren't normal conditions.

Another tug, and Sephiroth might fall, stumble, anything. Another tug, and they'll find out how weak Sephiroth currently is. Another tug, and Angeal would have to make a choice between following orders… or getting his friend out of there.

Hojo pulls violently, Angeal braces himself - and then Sephiroth throws up on Hojo. 

He throws up a lot.

He throws up mostly blood.

The aftermath is unspeakably gruesome.

"Oh, that is so much better," Sephiroth sighs, easily tugging his wrist from Hojo's loose grip and wiping the back of it against his lips. "Pardon me, professor. Bad blood, you know, had to come out sooner or later."

Hojo just stands there, stunned, covered in blood. Angeal looks between them in horrified amazement as Sephiroth stands up under his own power again. The infantry troopers have actually backed away a step in apparent horror. The technicians look like they want to run away.

There's an audible dripping sound.

Sephiroth clears his throat, looks away, and then reaches to press up on the elevator key pad.

The elevator doors slowly close on Hojo's blood-soaked visage with a sad little squeak.

-

.... Yeah I have no excuses except that I thought it was funny, heh.

[danveration]

Could you do a Cooper Howard x reader angst? Something with the reader getting injured or dying and/ or becoming a ghoul?

You and your stories are amazing btw❤️!!!

Thank you!

Parings: Cooper Howard x reader

Summary: You get shot and Cooper comes to your aid.

Word count: 1344

Warnings: Guns, blood, shooting, reader getting shot in the thigh, Cooper being a softy

A/N: sorry if you meant post-nuclear bomb. (if you wanted cooper howard like.. normal human & stuff) ALSO I JUST REALIZED THIS ISN'T VERY ANGSTY 😭😭 FFS. I hope you like it either way :))

It was a hectic situation. There were at least ten people pointing guns directly at you from all around. This was not how you expected your day to go. You didn’t even do anything remotely wrong. Just stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was pretty common around here.

You were by yourself right now, which was another downfall. You didn’t have the capabilities yet to kill a bunch of people on your own. Maybe if you sweet talked them..? You doubt that would work. If only Cooper were here. He would have them all dead in a blink of an eye. Especially because they were threatening you. He seemed to have a soft spot for you for whatever reason. You felt the same way towards him. Even though people would look at you like you’re insane, you don’t care. You can see something in him that nobody else can. He always had a bit of a protective nature towards you the moment you two met. You thought he would’ve killed you, but he just laughed at how scared you looked and ensured that he doesn’t kill without a motive. And in his words “won’t dare harm a pretty thing like you.”

He is currently god knows where. You were tagging along with him but he went to go get more vials. He said he knows a spot where he can snag a couple. That was about two hours ago. It would be great if he just miraculously appeared right now.

“L-listen. I don’t want any trouble, okay? I’m just passing through.” You say, trying to sound brave but the whimper in your voice made itself known.

“Yeah, passing through OUR territory.” One of the men said, with a raspy tone.

“I didn’t know! I’ll go. Right now.” You say quickly, starting to move forward.

“Uh-uh!” One of them yelled.

You hear all their guns go off safely and you stop dead in your tracks. The panic and fear you feel makes your skin develop goosebumps.

“We can’t let you go, can we? What kind of example would we be settin’ if we did?” One of them spoke.

“Oh, just walk right into our territory, It’s all good!! It wouldn't be our territory if we did that, would it?” One of them say in a mocking tone.

“P-please. I just-“ You begin to say.

“Now what on hells creation is goin’ on here?” You hear no other than Cooper’s voice in the other direction.

You subconsciously release a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

All the people snap their heads to the ghouls voice. Some of them look scared, but some of them look angry that their fun got spoiled.

“Well? Gonna keep gawking or is somebody going to tell me what the fucks goin’ on here?” He says.

“W-well we caught this one roaming on our territory.” One of the people spoke up.

“And?” Cooper questions them, as if daring them to say what they were going to do to you.

They’re all silent. Except for one. He must be new here or something because he speaks up in an angry tone, “and were gonna kill them.” He says, pointing the gun at you. He looks around at all his other gang members, and how they’re not pointing the gun at you anymore.

He raised a brow, “what’s the big idea? Why’s nobody else-“

BANG

Cooper shoots the man in the arm, not letting him finish his sentence.

Everything went slow from there. You see Cooper giving the man cold eyes, and then from your vision, you see the man look down at his arm, then you see him, with his other hand, grab his gun and quickly shoot you in your thigh before Cooper sends another bullet straight through his head, leaving him instantly falling to the ground.

You hiss out in pain and look down, seeing red liquid gush out and stain your pants.

Cooper whips his head towards you.

“Fuckin’-“ He mumbles as he rushes over, getting on his knees in front of you.

Everyone around immediately makes a quick exit, not wanting to suffer the same fate as the other guy.

Cooper would’ve killed them all for that, if it wasn’t for him not wanting to take his eyes or attention off of you. He feels scared, worried, mad, and mostly desperate. Desperate to stop the bleeding, desperate to go back in time and never leave you alone in the first place. He would laugh at himself for feeling these feelings any other time, just not now. Now he has to focus all his attention on you.

“Is it bad?” You mumble out to him, not wanting to fully look at it.

Cooper thankfully notices how it isn’t in a vital place. The bullet went right through, so he doesn’t have to worry about digging it out or it causing complications.

“Well you got shot, sweetheart. It’s bad but it isn’t deadly. You’ll be alright.” He says, trying to ease the worry off of you.

He’s got to get you to a safe spot so he can properly treat the wound. Luckily he has lots of experience with these kinds of situations.

He stands up and leans down, putting his arm behind your knees, lifting you up and carrying you bridal style.

Your eyes go wide and you gasp in shock, but don’t complain. You don’t think you can walk anyhow.

Your cheeks flush and you feel a swell in your heart from his actions. He walks in silence, his brain wracking at how he shouldn’t have left you alone, and how he swears to make sure this won’t happen again. You’re in his arms, hurting, but for some reason you swear it hurts a little less because he’s close to you.

“This won’t never happen again, I swear it. You better be more cautious around these parts though, darlin’. Especially with me not around. People don’t give no mercy.” He says to you.

A little while later, you’re sitting on a mattress in an abandoned building. Your pants are pulled down a bit on one side, so he has access to the wounded leg. Cooper carefully cleaning and wrapping up your wound with a concentrated face. You stare at him and how his eyes look, how his forehead is frowned down in focus, and how his hands are handling you carefully, as if they aren’t used on a daily basis for killing and violence.

“You’re lucky it’s in this spot. A little to the left or right, and you might’ve not been able to use this leg again. Would’ve had to get you those robot leg attachments.” He says, laughing at the end of his sentence.

“You mean the ones that practically rip your leg to shreds? No thanks.” You say, laughing.

You look at him softly as he’s smiling gently, while finishing up wrapping your leg.

“Now would you look at that? All better.” He says, gesturing to your skillfully wrapped leg.

“Thank you, Coop.” You say. “I’m really lucky you came in time.”

“Well, I’d argue I was a tad bit late, but of course, darlin’. I’m glad I got there before things could’ve gotten worse.” He says back to you, adjusting his hat on his head.

He cares about you. It realized that right when he heard that gun shot go in your direction. His heart sank to his stomach immediately, thinking the worse. He’s going to make sure to keep a tight leash on you from now on out. Not in a bad way, just in a way that he’s able to be there if anything happens.

“Thank you, Cooper.” You say softly out of nowhere, looking at him with a bit of blush on your cheeks.

He nods his head in your direction. “You’re quite welcome, sweetheart. Now why don’t you be a doll and rest up. I might’ve wrapped it all neat n’ all, but you’ll still need to let it heal. We can take a couple hours break here."