#free the speech therapists

[deborahdeshoftim5779]

Somebody kindly liked this post (I enjoy when people dig up old posts I have written and show some appreciation, and I try to do the same for others).

I have decided to reblog my own post just to comment on the comparative silence concerning China's totalitarian abuse of Hong Kong's legal system. I don't keep up with news in the Far East as often as I do news in Europe and the Middle East, but I have not heard anything to suggest that these speech therapists were released from prison.

I certainly have not heard of any university students in the West deciding to set up tents outside public buildings and demand divestment from China because of China's verified human rights abuses and denial of the indigenous rights of other nations.

Let's not forget that China continues to incarcerate and, if multiple reports are to be believed, abuse the Uyghur Muslim minority. Yet the Muslim world, which is so quick to get outraged over Israel and cartoons of Muhammad, has failed (or refused) to confront China over these crimes.

China was one of the nations at the United Nations Security Council that requested a minute of silence for the murderer, President Ebrahim Raisi, who was killed in a helicopter crash on Sunday. Raisi was named 'The Butcher of Tehran' for his role in the execution of 30 000 Iranian political prisoners, and continued to cement his legacy as an obscene despot in the thirty years since.

While many Iranians feel a sense of relief or even joy over Raisi's death, China's UN representatives asked for sympathy (and several cowards, including from civilised Western nations, decided to give it).

These events provide solid proof that attacks on Israel's lawful war against Palestinian terrorists are based not on human rights or the rule of law, but on hysteria, deception, malice, and hatred of Jews.

Don’t forget that China is also a despotic nation. 

Five speech therapists have been sent to prison for writing a children’s book that featured sheep trying to protect their village from wolves. A government-picked judge claimed the book was “seditious” and intended to brainwash children in Hong Kong. 

It’s clear that the Chinese government is threatened by the freedom of Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet, and other neighbours. China’s totalitarianism and violence are a threat to democratic and peaceful people in the Far East. This is the same attitude that we see from the despotic Russian state currently trying to steal Ukrainian land. 

There should be an enormous international outcry against the imprisonment of these speech therapists. Every Chinese diplomat abroad should face tough questions about this outrageous sentencing, and any effective boycott measures should be taken against the Chinese state. 

We cannot keep looking the other way as China stamps on human rights. 

[your-therapist-friend]

Hello, friend!

I'm your online friend you can anonymously talk to about anything that's bothering you! I'm not one to judge and I'll try to give you advice to the best of my abilities, like any friend would! ^_^

Disclaimer! I'm not a professional therapist. I am just a person on the internet trying to help you as much as I can. If there is something serious that's bothering you, please seek a professional to truly advise you!

Who am I?

I'm not a professional therapist but I'm someone really interested in the world of psychology. As to improve more on my capabilities and help people, I've created this anonymous account!

How to talk to me.

Simply message me on Tumblr or if you want, you could send it through an anonymous task! I'll try to answer as fast as possible, though it might take some time due to time zones.

Things to consider before talking to me:

I'm not a professional and therefore I cannot solve all of your life's problems. I can only give you advice from a friend.

I have not experienced everything life has to offer therefore some of the things you might need help with, I don't have personal experience with and can't help so much.

I am just a regular human online and anything I say could be potentially wrong. I seek to learn with great experience.

I will not share any information given to me without consent and will not ask for any information from you such as your name, address, etc. I don't need it for me to be your therapist friend and if anything you give me I possibly do share online, you can freely sue me but I assure you it won't happen.

You are not bothering me in any way by just venting to me. I have created this account out of free will and with no money in mind. If you were to be bothering me, I would be a horrible friend.

Stay healthy, dear. If the world doesn't care about you, I do <3

[attachablepenis]

i was feeling some sort of build up i couldnt understand while also being stuck in a mental rut and my mind kept tirelessly thinking "i need to reset somehow" and brilliantly thought the answer to that was getting drunk but actually getting drunk just let me cry and THATS what i needed all along

[solar-serpent]

🌈Based on your talents, what business should you launch?💰🪙

Hello! I hope everyone is doing great. I'm going through a phase where I started wondering if I wanted to go back to work for an employer, or even if it was worthy after I've acknowledged all my potential and the fact no one would ever pay for the real price of my work. Aquarium era is hitting me harder, and I bet you too are feeling this call to reach financial freedom. We deserve it.

I want to contribute with your awakening.

Please take a deep breath, focus on what's in front of you and pick the picture you feel more attracted to.

Pile I → Pile II

Pile III → Pile IV

🌱Pile I🌱

OMG, pile 1, you are so kind and empathetic that people want to open up to you and ask for your opinion/advice on topics such as recent breakups, petty fights with mom, best friend betrayal drama and so. Even though that's not the main purpose for them going into your store/business. If you weren't an entrepreneur, you could've been an excellent therapist since your serene demeanor and polite speech would make others believe they are speaking to a good friend. You show you care for what you are being told by providing meaningful replies, and I could swear people go crazy over your attentive gaze. Some of you are natural, others are really good actors (no one is to be judged here). Your patience and warm personality real or not sells, people could purchase anything from your business if you are the one assisting, which can be a boomer if you are aiming for leaving someone else in charge and doing the counts behind the scenes, knowing you are one of the best sellers.

You could own a coffee store given how good you are at building spaces where people will gather and feel safe. Not only that, you can create beautiful settings that will make others immerse in a new world like the tea room from a dollhouse or within a Monet painting. You will succeed at making them distance themselves from real world's problems, thus they could be more open to speak about something that feels so far away. To be honest, I don't think everyone that chose this pile would identify with this business idea. For some serving, cooking and simping chai latte over the daily gossips feels like a waste of their potential. You guys are right, another part of group which's artsy in nature is more aligned with fashion, beauty, and textiles. But I swear you all have the potential to manifest large amounts of money in one sale. I didn't have to crack my head open thinking about what type of business could allow that as designing is your strong suit. You are a master when it comes to making colors, fabrics. and whatnot march. A small part of this group loves sweets and how food can make others happy, therefore you could settle down for having a bakery and specializing on wedding cakes. However, some of you are contemplating the idea of running a drift or wedding dress store. For the ones willing to work with the brides, I assure your business will do well. You have the patience of a Greek hero going against the gods' will, so I see you nailing sales that took plenty of your time and energy.

I hope this reading was to your liking♡. I'm offering paid readings about this topic here. You can find more free content on my blog.

🌱Pile 2🌱

I didn't know "giving a fuck" was a talent until I drew your cards, dear pile 2. You are strong people, you don't care if others start hating you for doing your job. Like 5% of the people who picked this pile dreamed with being a hitman and go ahead guys, you'll do great. Now, a large percent of you have questionable morals, allowing you to work in fields where you can turn corrupted and earn wealth as a politician, lawyer, or even a doctor. I know those are career choices, but the real business for you is owning agencies, institutes, clinics, and funeral homes. I am not even making the latter up. Some of you won't care about the taboo-ish nature of your work. You approach business with level-headedness and practicality, thus if it pays wells as any other job related to humans needs... dealing with the deads is easier than their family but you will still do the job or you will hire someone to do it eventually. Curiously, you are great at making people feel better. You aren't that talkative, but you know how to make others laugh with your silly jokes, pulling weird faces, providing them with food or water and much needed space.

Some of you are radicals and into activism. You have plenty of pent-up anger and aggressiveness inside of you that you will directed at facing opposing forces. You might start a charitable cause and talk people into volunteering. Yeah, I know it won't give you money or not so much, but hear me out! You could own an institute for people with special needs or another for learning languages. There's a high chance you might end up working with foreigners, what gave you that business idea when you thought on how to help them improve their lifestyle. Some of you could be interested in farming or owning a supermarket. You would feel inclined to hire immigrants regardless of the consequences. Actually, what are consequences to you? You don't fucking care. You see people suffering, you help them. There's no other logic in your brain.

I hope this reading was to your liking♡. I'm offering paid readings about this topic here. You can find more free content on my blog.

🌱Pile 3🌱

Ok, guys, I love how unbothered you are when it comes to your line of work and what people have to say about it. Unlike pile 2, you are not interested in top positions that might lead to corruption, dirty money and living a very intense life. You are the complete opposite, you are humble and like to contribute to the community. You have a great intuition and observation skills, so upon checking your town or the place you want to install your business in, you will know what spot in the market needs to be filled right away. You can also tell what the community's needs are; you are not afraid of getting your hands dirty, so you could feel inclined to run a fish or convenience store. I feel like you want to belong, so not only your business won't cover a necessity, but also will turn into something traditional, even "iconic" for your neighbourhood. Is a music store still a thing? I feel like a small part of this group longs to have one.

You have all what it takes to manifest a long-lasting business. You are highly talented at nurturing and you might see your business like a "baby". It's not just your money source, but something to care about and fight for. Some of you might be interested in running an esoteric shop, where people is going to get their cards read or purchase herbs, incienses, candles, and so on. Mostly, this pile wants to have an unique business or for it to be the sole provider of something. E.g, you might own the only bookstore with coffee services at town. Also, I believe some of you will settle for moving out to a town or the countryside and start a business over there.

I hope this reading was to your liking♡. I'm offering paid readings about this topic here. You can find more free content on my blog.

🌱Pile 4🌱

Hello, guys! This pile is slightly different from the rest since I feel like going straight to the point and sparing unnecessary details, but I might annoy you as I'm not leaving nothing unsaid. You are known for being busy and most times you seem to be in a hurry. You are always working on something, even in high school your friends knew you were too invested on your studies and earning money than hanging out with people your age. You probably like technology and travelling, so you could own a business like a travel agency (in your country or another), transport or event planning company. In all honesty, you might end up running all three of them. The term "workaholic" does not make justice to what you are, but I will call you a genius. You were born to steal the spotlight by your innovative style at the moment of giving birth to your ideas into the real world. You can mix all your interests together and create a new business that will leave people gawking, like an app who allows users to match with vacation spots instead of people or something like that?

Some of you will rather work with tourists, renting cars, boats, and properties so their basic needs are covered. I don't know how many of you are sporty but you are adamant about turning one of your interests/hobbies in your business. You might run your own indoor rock climbing centre. If you were to ask me for specifications on what's your talent, I would say you are a natural when it comes to businesses and you hold such control over your emotions. You put your sole focus on work, nothing can distract you from achieving your goals. Not even your family, so I can see you making up to your dear ones with expensive gifts or generous check after you missed an important family event again.

I hope this reading was to your liking♡. I'm offering paid readings about this topic here. You can find more free content on my blog.

[hades-in-bloom]

Quit | Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

content: assumed older Leon, assumed age gap, golden retriever boyfriend with attitude, mentions of PTSD and light panic attacks, mentions of death, gn!reader, no mentions of y/n

author’s note: this man should be protected at all costs, you can’t tell me otherwise. might proofread later. as always, proceed at your own risk.

word count: still a drabble.

xoxo

***

He falls apart one day when you least expect him to, in the middle of the coffee shop, and you rush from your table towards the counter, where Leon juggles the change. His hands are shackled with heavy tremor. You don’t know what triggered him, but you know this frantic look that he has after particularly bad assignments. He doesn’t talk though, neither to you nor to the therapist assigned by the DSO. Appreciative of the mental health support offered by the agency, you hate his job with fiery passion.

You pull him to the side, helping out with putting the change back to his wallet. His breathing is ragged, and he clings to your palm, squeezing it in his own nice and tight. You thank the higher power that your favourite coffee corner is quite empty at this hour of the day. You couldn’t care less of what the staff would think of you.

You slide your free hand under his thick jacket and onto his heart in a desperate attempt to calm him down. It pains you to see him this way. Especially when he can’t stand feeling powerless and in need of assistance himself. Years of flying solo made him annoyingly self-sufficient.

He needs a minute, but then nods at you in reassurance, when barista calls out your order. You are spending precious seconds picking up two americanos before dragging Leon outside. He grabs onto the paper cup like his life depends on it, and makes a sip despite your attempts of preventing him from consuming caffeine. You don’t think it’s a good idea, taking his condition into account, but he doesn’t listen.

“You have to talk to me, Kennedy,” you sound a bit grumpy, but only because you worry about him. You plead openly. “Please, Leon.”

He scoffs bitterly into the hot beverage and takes his time before meeting your gaze with his own. His sudden panic attack seems to bridle by that point.

“I wish I could,” he assures. “It’s not that simple”.

You resent his excuses now more than ever. You do your best when trying to keep yourself together, and you spend some time walking in silence before reaching one of the benches in the park. New York is in its full glory this time of the year.

“Quit,” you say suddenly after placing yourself at the wooden bench with sights of the dated graffiti here and there. You let your stubbornness take over you, when you press on. “Why can’t you quit?”

The horrors that he has seen were unimaginable. It’s not even a figure a speech at this point. You can't imagine it as you have no idea what he does, but you don’t like how size of his paycheque seems to correlate with the level of danger that his job poses.

“I help people,” he replies quickly, and, although you want to, you can’t feel proud of him right now. He means a world to you, but sometimes you don’t know if he truly thinks the same about you. You know it’s your anger talking.

“After all these years you should have helped enough, shouldn't you?” You are harsh and impatient, and he eyes you with caution and sudden curiosity as he doesn’t see you this way before – righteously furious. Leon doesn’t know what to do with you, when he’s generally very good at thinking on his feet.

You both drink your coffee in heavy silence for a bit, listening to the chatter in the park; someone is playing a violin with their melody being too tragic to your liking.

He sighs loudly, visibly irritated, first. He doesn’t like it when two of you fight.

“What would I even do, if I quit?” His question makes you raise your brows. You don’t believe that he entertains a thought of quitting his job, but you appreciate the effort. Although you wouldn’t mind staying mad at him a tad longer.

“Marry me,” you say right away, without thinking too much. Leon can bet that you took choosing your coffee this morning more seriously, but you don’t backtrack. Sly smile is appearing on your lips, and you regret for a moment that you are in public. “I will make sure that you are busy.”

Leon is lost for words for a moment before he catches himself grinning despite his best attempts not to.

“Savage,” he calls you out mercilessly. Despite your conversation bearing a certain degree of absurdity, you definitely like him better now than moments before, when he was gasping for air back in the coffee shop.

Despite your playful mood, you don’t let him off the hook easily.

“You can’t die on me, Kennedy,” you have already accompanied him to way too many funerals to draw your own conclusions. “You better believe me, when I say that I’ll haunt you in the afterlife, if you do.”

Leon finishes his coffee at that time and throws out the paper cup before taking a place next to you at the bench. His look giving you sudden chills.

“They say in the vows, ‘till death do us part. Should we think of changing it for our ceremony?”

It takes you a never-ending second to realise what he did, and then it hits you. You can’t help it but stare at him in disbelief when he clearly enjoys the effect of his own words.

“You are unbelievable,” you conclude with conviction. This bastard just shrugs it off.

“That wasn’t me who started it, sweetheart.”

You want to slap him, but he kisses you instead, and you forget about the rest of the world for a bit. You lean into him, and the violin sounds in the distance do not seem that tragic to you anymore.

Related:

[xluciifer]

Alright, a little PSA but... I think it's finally time.

I think I'm going to go on a semi-haitus. I think that's what it's considered?

It took a while to ponder over and consider, but given my depression, my child's many appointments, therapists and soon to add on speech therapy, dealing with my ex still and struggling financially, I just... can't mentally find the time or motivation to be here and roleplay. Hell... I haven't even had the time to talk to any of my friends on discord either.

It makes me feel incredibly guilty because I enjoy writing and interacting with everyone here as a whole. But I just can't mentally keep up with it anymore. I'll try harder to interact and talk with friends on discord because I really do need those interactions because I don't have friends here where I live and I don't know anyone but family.

But it's been a long time coming and I just can't balance and maintain both worlds anymore. Hopefully soon I can come back, but for now, all of my blogs will be low on activity until I can get to a better spot mentally for myself.

I'm really sorry its come to this, again your King loves everyone here so much and I hope that's understandable... if you'd like to talk on discord, feel free to DM me.

This isn't a goodbye, but a thank you. Thank you for sticking by me since January or passed, thank you for welcoming me and roleplaying with me and thank you for liking my writing and my portrayal of my characters. I hope to come back in maybe a month's time or so, I'm not exactly sure on time frame. I'll still be here occasionally, but I don't know about writing.

Again, thank you, I love you, and I hope this is understandable.

Yours Truly, Luci, The King of Hell. ❤️👑

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silver Lining 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

Note: I was going to add this to the bookstore au but realised Bucky is a side character in Steve's and not old so....

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand on the corner, head down, book in hand, right at the crux of the tall shelves. You squint at the pages, doing your best to block out the figures and noises all around you. You remind yourself it's okay to take up space when you need it.

As you close the book and slip it back onto the shelf, you slide out another, ignoring the lingering shadow, looming closer like a vulture. A year ago you would sidle away empty-handed to save yourself the awkward tension. Not anymore. You're done being a pushover.

As you check the price inside the book jacket, the customer nearest you clears his throat and coughs. You sense his impatience. He wants you to move. Too bad. Lisa, your therapist said it's okay to hold your ground. You'll be happy to report back that you did just that.

You keep the book, it's not a bad price, but you're looking for something a bit different. You keep browsing, the customer next to you edging ever nearer. You hold your breath, static in your ears as you fight the urge to retreat.

You deliberately take your time reading the next synopsis. The customer, a man, brushes his arm against yours as he reaches for a book. He clears his throat again as if to say ‘move!’

You refuse. You switch books again. You feel his proximity radiating towards you. You plant your feet, focusing on the words but not understanding a single one.

You give up. You tried. You made it that far but it's too much. He wins.

You set the book in your hand on top of the other and sidle away, pretending to peruse the shelves on your other side.

You turn to face the opposite shelves of books as he sighs. Loudly. You get it. You took up his precious time.

As you put your head down and grab another book, this one random, merely an excuse to peek over at him. Typical. Male, 50s, silver-haired, stocky but not out of shape. That certain type that is the scourge of any retail environment.

As if he can sense your sneaky glimpse, he peers over, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He looks back to the book in his hand and flips it over. He sets his feet wide, taking up at least twice as much room as you had.

You don't know why he gave you that look. This is a store open to the general public. People are going to get in the way. You just don't get why other people can't just chill out. Whatever, in twenty years when you're his age, you hope you're not a total asshole.

You leave the aisle, taking a deep breath as you break free of the tension. You stroll along the next lazily, taking your own advice as you calm down. Don't let him get to you. Like Lisa says, you can only control yourself and how you react.

You make a slow advance through the store like a Sherman take sneaking up on the Wehrmacht. Sure your references aren't the most relevant but you're not worried about entertaining anyone else. Love yourself first and all that.

You go to the counter and checkout, grabbing a cute koala pen before paying. You take the paper bag from the cashier with a thank you and tally up your spending. You could go for a treat without breaking the bank.

You sweep out the front doors, buttoning up the top of your coat as the winter greets you frigidly. You cross the lot to the cafe in the same plaza. Inside, the ambiance is warm and soft, the lights dimmed, the tables low, and the aromatic coffee wafting delightfully. You greet the barista with a slight stutter; you're still working on that.

"White hot chocolate," you order the season special.

"Would you like to make it candy cane?" The girl behind the till asks. "No extra cost."

"Hmmm, uh, s-sure! Why not? Tis the s-season, r-right?" You try to smile through your embarrassment. You get a little tongue tied. Well, a lot.

The door jangles loudly as you move towards the pick-up window. You bounce on your feet anxiously and catch yourself humming to the holiday music. You know this one. You know most of them but your family always made fun of you for that.

You admire the white Christmas tree set up by the window, not paying attention as voices mingle through the cafe. You sense someone behind you as they join the queue for pick-up. Maybe you'll stay in. You're in no hurry to go home. You're sure no one would miss you anyway.

"Dark roast," the barista sets out a cup of black coffee, "Bucky."

You try to move out of the way of the customer behind you only for them to move the same way. You knock into them before they can reach their coffee and they growl. You skirt back and face them.

"S-s-sorry, I didn't m-mean to," you stammer out, biting down as you recognise the stranger.

He scowls and grabs his coffee just as your name is called next along with your order. He puffs out a nasty scoff and eyes you. You raise your chin. You're not going to lose this one.

"Watch it," he warns as he steps past you and puts his cup down at the stand where they have the diary and sugar set out.

You roll your eyes and take your cup, going to the other end of the counter to grab a plastic lid. As you do, he mirrors you and his hand comes down on yours. You retracts, pulling free several lids as they fall over the counter. He huffs again.

"Hot chocolate," he mutters as he pops a lid onto the brim of his cup, "shoulda guessed."

You blink and frown, swallowing as your heartbeat picks up. Passive aggression, that's easy, that's woven into your genetics, but actual confrontation? That's another thing.

"W-what d-does that mean?" You challenge as you clean up the lids and put them back on the stack.

"Who goes to a cafe to get sugar?" He snorts, "I'd also guess the military books are for show too."

"Huh?" You scrunch your nose up. You don't need to explain yourself to this man.

"Leave the heavy lifting to the big boys, sweetie," he gives a trite smirk and turns on his heel, "and get some glasses."

You stare after him dumbfounded. What a grump. You get it, it's stressful being out in public but you hardly think you earned all that.

"W-well," you call out after him, not able to stop yourself as your heart surges, "m-maybe you should get g-glasses, old m-m-man!"

He stops right by the door. His shoulders square but he doesn't look back. He pushes outside and you're left to stand in the echo of your lame insult. You refuse to look around yourself, instead turning to flee into the customer bathroom. You'll hide there until the coast is clear.

[soongtypehuman]

Boo-hoo update

I’m sorry to say I have an update I was hoping to not ever have to make. Some of you already know that I have some serious health issues, but I've been pretty quiet about the extent of what I'm dealing with.

The gist of it is that I have a rare bone disease called fibrous dysplasia that turned certain bones in my skull into tumors and then those tumors grew inward and started crushing my brain, so I had a craniotomy last year to remove as much as was safe and got a cool new titanium implant in my head to replace the removed bone/tumor. The unfortunate result was encephalomalacia, which is the end stage of liquifying necrosis, and now part of my brain is liquid instead of solid (it’s dead, in a nutshell). Most people don’t survive encephalomalacia, much less remain able to function, and most who survive the initial stage don’t survive the three year mark. Even when you do survive it, it often continues spreading. The last MRI showed it had already taken over about 1/3 of my brain. But I’m a stubborn asshole and am still hanging on.

Unfortunately, things aren’t getting better.

I have to have constant MRIs, EEGs, physical and cognitive therapies, and have been on more meds than I’d like to be in order to control seizures and various cognitive issues. I didn’t mention this before, but I had to go through a series of speech therapies just to learn to talk properly again. And the most unfortunate part of this is that my ability to write has been affected. Since the surgery over a year ago, I’ve only made 10 new posts in the Positronic Rivalry series, totaling around 87k words. For reference, I posted over 200k words in 2022. I’ve posted even less this year, and it’s not improving.

With that said, I have to take a step back. I’m not quitting and I’m not walking away from the fandom. I’d like to think I’ll still be able to post here and there. I just don’t know when and under what circumstances that will happen. I most certainly can’t handle the longer multi-chapter fics I once could. Maybe one day, but not this day. Since I started posting on AO3 back at the end of 2021, I’ve posted every Sunday more often than not. I’m sorry to say I can’t make that happen right now, and can’t say when I’ll post again or what it will be. I won't be able to continue with season 4.

But I’m most definitely not leaving the fandom and the people and the characters I love so much. I’ll still be here interacting and posting when I’m able. This fandom and the people in it are incredible and mean a lot to me. Data and Lore and Star Trek in general are integral to my life and general enjoyment.

But!! I’ve nearly completed compiling seasons 1-3 of Positronic Rivalry as well as 2022/23 Kinktobers into files that will be ready to print in physical book format (completely free, obviously), which I’ll make available for everyone to download in various print sizes, complete with covers, which you can then have printed at various POD sites if you’re so inclined. Digital versions will also be available (you can already download various formats from AO3, but they’re not compiled into seasons, don’t have covers, etc.).

I’m also continuing with the Trek-themed crossword puzzles because those are fun and my therapist thinks making them is good for my cognitive rehab.

This update is a massive bummer for me, but I felt it was better to just admit my limitations instead of constantly trying to convince myself that I could continue the way I had been pre-surgery and beating myself up when I couldn’t.

Lastly, I’ve finally taken the suggestion I’ve gotten repeatedly and set up a KoFi. If you’d like to buy me a coffee or toss a coin to your android porn witcher, you can do so right here and I’d be giggling and kicking my feet in gratitude.

Anyhow, I want to thank all of you for being amazing and coming along on this ride with me for as long as you have, and for as long as it might continue in whatever form it takes.

[fajerfamily]

Read this message carefully

Imagine they are your family🩸

My name is Enayat, aged 44. I am a special education teacher and speech therapist for children. We used to live a dignified life.

My 48 year-old husband and I have six lovely children.

We had a home that brought us together with love, and our children grew up in a happy family meeting their needs as much as possible. However, on October 7, 2023, we were displaced from our home in southern Gaza due to shelling, shattering our dreams there.

• Here is a picture of my home before the bombing

husband suffered seven fractures in his leg, a serious injury that nearly led to amputation, prompting his transfer for treatment in Egypt.

My children's lives were disrupted, and our workplaces were bombed, with most schools and universities in Gaza destroyed. This has left my injured husband and me facing unemployment after the destruction of all life facilities in Gaza.

• We face a difficult life in atent

Currently, we live with relatives, 15 people in a small tent, in a very cramped space, going through a difficult and exhausting period.

I suffer greatly because my injured husband cannot support me in these difficult circumstances..

All my children miss their father and have taken on responsibilities at an early age.

• I suffer from cervical and back disc problems and need a medical bed and treatments that I have been unable to access due to the war.

I have lost many family members, including my dear sister, brother, and friend.

And my husband lost his job,he owned a poultry farm costing $10,000. We were displaced, leaving the chickens on the farm until they died of starvation.

There were beautiful little birds living in our home whom I fed with bread everywhere we fled, but they died due to malnutrition after 7 months of war.

The aid you provide will enable us to travel outside Gaza The cost per person for travel is $5,000 The total cost of our rescue and exit from Gaza is 30,000. rescue my husband, cover his medical expenses, and return to a life free from fear. We will assist our relatives and rebuild our destroyed home after the war ends, and help my children obtain their certificates from schools and universities to help them stand on their own feet.

I appeal to you to donate, even a small amount like $5 or more, to save us and help us overcome this ordeal we are going through.

I share with you the difficult humanitarian conditions we are experiencing, hoping you will help us emerge from it and start a dignified life anew.

help in any amount do you want but dont leave us alone

gofund.me/0c38cfcd

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @anyonghalimaw @zigcarnivorous @aleciosun @fluoresensitivearchived @khizuo @schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka-blog-blog @tortiefrancis @feluka @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @brutaliakent @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropoda @tamarrud @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @skatezophrenic @awetistic-things @camgirlpanopticon @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi @sygutka @junglejim4322 @heritageposts @chososhairbuns @palistani @dlxxv-vetted-donations @imjustheretotrytohelp @mnty-bubblegmyum

@wayneradiotv

@professor-glasses @acridid-s @asharestupid @sheplaysbassdotmp3

[memecucker]

My dad is a "Porn Addiction Coach". He called himself a counsellor for a while but I guess he found out he can't legally call himself that.

The man has zero training in mental health of any kind. He's a pastor, but he didn't even go to seminary. He has a business degree. That's. It. He hasn't ever even been to an actual, science-based therapist before. Some of the other people he's cited have "degrees" from a Christian "university" that was shut down for fraud for lying and telling their students that they definitely had pending accreditation. These are the people who have spent decades pushing the idea of porn addiction.

Which leaves us with a real catch-22. If porn addiction is fake, he's a vulture making money off of giving people bad and false mental health advice, making them feel like an addict (something that our society treats with a lot of shame) and therefore making the shame-based problem way, way worse. But even if porn addiction is a real thing...he wouldn't be fucking qualified to treat it.

But treating it has never been the point. It's been to reclassify porn away from being a form of artistic expression that has all these pesky protections through stuff like free speech laws, towards it being treated like a narcotic that can be prohibited "for our own good." The people with compulsive behavioural issues have never and will never be the point, which is why the discourse surrounding this topic--even among the left, who know for a damn fact how much of a racist tire fire the war on drugs was and the danger of dehumanizing addicted people--always treats people with "porn addiction" with open disdain.

Honestly that’s a good point that if “porn addiction” is real then why are the “therapists” for it so often so unqualified?

And yeah like, it’s very interesting how “porn addiction treatment” doesn’t resemble harm reduction strategies addictions that are proven to be better than this type of stuff.

[astackofbooks]

Hi! You can call me allie, and I hope to motivate myself and others through this studyblr. I want to keep this studyblr as real as possible!

Some things about me:

I like Studio Ghibli

Aspriring Speech Therapist (for now?)

I think ducks are cute

Feel free to share any study tips and stuff like that!

allie ♡

[raineandsky]

#87

The hero shoves the villain into a seat at an agency desk in cuffs and abandons them there. The most of the outside world they’ve seen since they got here a month ago. “Where’s my supposed visitor then?” the villain snaps.

The hero ignores him in favour of walking back through the agency. Naturally.

They’re starting to suspect this is a test—left alone, apparently waiting for someone, the double-doored exit right in front of them? Come on—when the hero returns with someone in tow. Young, an absolute nerd, and not in cuffs. A citizen. 

The villain scowls as the hero gestures him into the chair opposite with a lot more grace than the villain ever gets the luxury of seeing. She has to keep up appearances to the innocents, they assume.

“Hello,” the civilian opens. Oh, he speaks like a nerd, too. This should be interesting.

“You have half an hour,” the hero says, pointedly aiming it at the civilian. “I’ll come back then.”

He nods and with that she’s off. The civilian adjusts his glasses on his nose for a moment. The villain stares at him in the hopes that they can unnerve him into submission.

“I’m studying psychology at the city university,” he says after an awkward pause. “I’m in need of a case study for my dissertation. I thought someone like yourself would make a good person to examine for my report.”

Clearly he’s had that little script written up somewhere. He throws them a smile, lopsided with nerves, and the villain scowls in response.

“I thought human experimentation was frowned on with the do-gooders,” the villain says shortly. That breaks the civilian out of his clearly practised speech; he positively blanches at the insinuation.

“Wh– I– It’s not experimentation.” The last word comes out like a swear—hushed, spat out like a bad taste. “I’d like you to be the subject of my dissertation. I want to be a therapist, you see.”

“A therapist,” the villain echoes flatly. “What, you’re going to CBT me into being an outstanding citizen?”

The civilian laughs, slightly. He seems like he’s not entirely sure if he’s meant to laugh at that. “If you’re open to it.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

The civilian leans back with a huff, resting an open notebook on his knee like a journalist. “So, where’d your interest in crime start?”

“Do I not get an incentive?” The villain tuts with dramatic annoyance. “You want me to tell you my tragic backstory for free?”

The civilian sits with that for a moment. His pen taps rather irritably against his book. Then, a ghost of a smile, a lot less lopsided than before and a lot more confident than the villain likes.

“If you give me something of note I could” — he waves his hands about rather broadly — “theoretically advocate for you. Prove that none of this is your fault and get you released.”

The villain was expecting him to offer a bag of sweets or something. That’s not an incentive to talk, it’s a goddamn reason.

The villain clears their throat. Shuffles on their rickety little chair. Heaves a deep breath.

“Well,” the villain starts, and everything that comes out of their mouth after it is a lie.

Why wouldn’t it be? This kid’s stupid if he thinks a villain is going to let him pin them down as a person. Besides, they don’t need to be studied—they like crime and they like doing it even more. Not exactly a mysterious case needing to be psychoanalysed.

The civilian hangs onto every word though, the naive kid he is. He scrawls notes furiously the entire time the villain’s talking, nodding enthusiastically and asking more questions here and there. The villain entertains him as much as they entertain themself.

“Half hour’s up,” the hero drawls upon her return. The civilian hops up with half a notebook of scribbles and a beaming smile. The villain would feel bad if they cared.

“Thank you, [Villain],” he says brightly, clearly ecstatic to have a villain on his side. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m excited to work together.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” the villain says plainly, and with another unsure laugh the civilian turns on his heel and sets off. The hero takes on the brave duty of lugging the villain back to their dingy little cell.

The villain has no intention of changing, of course. The civilian’s little project will be a fun way to pass the time. If they just make note of the tale they’re weaving, they can tell him the most ludicrous stories and he’ll fall for them hook line and sinker.

Makes for good entertainment in an agency prison, after all.

[yerrenica]

⋯ JAHA LEE x READER | battle amid tangled sheets

⬦ info; written for valentine's day! first time, first kiss, loss of virginity, dares, switch Jaha, Jaha losercore, New Year's inspired because I missed New Year's, slight wounding/blood, oral sex, praise kink, gentle sex (with a touch of roughness)

⬦ wc; 6.7k

Mongrang dared him to do it; that's what Jaha reminds himself. Because that's the only reason he's currently wandering the streets of White Eagle Town like a lost kitten during the Qixi festival.

Now what he'd rather be doing is finding a bottle of something strong to spend his night commiserating with. In fact, there's a handle of Dukang wine back in his room with his name on it, which he is, unfortunately, going to have to forgo, but such is the life of a guy who never backs down from a challenge.

It's not like he's actually going to be able to pull this off, Mongrang's probably just looking for an excuse to embarrass him.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's sure the bastard's looking for an excuse to embarrass him, publicly at that because it just so happens that tonight the Jade Flower Palace planned an absolutely grandiose banquet for everyone present. Coincidence? He thinks not.

"Hey, country bumpkin," two hours prior at the banquet table, Mongrang whispers sweet venom into his ear.

His breath smells like dark red wine and rosemary, and his speech is already slurring. Jaha sips his own wine and tries his best to stay cordial. It'd be a shame if he gave into his urge to claw the other's eyes out this early in the night.

"I have a proposition for you," which is an absolutely foul way to phrase things and he knows it.

"Careful, fucker," Jaha smiles; shows teeth, "I haven't forgiven you from the last banquet for switching my wine with tomato juice," he's certain it was him, not because none of the others present would have the gall, but because nobody else chooses to spend their free time tormenting him except the Sex Demon himself.

Furthermore, there is really no reason for them to be sitting next to each other. Most of the time everyone was seated by who was closer to whom, but Geomma was absent, and the Generals were all too social to simply stick to Jaha. So by a horrible series of events, he's doomed to sitting next to Mongrang.

There is one other person who could've been quite tolerable to sit with, but they seem to be absent as well.

"Oh don't be like that, street urchin. I can see you're dying of boredom," he conjures a tiny snowflake on the tip of his finger and twirls it; six fractal arms twinkling in the candlelight. Jaha is, in fact, dying of boredom, but that doesn't mean he's going to give Mongrang the satisfaction of participating in one of his schemes.

"I am too, you know."

With a deadpan expression, Jaha reaches for his wine glass to toss it onto his problem to the right, but Mongrang quickly interjects.

"At least let me finish," the brunette hisses, with the nerve to look offended, "I suggest we wager a little bet, just you and me," he smiles, sickly sweet. Jaha finds it disgusting.

A bet. Jaha doesn't like the sound of that. He doesn't like the sound of that at all. People like Mongrang don't initiate bets, not without being certain that they'll win.

But here's the catch: Jaha is never one to turn down a bet. Mongrang knows this; everyone knows this, and they use it to their advantage all of the time. Sigh. He really needs to work on his self-control. He'll take that to his self-assigned therapist (Moyong didn't have a choice) the next time he sees him.

"What did you have in mind?" He signs his deal with the Devil.

Mongrang leans in close, letting him feel the ghost of his breath on his neck, "last one to get laid tonight loses."

Jaha chokes on his wine. The back of his neck goes bright red as he coughs and sputters, bringing his forearm to his lips, "are you out of your mind, you stupid fu—"

Jaha cuts himself off when he sees Mongrang's self-satisfied expression, and quickly composes himself. It's not often that someone catches him off-gaurd like this. Seems like the Sex Demon is more dangerous than Jaha had initially deemed.

"Why would I ever agree to that?" Jaha furrows his brows in both confusion and disbelief.

"What? Don't you think you can do it?" Mongrang puts on a shit-eating grin, and there it is; the challenge. He's got him and he knows it.

Jaha scoffs, "I never said that"

"Great! It's a deal then," Mongrang crushes the snowflake and pushes his chair back loudly, before striding away from the table, on a mission.

"Pleasure doing business with you, country bumpkin!" He calls over his shoulder. Jaha mentally puts his head in his hands, wondering what in the world he'd just agreed to.

Jaha surveys the party as crystalline snowflakes fall from the sky. The Palace really was incredible, anything they dreamed of, they could make. With the help of Mongrang, they conjured flurries at will, and they always do for such events. The Jade Palace is their own personal snow globe.

And although any other day Jaha might have begrudgingly admitted that the icy ornaments Mongrang so effortlessly made weren't unsightly, today they felt like relentless blows in his face, thus he wished for nothing more than to melt them away.

But Mongrang himself wasn't around, so there was no point in doing that. Another time, Jaha thinks.

The courtyard was still alive with drinking, dancing, and other revelry. In the centre, a massive fir tree stands sentinel, still wrapped in glowing midwinter lights.

Dedicating an entire day to celebrating love had always seemed strange to Jaha. To him, it was almost childish to view the dynamic nature of love as something to be in awe of, rather than a simple fact of life. He supposes though, in theory, love wasn't a given, because in this world nothing is guaranteed. Quickly, though, he pushes that thought from his mind– he doesn't need to be a killjoy tonight. It certainly won't help him in winning this bet.

Now he'd take this to his grave, but he's decidedly inexperienced in this area – sex that is. He's not even sure how to go about winning this bet. He considers just paying a working girl, but he'd never live that down. That would go against all his morals.

He could pick someone up at a bar? Not a chance, too far away and too difficult (for him only, it seems). How about one of his subordinates? No, there's some kind of power dynamic there that he doesn't really want to get into. He rubs at his temples and groans. Mongrang is going to win this, and Jaha's going to be subjected to whatever horrible torment he has in mind for the loser of the bet.

Jaha's own fault, he supposes, for accepting such a bet from the Sex Demon himself.

He exits the courtyard to return to the sheltered walls of the palace, his feet feel sluggish after the realization that his inevitable loss is inching closer by the second.

"Still moping about, little rabbit?" Jaha freezes at the familiarity of the voice and turns to face whoever has just done an excellent job of sneaking up on him. He lays eyes on the one person who could've saved him from this damned bet by simply sitting beside him in place of Mongrang.

Of course, of all the martial masters he knows, she's one of the quietest when she's not running her mouth. Jaha would liken her to a docile cat if he knew no better. The woman is tipsy and has a fifth of wine in her hand. 

Jaha's guard immediately flies up, because the woman never starts a conversation with him unless she's done something that needs cleaning up. Jaha's pretty sure she's been sent personally by the Devil himself to ensure that he never gets rest, the others are no exception either, of course. Call him paranoid, but—

"Relax," [Y/N] chuckles, holding her hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to get us into any trouble," her eyes shine with barely repressed laughter. The liquor in the bottle sloshes around and Jaha can't help but look at it longingly. 

"So how come you've decided to get out of your hiding place?" The ravenette raises an eyebrow, perturbed. He can feel a grudge forming.

"I asked you a question," the woman almost pouts, slurring her speech a bit. She steps closer and Jaha backs up because out of all of his associates, [Y/N] is the only one who truly scares him.

She's like a walking tornado of chaos, with a knack for stirring up trouble, and oh, Jaha doesn't even wish to think about it. Take, for instance, the time she casually turned half of the Black Rabbit sect's quarters into a blazing inferno - not once, but multiple times. And let's not forget the time she inadvertently invited a horde of spiders into the sect by forgetting to stash away some herbs she was carrying around before leaving. The entire sect spent weeks squashing them out. Jaha still shudders at the memory of finding those eight-legged invaders in his every meal.

And believe him, that's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to her repertoire. Truly a terrifying woman to be around.

It makes Jaha want to fight her, but it'd be bad form to initiate a spar at a banquet, especially with someone from his own sect.

"I asked if you're still moping about," she continues, "It's been hours since dinner."

"So what?" Jaha glares at her, though it's more like he's sulking, hoping to be left alone in his misery.

"No offence, but you look pathetic, great brother."

"Spit it out, woman," Jaha is losing his patience, because of course the other is here to bother him. He tolerates her, but he thinks he might actually dislike drunk [Y/N].

At this moment in time, at least. Normally, she's quite... fun to be around. He'd never admit that out loud, though. The last thing he wants is to encourage her obnoxiousness.

"Well I was going to offer you a drink, but I can see that I'm not wanted here," the smaller one hums, feigning insult. She stretches big, making sure Jaha can see the completely full bottle of Dukang wine glint in the moonlight.

Now, if Jaha didn't know any better, he'd think the offer was genuine. However, she is definitely up to something. This is [Y/N] after all. She's always doing something for her own personal amusement. Jaha isn't particularly interested in falling for another scheme tonight, but the Dukang wine is a tantalizing offer. Once again his eyes are drawn to the bottle of sweet salvation. A little liquid courage could be all he needs.

And [Y/N], like the cheeky loafer she is, turns to walk away, robes swaying behind her loftily. Jaha thinks on her words. How bad can one drink really be?

"Wait."

Okay so he has a bit more than one drink.

The riverside is perfectly secluded at this hour. They settle on a small bench underneath a high arched alcove. The moonlight was shimmering down upon them.

[Y/N] inaugurates the bottle with a deep swig, tears pricking at her eyes at the burn, because honestly, Dukang wine is borderline undrinkable without a chaser to most people.

"Having some trouble?" Jaha chuckles and reaches for the bottle. He feels a bit fuzzy, which is strange because he's not drunk yet, nor is he ever. Well at least he thinks he isn't.

"Piss off," the woman slurs, but there's a bit of a laugh in it. It sparks something strange in Jaha's chest, something he quickly pushes down because fuck him if he's doing that right now.

Jaha purses his lips awkwardly, before opening them, "So, how was your day?" He makes an attempt to start a cordial conversation.

"Are you really trying to make small talk with me right now?" [Y/N] quirks an eyebrow, and for some reason Jaha's attention is drawn to it. He trails the lines of the woman's face from her soft cheekbones down to her plush lips.

Despite his best efforts, his mind strays to the dare and all of a sudden his ears are burning. [Y/N] might not be a bad choice. Well, she's actually a horrible choice. She'd probably be just as unruly in bed if not more... not that Jaha would mind. Honestly, the man doesn't even know if he's interested in things like that, or if she is interested in any of that, for that matter.

But Jaha is quickly running out of options, and he hates to admit it, but there's something about the other that's kind of doing it for him right now, which rarely happens nowadays. Back when he was the mad demon, it only happened perhaps once or twice when he was young. He takes another pull of the wine, lets it trickle down his throat and warm his stomach.

"Great brother, don't tell me you're drunk already."

"What? Why would you say that?" Jaha scoffs out a laugh, snapped out of his thoughts.

"Your ears, they're flushed," the woman slurs her observation, "I've never them like that before."

Oh. He's been caught. But Jaha really can't help himself, ever since the dare wormed its way into his mind, he's having a hard time looking away from his associate. The woman is objectively beautiful. The men under Jaha's wing tend to fall over themselves for her attention until they realize she's an insufferable incendiary, but even then, they hold out hope for a chance.

"Well—" Jaha starts.

"Pass it," she flexes her fingers and the man's eyes are suddenly drawn to her hands. Every single motion the woman makes is enticing right now. What the actual fuck is going on? Jaha feels like he's a teenager again, but what shit timing.

Okay, he can admit that he has a little crush, has had a little crush since the moment he'd seen the woman for the first time. In all her obnoxiousness she had come into Black Rabbit's quarters out of nowhere, blood-stained and smelling something awful. She strode into one of the sect's meetings like she owned the place and presented the head of a man Jaha had been searching for, kicking it across the floor, before bowing with a flourish, all toothy.

She was full of character from the get go. Ever since that... brazen display of randomness, she ended up revealing her connection to Nachal Dae, and said that she had hunted the man Jaha had been after as a thanks for liberating her friends, the Generals.

Henceforth, she could be found lounging about at the quarters, and soon enough everyone simply got used to her presence.

...

They get drunk. Not terribly so. Jaha still knows up from down and all that. Nothing to write home about. He feels mostly fine. But there's a comfortable warmth in his stomach and a nice buzz that's settled over his mind.

Moonlight seeps into the alcove, illuminating the vast star-speckled sky. Usually, it would draw Jaha's attention, when he was younger, he used to trace the stars with his eyes every night so he could imagine a future for himself among them. But not tonight, tonight he is captivated by someone that, martial arts be damned, burns just as bright.

[Y/N] takes another drink, and Jaha watches her throat work through it, and he can't - for the life of him - fathom why. He wants to attribute it to the glasses of red wine he drank at dinner, but that'd be doing himself a disservice because he knows he can drink most grown men under the table. No, there's something else brewing in his chest, a terrifying, molten feeling that makes the woman impossible to look away from.

In all honesty, [Y/N] is not bad in terms of drinking partners. She's quiet, yes, but that's a given with her mostly introverted personality. She's also nice to look at. Really nice to look at, for a matter of fact.

"I don't get know why the Mong family insists on these things," she gazes down at the courtyard below. Faceless figures in extravagant robes and masks intermingle, becoming one fuzzy blur of humanity.

"Don't you see it's all part of their grand plan to make us miserable?" Jaha grins at her and drinks from the bottle again. 

"Is that all there is, though? Misery?" She reaches for the fifth, and Jaha pulls it away.

"I think you've had enough," he laughs and takes another swig for himself.

"Never thought I'd see the day the Great Jaha would get introspective on me," her face is a little flushed, and it must be from the alcohol, has to be from the alcohol.

"'The Great Jaha'," Jaha repeats, a small smirk playing on his lips.

[Y/N] lets out a snort, "That was an insult."

"It's hardly an insult to know what you think of me," the moonlight flits across the woman's face, and Jaha wants.

"It'd be only fair to hear your thoughts too, then."

Jaha feigns studying her for a moment, "Tacky."

"Oh, but you love it," she shamelessly scoots closer.

"I find everything you say tactless and asinine."

"But you're here with me."

Jaha sighs, "Indeed I am," they settle into a comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth, though Jaha can't resist muttering under his breath, "for the wine."

The woman keeps her knowing smile.

Another moment of silence passes between them.

"You know, you're not half bad when you want to be," [Y/N] breaks it.

Jaha hums, speaking with humour, "And you're twice as bad no matter how hard you try."

The woman laughs, "I take it back."

She then scooches, just a little bit, closer to the man, who makes no move to draw away, "It's still your turn to say something truly introspective," she whispers.

"Now I'm sure you've had enough," Jaha snatches the bottle from her and finishes it, letting the last of the liquid-fire drip down his throat.

"Aw, but why? Must I always carry the conversations?" She lets out a sound akin to a whine. 

"I like listening to you talk," there it is, an embarrassing thing that Jaha's been holding in all night. He's got more embarrassing things to say, but he stops himself.

"Cute," the woman says with that deadpan sarcasm that never lets Jaha know what she's thinking. He's sure [Y/N] meant it as an insult, but his heart leaps anyway, hopes he didn't.

A moment of silence.

"You're pretty when you do," Jaha leans in just a fraction, and the others' eyes widen.

The clock strikes midnight. Chime 

There is liquor on their lips but not enough for this. Not enough at all for this. If nothing else, maybe he can allow this lapse in judgment, maybe he can allow this fall. Jaha closes the gap between them, kissing her softly. Time dilates.

Chime

[Y/N] tastes like wine, tea, and starlight. Sweet curiosity turns to burning intensity as they both seek to consume each other. And Jaha finds that there is joyous rapture in the agony of what it is to feel connected to another.

Chime

The kiss is a clumsy affair, mostly Jaha's doing, but it's good, more than good, and Jaha wants to devour it. Faintly, it occurs to the man that this is his first kiss, and he is all of a sudden overwhelmed beyond belief. He pulls away, dazed, shaky, and it all comes crashing down.

Chime

"Sorry," his breath comes in short, anxious puffs, "I shouldn't have done that."

Gods strike him down; he's doomed. He wants to crawl into a hole and die. Yet he also wants to pull her close and seal their lips together once more. Do it again; he wants to. He's beginning to understand the obsession people have with kissing.

Perhaps that is the whole reason this day exists. An excuse to lose yourself within another.

Chime

"Yeah, you shouldn't have," [Y/N] affirms.

Chime

"Now, do it again."

Chime

"Anyone could see us," Jaha points out, for the sake of the other. It is also at this point that it occurs to Jaha that the woman may have been flirting with him this entire time. From the moment she approached him, bottle in hand, stars in her eyes.

"Great brother, when have either of us ever cared what anybody thinks?"

Chime

There is more heat the second time. More heat as the other takes the lead and licks into his mouth. Jaha thinks he hears a wolf whistle from below, but it dissolves quickly into the roaring in his ears. He's lost in a tidal wave of sensation. He wonders if it's really all supposed to feel like this because, in both of his lifetimes, he never imagined that it would feel like this. Everything is upside down, sideways, lengthwise.

Chime

The woman takes him deeper and tangles her tongue with his own, and Jaha feels like he's floating. He returns with fervour, with that clumsy confidence that only comes with your first time. [Y/N] withdraws, and then she's everywhere. Hands under Jaha's shirt, lips on his neck. She finds the sweet spot between Jaha's jaw and collarbone and bites down hard, Jaha throws his head back in a choked gasp.

Chime

The invigorating thrill of battle is there, and it's strange because nothing about this is a fight. There is no resistance here. [Y/N] takes and takes, and Jaha allows it because he's never wanted anything but this. But still, he feels almost exactly how he does when he's deep in a fight. Sweat stuck to his brow, chest heaving with strangled breaths, lip split. He feels overwhelmed. He feels alive, and it's brilliant.

Chime

The woman latches onto his neck, sucking mottled bruises that will surely be there in the morning. There's far too much happening and somehow not enough. She is all-consuming, and faintly in the back of his mind, Jaha feels like he's forgetting something. Something important, but by the Gods, Jaha doesn't want this to end. Whatever this is, he wants to drown in it, then her hands drift to his waistband, and it's like the man has been dumped into a cold lake because he remembers–

Chime

"[Y/N], wait—" the other bites down on his neck again, "[Y/N]—" Jaha gasps, "Wait."

The woman pulls off of him, and she looks just as wrecked as Jaha feels. Her pupils are blown wide, and there is everything and nothing but stardust in them. Jaha is breathless, chest heaving with exertion. He takes a deep breath and wipes the spit from his mouth, trying to compose himself.

"Is something the matter?" Jaha hears a speck of concern in the other's usually cheery voice, remembers the dare, and all of a sudden he feels like a Grade-A Asshole. 

"There's something you should know," he swallows thickly, his heart beating fast. How does he even go about admitting it? Now that he thinks about it, this is actually really fucked. When he took that bet, never in his wildest dreams did he imagine anything like this. 

[Y/N] hums like she doesn't particularly care what Jaha has to say, instead busying herself with running her hands over Jaha's abs.

What does he do? Pry the other's hands from his body and stop her long enough to choke out: Hey, Mongrang actually dared me to fuck someone tonight, but I promise that this has nothing to do with it, well, in the beginning, it did, but now it doesn't, and I feel like a fucking dickhead, also I'm really enjoying this, Mongrang be damned, so can we please proceed?

Yeah, that is not going to work, Jaha might as well condemn himself to the guillotine.

He'd never had time for this really: to want. Wanting was a distraction, distraction was weakness, and there was no place for weakness for the Mad Demon. It was almost a cruel twist of fate to think that this was only half real, but fate always had been immeasurably cruel to him. He feels guilty.

"I don't know how to say this–"

"What? That this is a dare, and now that this is actually happening you're getting cold feet?" The woman is close again, so close that she outright purrs into his ear, and Jaha freezes up.

"How did you..." Jaha furrows his brows in confusion, overwhelmed with the abject horror of this situation. The woman knew from the very beginning, and she still—

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, great brother, that man can't whisper even when he's sober," she licks at the shell of his ear and Jaha stifles a gasp. [Y/N]'s hands creep below his waistband and leave little electric sparks in their wake, "And word tends to spread fast."

"So you're okay with this?"

"Clearly," she trails her lips downward, letting her teeth tug at the skin underneath Jaha's ear until it's black and blue, bloody; gingerly licking at the wound she left, the smooth lap of her tongue sending shivers down the man's spine, "I initially came to make fun of you, but I suppose this is a tolerable change in events."

"Besides, I thought perhaps I'd help you out a bit. Trust me when I say I know what it's like to lose a bet to..." Her face contorted into a disgusted expression as she paused, "Mongrang."

"Who knew you were so generous?" Jaha rhetorically asks, breathless between kisses.

"Oh, but I'm not. Now you'll owe me," she smiles, sinister, and it should really unnerve Jaha, reminding him that he is, in fact, dealing with [Y/N], but instead, it sparks heat in his stomach.

Jaha considers the pros and cons of owing the woman anything. In reality, there are no pros at all, he's playing a dangerous game with a very dangerous woman, yet he can't find it in himself to care.

He's always had a bit of a thing for the melodramatic. Call him crazy, but everything about the woman intrigues him. How she conjures death from delicate fingers. The quirk of her lip as she decimates a battlefield, the spark of mischief whenever she gazes upon him.

There's another wolf whistle from below, and this time, the man pulls back long enough to shoot a death glare at whatever piss-drunk party-goers are in the courtyard right now.  

[Y/N] can't help but snicker, "Wanna get out of here?"

The woman's room is similar to Jaha's own, save for the amount of personal effects she has brought with her to this hotel. She always has to leave an impression wherever she goes, Jaha concludes.

"Finished gawking?" Her voice is playful, but there's a sultry undercurrent there that is novel to Jaha. He's sure he likes it.

Hands pull at clothes. The man fumbles with the woman's clothes. He's nervous, honestly, he has been since Mongrang made him agree to this asinine dare, but this is different. He's inexperienced to a level he hasn't been since he was dropped head-first into the world of martial arts at such a tender age.

"So you really know everything?" He asks awkwardly– half-asks because he already knows the answer– trying to distract from the fact that he physically cannot get the other's clothes off. He's never had to touch women's clothes before, after all.

"Of course, I did! Do I really need to go over this with you again?" [Y/N] pulls his hands off of her, and expertly undoes her robes, before shucking it off to reveal her undergarments. Jaha doesn't usually see women show this much skin, and the observation is tantalizing Mostly due to the fact that it's her. He finds himself wanting to run his tongue over the smooth unblemished flesh; wants to sink his teeth into her.

"And you still want to..." Jaha starts to deflate. Why is he so nervous now? He wants this; wants it really bad, but it's like there's a mental block. Something is keeping him from relaxing.

"I'm here, aren't I?" The woman sighs and takes a step back, a very slight pout on her lips, "Is something the matter?"

"No, not at all," Yes. "I just don't…" 

"I'm not going anywhere, Jaha."

Oh.

Some minutes later, the man settles his teeth in the skin near the other's jugular. Litters the woman's skin with love bites and mottled bruises. They're both half-naked on the bed by the time Jaha admits it:

"I've got another confession to make."

"What now?" [Y/N] withdraws from the bruise she'd been methodically sucking into Jaha's collarbone, clearly annoyed at the interruption. 

Jaha purses his lips, "I've never–"

"Done this before?" She finishes for him, bangs lying flat on her face, "I know. You're kind of obvious."

Jaha feels his ears go hot, and murmurs a soft, "Sorry."

"Sorry for what? Being a virgin? Don't be an idiot," [Y/N] kisses him again, softer this time, her voice light. And it must be the alcohol because there's no other excuse for the way Jaha leans into the kiss, eyes falling shut, trying his hardest to be eaten alive.

"I was planning to take the lead anyway," the woman breathes across his lips, soft, and playful, and Jaha melts. He's so incredibly into this, and every breath and movement feels absolutely electric. 

"Just tell me what to do," he says, words falling from his lips like a plea. His neck is beyond hot, he's sure of it, there's far too much going on. Jaha is so far gone, and they haven't done anything but kiss and mark each other up.

This is everything and nothing like what he had imagined.

When he'd met the woman, never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd have the privilege of seeing her like this. He feels unbridled, filled with lust and something else he can't quite place. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd have the chance to see, feel, touch.

The man rakes his nails down her thighs, settling them at the base of [Y/N]'s ass, and plants butterfly kisses over the soft skin of her neck. His fingers leave little crescent moons in their wake. The woman slaps his hands away and pushes Jaha back on the bed lightly.

"Enough of that," she moves to pull the man's underwear down, hooking her fingers in the waistband with a sultry look. She frees his cock and then leans down to be level with it.

"[Y/N], what are you—"

[Y/N] simply smirks and presses a kiss to the head of Jaha's cock. It jumps at the sensation, and Jaha feels a jolt of pleasure throughout his entire body. He barely ever indulges himself in these things, and now that she's the one indulging him, he feels like he's not going to last long at all.

"This is a one-time thing," the woman whispers against his head, and it's like she doesn't even believe it herself because there's gold in her voice and stars in her eyes. 

Jaha nods.

[Y/N] takes him in her mouth, and it's not fair. Jaha's head tips back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. There's a hazy, perfect precision in which she works him with her lips and tongue, and Jaha thinks he might die.

The woman is criminally good with her mouth.

And as much as he's thankful for [Y/N]'s surprising amount of skill, he's also a bit jealous because she has to have done all of this to other people. She couldn't have learned everything or become this talented all by herself.

Jaha frowns at the thought. 

People have been in his position before. They've been held by [Y/N], been touched by [Y/N]—they’ve held [Y/N], touched [Y/N].

That makes Jaha want to step up. If he wants to have any chance of doing this again with her, he has to step up. And so, albeit uncertain, he gently runs his fingers through the woman's hair before finding a steady grip and tugging her closer.

The moan she lets out around his cock reassures him, and soon he finds a steady grip, tugging her closer.

Jaha tries to ignore the claustrophobic feeling of having his cock in such a tight space and instead focuses on the quite overwhelming feeling of hitting the back of the woman's throat. It's foreign, but not unwelcome.

Jaha's sure that if the woman could have it her way, she would make him reach even further, be even rougher. But Jaha's unsure if he could handle all that this time around.

He knows she's not made of glass. And he does wonder what she'd look like borderline gagging on his cock. He wonders what she'd sound like, how she'd cope with it all.

Jaha subconsciously tightens his hold on the woman's locks and yanks her head back, forcing [Y/N] to look him in the eye. She's silent, waiting to hear whatever Jaha has to say.

And, you know what? Fuck it, Jaha thinks.

It's his first time. He might as well push the limits.

"Let me be selfish for a bit, won't you?"

[Y/N] frowns, not sure what Jaha is really implying, but Jaha doesn't let her wander too far into confusion. He thrusts his hips forward, pushing himself in as far as the woman will allow him to go, and her eyes widen. Her fingers dig into Jaha's hip, drawing a pained hiss from the ravenette, but she can't pull away because Jaha's hand keeps her in place.

The woman has to fight the urge to gag. She's held down for maybe five seconds, maybe eight; she can't really keep count. She's too focused on trying to breathe through her nose. When Jaha finally pulls her off, the woman is spluttering and trying to catch her breath. Tears have collected on her lashes, but they haven't fallen just yet. She tries to blink them away, but Jaha grabs her jaw with his other hand and forces her mouth open again before shoving her down onto his cock.

This time the woman is expecting it and thus, she's a little more relaxed, but each time Jaha rolls his hips, her throat tightens around the man's cock. [Y/N] moans, nails scraping down his thighs, and that must've been the right move to play because the desperate groans that cascade down from Jaha's lips are all she ever wants to hear.

[Y/N] feels the drag of his cock as he shoves himself in and out of her throat repeatedly, setting a fast and brutal pace that has the other whimpering. It feels good, so good, for both of them. Jaha thinks this is better than anything he’s ever experienced before, including anything he’s ever imagined. And it definitely is.

Taking this risk was rewarded.

A low wanton sound escapes his lips and it's like the floodgates don't ever wish to close because Jaha is suddenly unabashedly loud. Panting and groaning. It's so vastly different than when he's by himself, not at all like when he used to steal away to his room and fuck his fist until he's shaking. No. This is so much better.

The woman's cheeks are hollow and stretched around him, caressing him with every motion, war-torn hands that should be hardened, but are soft– so soft, rubbing circles into his thighs. 

"Shit," Jaha loses himself in it. There's too much, far too much of this feeling that threatens to overtake him. He gasps, shudders, bucks his hips one, two times, and he's done; finishing breathlessly into the other's mouth.

[Y/N] pulls back to sit on her heels. Taking a moment to breathe and reign her emotions back in. She then hums and sticks out her tongue so Jaha can see his work, then closes her mouth and swallows, and for the second time tonight, Jaha finds himself drawn to the motion of her throat. It occurs to him that he's never come that fast in his life, but everything about this is so hot that it quickly overrides any kind of shame Jaha might have at the thought.

[Y/N] wipes her mouth and rises from her knees to crawl back over Jaha. She then straddles him.

"You did well," she praises, and Jaha feels another jolt of pleasure go through him. Oh. That's new. She seems to notice it too given the way her smirk widens.

"Do you like when I do that?" She grins and moves in to kiss him again, "Praise you?”

Jaha can taste himself on her lips and that shouldn't be as hot as it is.

[Y/N] pulls away for a moment, "You look beautiful like this."

Jaha's entire body flushes hot; he moans, and the other swallows it, lips back on him with a fury usually reserved for fighting. The moment is carnal but undeniably romantic.

She chuckles, "I’ll make note of that."

Jaha heaves out a breath, "How are we—"

"Lay back, you're going to fuck me now," she says, so matter of fact, yet playful, that Jaha can feel himself getting hard again. The woman settles herself on Jaha's hips who shudders under her.

"Relax, great brother, you're shaking," she says with a soft laugh.

He is? Oh, he is. Whether it's due to anticipation or the orgasm he experienced moments ago, he's uncertain.

"Don't worry about your performance. It's just you and me. I won't tease you for something like this," but that's the problem, "Or is something else the matter?"

Jaha looks away.

"Oh?" [Y/N] rolls her hips and locks eyes with the man, "It's me, isn't it?" She smirks, ever the troublemaker.

"Usually, you'd do this, but I'll cut you some slack tonight," she reaches forward to the bedside table, still perched on top of Jaha. She takes out a small bottle of... something. Jaha wouldn't know. She then begins applying whatever was in the bottle on his cock, and Jaha's breath hitches. It's cold, but combined with the hotness of her hands, it's pleasurable.

The sight of her only adds to the moment. Settled on top of him, moonlight haloing her hair, making her look inhuman, making her look more than.

"Beautiful," the words fall from Jaha's lips before he can stop them, a divine truth being pulled from his very being. Because the woman is beautiful, devastatingly so, and it would be a great disservice not to tell her.

"Stop talking," she murmurs, a blush coating her cheeks. And then she slips Jaha inside of her.

It's awkward at first: fucking. Getting used to the movement, the feeling, everything. It's too much and not enough at all. A beautiful contradiction. [Y/N] rolls her hips, and Jaha gasps, twitching inside of her. They pick up a steady rhythm, and the man clamps a hand over his mouth, resisting the urge to wail. She, however, pries the hand from his mouth and interlaces their fingers.

She is hot and soft inside, the tantalizing slide of skin on skin aided by the slick oil she'd used earlier. Jaha wonders if she carries that around all the time, or if tonight was just a special case. Before he can stop it, the thought of being special, of being something greater than ordinary sends a hot spike of pleasure through his stomach.

Fucking is like fighting, he decides. A dance of passion between two souls. He can't get enough of it.

To be honest, initially, Mongrang's dare terrified him. But he thinks he might be okay with this. [Y/N] is firm but gentle. She takes the lead, and Jaha is happy to follow. He lets himself slip away into bliss, genuine tears pricking at his eyes. It's so much, too much, and too good for him to think at all. It's too much for him to do anything but feel. He grips her hips tighter and squeezes his eyes shut in the pure madness of it all.

He's completely caught up in the moment, the sky could fall, and he doesn't think he'd notice.

"Shit dog," he doesn't see him again until lunch the next day. He's clearly avoiding him, sitting at a table all by himself.

"Oh, country bumpkin, about that bet, I realized that—" Jaha cuts him off by throwing a heavy metal pin on the table.

"Holy shit," Mongrang breathes.

"You actually pulled it off," he picks up [Y/N]'s pin, and scrutinizes it like he's trying to see if it's fake, "And with her of all people?"

Jaha smirks, plopping down on the chair opposite Mongrang, "So what do I win?"

© yeri (@yerrenica) ⬦ do not repost, copy, translate, nothing. this is sort of crappy because i haven't written anything in ages, so if you find any mistakes, I'm sorry for that lol also teeny bit out of character because, again, i haven't been consuming or writing any rotmd content for a while now. HAPPY VALENTINE'S!

[dotcie]

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. if you don't care about my OC, you can skip her backstory on ao3. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA. 

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain. 

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account. 

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her. 

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips. 

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives. 

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again. 

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV. 

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge. 

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist. 

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it. 

For months, no one could get a hold of her. 

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was. 

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun. 

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation. 

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell. 

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers. 

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one. 

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud. 

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years. 

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull. 

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke. 

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation. 

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls. 

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area. 

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air. 

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore. 

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—'' 

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—'' 

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him. 

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him. 

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of. 

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands. 

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin. 

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him. 

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap. 

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head. 

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath. 

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all. 

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy." 

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead. 

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.'' 

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat. 

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response. 

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but— 

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket. 

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?'' 

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it. 

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.'' 

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning." 

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that. 

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away. 

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good. 

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.'' 

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity. 

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?'' 

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years. 

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired. 

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain. 

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen. 

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do. 

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.'' 

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her. 

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along. 

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly. 

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort. 

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose. 

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?" 

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke. 

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it. 

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death. 

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance. 

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

 ''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.'' 

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real. 

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it. 

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating. 

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip. 

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away. 

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it. 

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€663/€60,000‼️‼️

59,337 until their goal is met

(Fundraiser verified by @/humans4watermelons on tiktok)

Dear supporter and donor, here is a brief overview about me and my beautiful family. I seek protection and rescue for my children from the war in Gaza, and to reunite with my injured husband stranded in Egypt. My name is Enayat, aged 44. I am a special education teacher and speech therapist for children. We used to live a dignified life.

My 48 year-old husband and I have six lovely children. We had a home that brought us together with love, and our children grew up in a happy family meeting their needs as much as possible. However, on October 7, 2023, we were displaced from our home in southern Gaza due to shelling, shattering our dreams there. husband suffered seven fractures in his leg, a serious injury that nearly led to amputation, prompting his transfer for treatment in Egypt. My children's lives were disrupted, and our workplaces were bombed, with most schools and universities in Gaza destroyed. This has left my injured husband and me facing unemployment after the destruction of all life facilities in Gaza. We face a difficult life in atent

Currently, we live with relatives, 15 people in a small tent, in a very cramped space, going through a difficult and exhausting period. I suffer greatly because my injured husband cannot support me in these difficult circumstances..

All my children miss their father and have taken on responsibilities at an early age. I suffer from cervical and back disc problems and need a medical bed and treatments that I have been unable to access due to the war. I have lost many family members, including my dear sister, brother, and friend. And my husband lost his job,he owned a poultry farm costing $10,000. We were displaced, leaving the chickens on the farm until they died of starvation.

There were beautiful little birds living in our home whom I fed with bread everywhere we fled, but they died due to malnutrition after 7 months of war.

The aid you provide will enable us to travel outside Gaza, rescue my husband, cover his medical expenses, and return to a life free from fear. We will assist our relatives and rebuild our destroyed home after the war ends, and help my children obtain their certificates from schools and universities to help them stand on their own feet. I appeal to you to donate, even a small amount like $5 or more, to save us and help us overcome this ordeal we are going through. I share with you the difficult humanitarian conditions we are experiencing, hoping you will help us emerge from it and start a dignified life anew. Thank you for your support