#home grown terrorist

[danzainosolitude]

Why did they never elaborate on the fact that there are *presumably* human versions of all the characters in Japan

[warriorbrother]

[lecliss]

Screaming and crying and bawling and just. Fucking dying. Im getting all the sub events this time around and it turns out if you go back to the Leronde clinic, theres actually a scene where Alvin and Jude's dad talk and they name drop Exodus so much earlier than in the main story AND they dont beat around the bush about Alvin and him already knowing each other. I cant fucking believe it!!!! And Alvin defends Jude too!!!!! And says theyre friends and they trust each other!!!! And it makes the eventual betrayal hurt even worse AGAIN!!!!!!

[xmalereader]

Simon Riley X Male Reader

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|| Masterlist ||

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Authors Note: Here is the first request! I did make a few adjustments to this shot and I hope you enjoy it! I tried to extend it and instead left it short :( but I hope you enjoy it!

Requested: Hi! I hope you have been doing well and not being to kich stressed<3 If you request are still open I was hoping you would take this one where Simon Riley introduces his boyfriend who is a total sunshine to the team after the boyfriend comes to visit him in secret to their fake base. The boyfriend is a normal civilian and the total opposite of Simon so it's weird seeing them as a couple(you can throw Alejandro and Rodolfo if it's okay with you)

Warnings: Fluff, relationship goals, grump x sunshine dynamic, black cat x golden retriever dynamic, reader is a florist, dark humor, Alejandro is a flirt, sweet moments, short, language, Spanish words, mentions of wedding, ghost is embarrassed, mentions of past trauma.

Word count: 1.7K

Tags: @nobodylivesson

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Simon wasn’t one to tell people about his past nor his personal life, keeping it hidden from his enemies and those closer to him. Throughout the years he had grown afraid of bringing someone into his life, even though he looked like a stoic and scary man when working in the military, deep down inside he showed that he cared for the people he worked with or lost during action.

After losing those he cared for he went back to being his stoic self, shouting demands at his own soldiers and killing his enemy in the most brutal ways imaginable. No one ever approached him unless out in the field or during a mission, but for a normal conversation he kept his distance around others until one unexpected mission he met him.

Y/n was the total opposite of Simon.

He met the man during one of his mission. He was a normal civilian with a normal life who owned a flower shop. Every time Simon saw him in the streets he shined brighter than the sun and always made his day better, knowing that he was safe. Simon didn’t know when these feelings towards the civilian started happening, but he can guess that it started when Simon was uncover, dressed out of his gear and without his mask, feeling so exposed and naked without it.

He was keeping an eye on his target and couldn’t draw any attention towards his way and had to get rid of his mask. He didn’t expect himself to bump into the ball of sunshine during his time out, watching as the other man carried a box of carnations and dripping on his own laces, before havoc occurred, Simon had stepped in without thinking and caught the man with one arm and with the other he caught the box of carnations.

Simon had come face to face with the florist that day and was received with a flower and a dinner date after the accident. Who wold have thought that the most serious man in the military would be dating someone much sweeter and brighter than him? Simon wasn’t suppose to get attached to him, but as dates and meets up occurred the poor man had fallen into the florists trap and couldn’t leave him alone without getting worried.

Both Simon and Y/n started dating after that until it bloomed into something serious.

The florist knew that Simon was busy with his own work and never questioned him and only told him to be safe and to comeback to him. Those simple words always encourage Simon to get through his mission in order to return back home to him.

It wasn’t until he was recruited into 141 a special forces team with much needed skills that could handle terrorists missions the dangerous stuff that no regular soldier would be able to handle. During his time with his new team he didn’t think he would grow attached to them to the point where he grew overprotective of them, they were his family.

He kept his relationship about Y/n very well hidden from the others and never left hints of him being in a relationship. Whenever Y/n sent him flowers he always left them somewhere out of base where they could either keep growing or for any small animals to claim, when he would send him letters, Simon would make sure to memorize his words before burning them. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his lovers gifts, no. It was because he was being safe, afraid that his enemy could get their hands on it and use it against him.

When Y/n first found out about the ways that Simon treated his gifts the florist was upset, thinking that the bigger man didn’t appreciate his gifts and was probably embarrassed by the things he wrote but, Simon had reassured the man that he did love his letters and was simply being safe. It didn’t take long for the two to fix the miscommunication and clearing things up.

Their relationship continued on for a year.

When Simon was stationed in a base in Mexico he figured he would be there longer than planned, eager to get back home to his lover, but controlling himself. They were staying in Alejandros base, going over some plans and reminding themselves what they are to do. After the events with Shepard and Graves the 141 team had grown close with Alejandro and his partner, helping them when its needed.

The good thing is that they had a few days off, getting a break from all the chaos and being able to relax for a bit. Some went off base to be with their families while others stayed behind, like Simon did. It was no use getting back home, flying out will take time and for him to only be with Y/n for a day or two and then to fly out again was torture. He’d rather spend those days either locked in his own room or practicing his combat with those who stayed behind.

What Simon didn’t expect was a knock on his door, alerting him of someone’s presence and to pull the door open and see Soap on the other side with a small grin on his face. Simon didn’t like the look on his face and narrows his eyes under his balaclava.

“What is it Johnny?” His voice is deep when asking as the Scottish mans grin widens.

“We’ve got a lad up front, claiming that he knows you.”

Simon raises a brow confused at first until Soap speaks up again.

“He brought flowers.”

Those words are enough for Simon to storm out of his room, brushing past Soap as he makes his way towards the front entrance of the base. Simon doesn’t want to overthink and believe that its Y/n because what would that man be doing out this far from home? It was dangerous and Simon could not have him wandering around the streets.

When Simon finally appears near the entrance his eyes immediately land on Y/n who stood patient while staring down at the flowers in hand as one of the soldiers stood by and watched, being cautious of him.

“Y/n?”

Simons voice gets the mans attention, lifting his head up and smiling widely.

“Si—Ghost!” Y/n quickly corrects himself, not wanting to give away Simons identity out in the open as he walks up to him and wraps his arm around his torso, smiling widely before standing on his toes to kiss his covered cheek. “Surprise?”

Simon chuckles. “A surprise indeed, why are you here?” He asks, hands touching Y/n’s shoulders and arms, wanting to make sure that he got here safe without any problems. The other didn’t bother batting Simons hands away and allows him to check him over. “I’m here on a flower delivery, this beautiful couple bought a big order and had to get it shipped here on time for their wedding and the couple were nice enough to let me stay for the ceremony.” He explains.

“You attend a wedding?”

“Mhm! I also stole the center piece.” Y/n gives off a mischievous grin as he held out the small case of flowers while Simon rolls his eyes. “Stealing your own flowers isn’t really stealing.”

Y/n pouts. “Don’t ruin my fun.” He mumbled out while handing Simon the small vase of flowers which gets the man chuckling a bit.

“Was that a laugh L.T?”

Simon’s smile quickly falters when hearing the familiar Scottish man who stood over his shoulder while looking at Y/n with a knowing smile. “Hello.” Y/n greets with a small wave at the other man.

“Who do we have here?”

Y/n smiles as he sticks his hand out for a shake. “I’m Y/n, Ghosts boyfriend.” He says proudly while shaking Soaps hand who stares in disbelief. “Boyfriend? Who would have thought that Ghostie knew what love is?” He was clearly teasing the man and Simon wasn’t amused by his jokes, but Y/n was.

“I know right? He may look scary in the outside but in the inside he’s a softie.” Said Y/n.

“Who’s a softy?”

Simon wanted to groan when Gaz approached them next a hand on his hip as his eyes dart from Simon to Y/n, before figuring out the situation and turns to Y/n with a charming smile. “Gaz, Ghost and Soaps teammate.” The florist chuckled at Gaz charm and shakes his hand too. “Y/n, Ghosts boyfriend.” He introduces himself.

Introductions continue on when they move further into base where the finally meet up with Price who possibly already knew about Simon’s relationship, but pretends like he didn’t know when greeting the young man. Everyone’s was still surprised to know that someone so happy and bright could be Simons lover.

Simon who was always brooding and cracking dark humorous jokes that not many of the others laughed about. Funny to say that Y/n laughed at a few of them which always made Simon smile.

“Well, well, a quien tenemos aquí?”

Alejandros smooth voice cuts into the crows, making his way through as the man eyes Y/n up and down before taking his hand into his own and kissing the top of his hand, earning a soft blush from Y/n who chuckled in a flustered manner. “I see we have a romantic one amongst everyone.” He gently pulls his hand away while Alejandro chuckles. “Rumor has spread that fantasma, here got himself un amante.”

Y/n raises his brows in shock. “Wow that fast, huh?” He laughs out, looking over his shoulder to Simon and playfully smacking his chest before focusing back to the others. “It was very nice to meet everyone, Simon talks highly of everyone.” Everyone on Simons team slowly looked at him with mischievous grins and smiles on their lips while Simon glared at them in return.

“You don’t say?” Says Soap. “Got any embarrassing stories of him?”

“OH! I do! There was this one time when we were in bed together—!” It wasn’t until Simon quickly covers his lovers mouth with his large hand, stopping him from going any further. “Time to go, love.” Simon orders while wrapping his arm around his waist and dragging him away.

Y/n groans, but doesn’t stop himself from waving the others goodbye. “Bye! Hope to see you all soon!” He shouts from across the base while the others waved in return, watching as Simon dragged his lover away from his men, glad that he’s wearing his balaclava in order to hide the embarrassing blush on his face.

[eowynstwin]

disquiet comfort / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off. - ao3

John hears the creak of your bed springs the next morning.

He’s not surprised by it—you’re not the first neighbor he’s had, only the first he’s met. He knows how thin the walls are now, and has long passed the point of finding it annoying. He listens as the sound of your taps coming on filters through drywall and insulation at a low hum, thinks he can hear the buzz of an electric toothbrush. He wonders if you can hear his razor going as he trims his mustache.

It feels nice to have this odd company, he thinks. The two of you, going through the same motions. It strikes an old, abandoned chord—he hasn’t woken up with anyone in a long, long time.

He puts his razor down and squashes the thought flat. His neighbor—his kind, pretty neighbor—does not need him to think like that. Even if your eyes had traveled the length and breadth of his body before making it to his face.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, giving himself a flat look. He isn’t used to civilian life. Answering the door shirtless had probably been some sort of faux pas. If you’d been looking, you’d probably been more disconcerted than anything else. That’s the long and short of it, he tells himself, because there’s no room for anything else.

John is never very good at being home. The things that keep him alive out there—hyperawareness, sharply defined mission parameters, strict operational regimens—are, at home, needs that go unmet. Liverpool is not a popular terrorist hotbed he needs to pay attention to. He isn’t going to die if he forgets to buy milk. And he can only go to the gym so often.

But he needs something to do, or he’s going to go crazy.

So today he does on leave what he dreams of in the field: he has his first of two showers for the day, makes himself breakfast in his own kitchen, and turns on the telly for the noise. It’s some dumb morning show, with too-clean hosts shilling for weird kitchen tools. Easy to ignore.

Inevitably, he thinks about Mexico. About Shepherd. About Chicago, and Hassan, and Laswell telling him he needs to get some goddamn rest before he kills himself trying to stop a war that isn’t even happening.

“Yet,” he’d ground out.

She’d just stared at him with dagger-sharp eyes and told him to go home.

John bites into his toast harder than a grown man told to take a fucking vacation should, and turns up the volume.

Three soft, polite taps sound on the wall.

John blinks. Remembers the previous morning, what he’d said to you. The remote is in his hand before he thinks about it, the mute button depressed beneath a quick thumb.

The quiet is like the end of a gunfight. Unsteady.

He waits. He doesn’t know what for. The silence stretches. He notices a shaft of sunlight coming through his window, little motes of dust dancing in the air, as he looks around his own flat for some reason. It’s habit—surveying a battlefield after it’s been passed over by violence.

He looks back to the space above the TV. Rises carefully from his seat. Goes over to the wall.

Raps his knuckles twice against it. All good?

Immediately there are two taps in response. Yes, thanks! And the break of the still silence is like a soap bubble popping. John breathes, and then realizes he hadn’t been.

There are no further knocks. It disappoints him, but he does not expect them. It’s just a friendly interaction between neighbors.

It doesn’t matter. It feels like something has unknotted in his chest.

He feels almost like a voyeur as the day goes on. He hears when you work in your kitchen, notes the muffled clang of a pan on the stove. He hears your dishwasher run later, and briefly wonders at the utility of using it for so few dishes.

You’re on the phone at one point, but he can’t make out the conversation. He only half-tries to, but the even the indistinct, low sound of your voice is comforting. It reminds him of late nights in the barracks, listening to bunk mates talk while trying not bother anyone else. The closest to domestic comfort John has really ever had.

You turn music on at one point, something soulful and a little moody. John thinks it might be Marvin Gaye, but he’s not sure. The urge to knock on your door and ask is a strong one, but he doesn’t think you need a lonely old soldier bothering you in the middle of your day. At least, not any more than he already has. And before he can figure it out for himself, he hears you exclaim “Oh, shit!” and the volume immediately drops.

He has to smile at that. It’s a rare luxury for him to experience these days, that kind of consideration.

Something in his chest gives a little jump when he hears two knocks on his wall again. Sorry, he thinks you’re saying.

He knocks twice back. All good.

He should not feel so invigorated by this exchange.

You leave the house a little after noon—he hears your door open and close, and the jingle of keys followed by footsteps quickly retreating. Then, your noise is gone.

John and silence do not go well together. Too quickly, the quiet closes in, and John thinks if he stays in his own home a minute longer he’ll suffocate from it—so he takes your cue, and leaves. He isn’t really sure what to do, but he has to do it anywhere else.

He gets home after you do, sore from the weight racks and full on pub food and a few pints. The sky is dark and the sidewalks are illuminated in yellow lamplight, and the air hums with the wind of cars driving in the distance. He sees your window lit up bright and warm, and the relief it fills him with is disproportionate to how anyone should feel knowing that their neighbor is home.

Where did you go during the day, he finds himself wondering? What are you making for dinner? What will you do once you’ve eaten?

John realizes he’s standing there staring at your window, and scowls at himself. He’s a fucking creep, that’s what he is. A pretty neighbor talks to him once, fucking welcomes him home like any nice person would, and suddenly he’s pining like a stupid little schoolboy.

He goes inside. Hears you in your kitchen again and convinces himself he’s ignoring it. Tries to find something to stay awake with. Has one cigar more than he’d planned for the day, and thinks at least he’ll get to go out and get more sooner—something to do with the wealth of time he didn’t ask to receive.

He’s already in bed, second shower finished, when he hears activity on the other side of the wall. He hadn’t really been falling asleep, but he’s wide awake now, and feeling like a pervert as he listens to your bath come on.

He hasn’t gone to bed with anyone in a long time, either.

John lays there in the dark, eyes open, and tries to ignore how easy it is to breathe as the water runs muffled only a few feet away. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he can hear again the tiny buzz of a toothbrush a little after the flow shuts off. He listens to the creak of your bed and does not think about how warm your skin must be, how softly the sheets must fall around your body.

He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep. He isn’t thinking about listening to your breathing beside him. He isn’t drifting off imagining the smell of your hair on his pillow…

He hears a tiny buzz again. Brushing your teeth a second time? No, it’s closer now…

Oh. OH.

John’s eyes fly open. Your bed creaks again. He is rigid under the covers, every muscle tensed. He breathes consciously, testing the limits of his diaphragm, counting to three between each inhale and exhale. He is desperate that his pulse remain even, that his blood refrain from rushing through his ears and other parts.

A small sound. Breathy. Low.

John slaps his hand against his thigh before it can move any further inward. He curls his fingers around the hem of his briefs, grips the fabric as if it’s going to save his damn life. Clenches his other hand into a fist, digs his nails into his palm.

What expression is on your face? What is the scent of your toothpaste on your breath?

What angle are you holding that vibrator at?

You give a low moan again.

His breath shallows out. John considers giving the wall a tap but dismisses the option immediately and ruthlessly. He will take his secret audience to the fucking grave. And he’d shoot himself before denying you this—and, he thinks shamefully, denying himself this, too.

He should get up. He should go into his living room and give you privacy. Your bed creaks again. He remembers his own mattress tends to the same disruption. He can’t move, because it would effect the same outcome as a knock—you’d know exactly how thin the walls are, know that he’s right there and that he’s only leaving after he’s already gotten an earful.

Another sound, higher. John isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. What did your skin feel like? Would his fingers fit you better than that toy? Would his cock?

He thinks he feels a nail break skin. He tries to think of anything other than the throb of blood and heat between his legs, between your legs.

You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off.

John knows you’ve buried your face in your pillow to quiet yourself. His entire body twinges with the disappointment of it. He breathes so lowly as to be silent, to give space to your noise, and waits.

But the buzzing stops. Your bed shifts again, and then all is silent.

Wait. What?

Was that it?

The silence stretches. John does not move. That was it.

John does not think about how much longer he could’ve made that last. He does not think about teasing you with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Does not picture your legs hung up high on his hips.

His cock aches. He ignores it.

The gym tomorrow. And then a run. Maybe a drive to the coast, and a dip in the cold ocean.

It wouldn’t be enough, but it had to be something. John isn’t going to get a minute of sleep, and he’s going to be hearing that cut-off moan for a long, long time.

next

[reality-detective]

It’s time for me to have another rant! 👇

Buckle up!!! ⚔️🛡️

The State of America:

I am angry. As an American, I am sick and tired of what this country has become. I do probably curse more than I should, but I am pissed off.

Our schools: Children are being indoctrinated by school teachers about sexual activity rather than things they should be learning about. You know, like civics, math, real history and science? What grown ass adult wants to discuss sexual intercourse with a minor? I’ll tell you, a social deviant fucking pervert. That’s who. I will not expose any child to that madness ever.

Our military: Our military is the weakest it has ever been. I have friends that are still in the military and they cannot wait to get out. Not because of their lack of service to this country, but the lack of leadership. The good ones are tired of getting slammed with “woke” PowerPoints on shit that doesn’t even matter to military readiness. It’s dumb. And our adversaries are laughing at us. I can’t even recommend someone to join the military until it is returned to its rightful place as the strongest military in the world.

Our southern border: The southern border is a dumpster fire. More illegal aliens and fentanyl are pouring through the border at record rates. The saddest part about this is the Democrats are wanting ILLEGALS to vote for any and all elections. Democrats only use their party for votes to continue their reign of power, while their own districts are literal shit-holes. Republicans are not safe from this and they really aren't much better. If they wanted the border shut down they would too. Always remember that Americans being murdered was never enough to shut the border down.

Joe Biden: I will never accept the thought that Joe Biden got 81 million votes. You cannot make me believe that the alleged President of the United States of America got the most votes in American history, then was kicked out from running by his own party. Give me a fucking break.

Kamala Harris: This Indian American woman locked up more black men than I have ever seen in my life. She doesn’t care about black people. Never has and never will. She just wants your vote.

Mainstream Media: These retards have been fed so much propaganda that they actually think Donald Trump will incite a civil war if he doesn’t win the 2024 election. You all have an extra chromosome if you truly believe that. There are some that are just gaslighting but a large portion of the population is too stupid to vote if they can’t decipher this.

Speaking of Donald Trump: This man has been given more bullshit to a public servant that I have ever seen in my life. For crying out loud, it has been over 2 weeks since the Deep State almost took his life and no one has been held truly accountable. They are all behind it until proven otherwise. Imagine if that was the other way around. Democrats would want to put the nation on lockdown like they did during COVID.

National debt: As of today the United States is at $35,000,000,000,000.00 in debt. How irresponsible of adults. I will never be gaslit to send money overseas anymore especially since Americans are struggling to put food on their table. How outrageously treasonous.

And to top all of this off. I am a white male that was in the military and now I'm considered a domestic terrorist by some. How unbelievable is this? The same ones that are backing the Military Industrial Complex. The same “elected leaders” that I served, don’t have our backs when we return home. The military are the ones that uphold and defend the Constitution, not them.

This is not what America should be about. This is not the country I served. Not anymore.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!! 🤔

God Bless America. 🇺🇸

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Surprise Pt. 3 | Soap x Reader

Summary: The boys get called out to a mission after you get injured during a game, and your past finally catches up to you.

Word Count: ~ 4k

Warnings: minor character death, guns, blood, injuries, lil bit of angst, ptsd, panic attacks, episodes, and yeah

A/N: alr I’m kinda making it up as I go, but I feel like I’m slowly getting better at making accented dialogue…hope you enjoy<3 (also thinking of making it gaz x reader x soap, or just johnny?? lmk what u think)

Requests are open!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The longer they stayed in your home, still keeping eyes out for any of the terrorists in the area, the more they noticed some of your odd quirks.

Simon was the first to notice many of them, due to his years of experience in the military, and all of the skills he’d acquired during that time. He observed every little thing, whether it be on purpose or unconsciously.

Like how you always locked your door after entering or leaving, both locks as well. Not just one. Or the way your windows remained shut and locked, dark curtains pulled over most of them to block out any light or keep someone from looking in.

There was a knife under your pillow, and a small gun in the drawer of your nightstand. Simon would know, he’d searched the entire house when they’d first arrived, not sure if he could trust you or not. You had a gun safe in your room’s closet, and the screws on your room’s hinges were slightly unscrewed, as were every door in the house, so it would creak every so slightly when opened. So you could locate everyone in the house.

It reminded him of his habits a bit too much.

But you also had a kernel of authority to you, despite sometimes mumbling instead of speaking clearly, or the tiniest of nervous ticks he could notice, like how your lips would twitch left when unsure or insecure. Despite your stone-faced look now, you still had a few of the same tells that the little girl he’d known all those years ago did.

He only wondered what had happened to that little girl.

But he knew she’d grown up. And what he saw in you now wasn’t what he recalled from the girl he’d threatened in the past, the girl he’d intimidated and scared into staying away. Because now, you didn’t seem afraid of him at all. Not afraid of his comrades, either.

You were different in more than a few ways, now. He knew foster care had been rough on you, with god knows how many families taking you in only for money or being abusive. He barely knew the general timeline of how long you’d been in it. He’d heard tiny bits of it you’d offhandedly mentioned, and you seemed to have found a more permanent home at 12, staying until moving out here, looking for what most teenagers are, a meaning and some freedom.

But he hadn’t known just how rough it had been.

You’d gotten home from work looking beat one night, wearing some jeans, a uniform shirt, a belt, and per usual a holster for your gun. You always insisted on carrying it, and he didn’t blame you. Bad things happened to girls who lived alone here.

You didn’t even take any time to eat or change before walking into your room and collapsing into bed, asleep in a second. Work always seemed to tire you out, for whatever reason, but maybe they had you doing all kinds of shit he didn’t know waitresses did. Who was he to assume?

“She should eat dinner, at least.” Price said, watching from the couch as Johnny pouted slightly. He’d cooked a meal, especially for you, albeit Gaz had done most of the work and helped him out, basically making the entire dish, poor Soap had been waiting all day to try it.

“I can go get her?”

Kyle suggested, and Simon’s deep rumbling voice spoke up next, glancing over to your closed door, a neat “Do not enter.” sign on the front.

“She don’t like when people go in ‘er room.”

“Well, she’s breakin’ poor Soap’s heart.”

“She’s yer sister, why don’t you go get the lass.”

“She’d beat his ass, that’s why.”

Simon gave an exasperated sigh, getting up from where he’d been sitting next to Price, watching a soccer game. He approached your door, slowly opening it as it creaked. The lights were off, the room completely dark as the windows were also covered by the thick curtains you kept.

You’d made it clear that no one was allowed in your room before, but it looked normal to him. The walls were a shade of your favorite color, or what he assumed was, fairy lights with clips on them holding pictures of you and friends, and even a picture from years ago of the family, hanging from wall to wall. There was a desk at the front, papers thrown about and some neatly arranged. The clothes basket smelled vaguely of an irony tang he didn’t bother to investigate at the time.

A mirror hung on the other end of the door.

Walking quietly up to you, he watched you for a moment. Your body was deathly still, breathing quietly but a bit shaky. He could see your eyes moving beneath your eyelids, the movements erratic and frantic.

Despite himself, Simon found himself intrigued by the papers on your desk. Why had you bothered to keep them out of your room? What were you hiding? His military career kept him on his toes at all times and kept him suspicious of everyone.

After all, it was the people you trusted that could hurt you the most.

Walking silently over to your desk, he began going through papers. Gaz and Soap, now both watching through the doorway, made little hushed whispers of “Wha’ are you doing??” and “Jus’ wake ‘er up-“ that he ignored. The papers were all basic, nothing interesting.

Essays, research papers, lots of notes. But just when he thought he wouldn’t find anything, he slid open one drawer as it creaked slightly as well, finding files in it. Paper, Manila folders that were thick with information that he found himself curious about. However, just when he reached for the first one, he heard Johnny.

“Behind ye, Lt-“

The cold metal of a gun against the side of his head became more than apparent as someone kicked the backs of his knees in. A gun to his head, on his knees, with Gaz and Soap now in the room, hands up, carefully trying to approach him.

“Easy, lass. We ain’t gonna hurt ya..”

Johnny tried, and that was when Simon realized it wasn’t some enemy terrorist who had gotten in who was holding him at gunpoint, no, it was you. He hadn’t even heard you approach. Hadn’t heard you get out of bed or move at all.

But he did hear the hammer of the gun click back.

The first thought he had was that he was being betrayed. Double-crossed. Either that or you were having some sort of episode. Price approached the door, watching you like a wounded animal. Unlike Simon, he could see the way your eyes weren’t there, that you were somewhere else, in an entirely different world, doing what you thought was right.

Price slowly approached, bolder than both of the Sergeants, but with a practiced precision. He’d done this before. They could tell.

“Can you tell me who you’re pointin’ a gun at?”

He asked, voice unwavering and not full of pity, but instead understanding. He watched your eyes slowly trail from the gun to Simon, now completely still, and held a hand for Gaz and Soap to stay where they were. He could tell when the realization slowly began dawning on you, that you weren’t in danger, and that this was Simon.

A tiny click, the safety being switched on, before you took the gun from Simon’s head and set it on the floor, kicking it away from you to Price. Usually, you wouldn’t sleep with a gun on your person for this reason. By the time you would open the nightstand to grab it, you’d usually have already snapped out of it.

Sighing deeply, you slumped on the floor beside Simon as he slowly relaxed, and you curled up into a ball. You didn’t say anything, and neither did they. Price took the gun, standing and walking out of the room, giving a nod to Gaz and jerking his head to Soap as the Captain and Johnny left the room.

Kyle remained nearby, just in case, but didn’t say anything.

“Didn’ know you had it in ya to hold a gun to my head,” Simon said, trying for a bit of humor to make you laugh, or even hear a snort in reply, or even a snarky comment about how stupid he was. When you didn’t do anything, he silently sighed.

“How often do you have ‘em?”

“Every night.”

He made a small grunt at that. He could understand nightmares a bit too well, considering the demons of his own he had. He put an arm slowly around you, and when you didn’t stiffen, he considered it okay as he slowly stood, picking you up. However, as soon as he picked you up, you mumbled something under your breath and squirmed free, standing on your own.

“Let’s get ya some fresh air.”

He said, leading you out of the room. He took one last glance at the open file drawer and decided that you had your secrets, and he had his, and it could stay like that until either of you was ready to change it.

~

Nothing had changed since that night, other than one thing.

No one tried to wake you up again.

However, you remained as sassy and slightly stoic as usual, still caring for them, and now savoring every one of Johnny’s dinners to make up for the one you’d missed that night.

When they showed up covered in blood, sweat, and tears, you would take it in stride, patching them up and grumbling about buying more medical supplies, washing their clothes, and buying razors for them because, “A beard does not suit any of you but Price.” You’d even bought food they liked, albeit making them cough up some money for it, because of the job you had at some little restaurant they’d never heard of before as a waitress. You only really worked the job on some weekends, when you weren’t on a big absence for traveling during volleyball season, or at camps.

Your manager-landlord was surprisingly lenient about it, Simon thought. But considering all the weapons you had, he wouldn’t be surprised if a little threat went a long way.

He’d always wondered what you did at those volleyball games, anyway. That was until Price spoke up about it at breakfast one morning when you hadn’t left early for practice, and Laswell had eventually just informed them to lie low until further orders came.

“You oughtta come out wit’ us, get out the house a lil’.”

Johnny had suggested, and Gaz had given a little affirming nod. Simon remained silent, quietly watching as you shook your head.

“Can’t, got games today.”

You replied without even glancing up at them, eyes on your plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. That was the usual. You always had games, training, work, or school. With a schedule as busy as that, none of them knew how you managed it, but it left little to no time for you to simply relax or hang out with them.

Johnny grumbled about something with his mouth full of eggs when Price spoke up.

“Why don’ we go watch, eh? You been havin’ me help wit’ the plans, might as well.” He suggested before taking a big bite of bacon. You paused at that, glancing up at Price, studying him, before swallowing the food in your mouth.

“I’ll think about it.” Was the only answer they’d gotten at the time, but around thirty minutes before the game, you’d texted Simon the address, which was enough of a sign for him to get the boys and head over to your school, walking in the gym and paying for their entry. Six dollars for an adult, players were free.

To be fair, they tried their hardest to dress in civilian clothes and act normal, but it was hard when their instincts screamed to check every corner, keep eyes on the windows and doors, and scan for possible entries and exits.

You and your team were already practicing by then, setting up a hitting line, one setter in the front middle, two lines of hitters taking turns, and two passers in the back row bumping the ball to the setter, who promptly set it, and the hitter smacked it over.

Many of the girls were tall, and while you weren’t too short, standing at around 5’7 now, you weren’t the tallest either. That might’ve been the reason that you were mainly a back-row passer, also taking into consideration the control you held over your hits and body as well. The other team got full court to practice before the game for 2 minutes, which must’ve been the usual around this area.

“They bette’ win this,” Gaz murmured, seated to the left of Price, who watched as another girl on the team whispered something in your ear that had you biting your lip to hold back a smile. You were close with these people, they could all tell that.

“Our lass’ got it, I’m sure.”

Johnny said, watching the other team practice while Simon did the same. Simon’s attention was then diverted back to you, as any hint of laughter or amusement faded from your expression, into the stone wall he’d come to know. With a notebook in hand, you went over something with the rest of the team as they all huddled, the coach nearby and nodding along with it as they pointed something out with a pencil in hand.

A few adjustments must’ve been made before a game of rock-paper-scissors was played between the two coaches to decide who got first serve. The other team did. Already off to a disadvantage, he thought.

You all took up your positions in the court, Simon not recognizing anyone but you, with your hair, braided tightly back by one of your teammates, and the bright red jersey everyone on your team wore. You were number 14. He vaguely remembered Johnny mentioning something about you wearing a jersey in the number 14.

You were in the top right position, tucking any stray pieces of hair that had gotten loose somehow behind your ears, before all of your team was in position. The serve was hit over by the other team, and a brunette in the back row passed it to the setter, who made the ball go in a perfect arch in your direction. You began the approach of the ball, jumping up, arm held back, and ready to spike it. The blockers for the other team jumped, ready to deflect any ball, but right when you were going to spike it, your left non-hitting hand tipped the ball over the net.

Right between the blockers.

“Cleva girl,” Gaz said with a small smirk, and Soap lowly whistled. You didn’t glance up at them, expression remaining still despite the clever move.

It hit the floor, and a whistle sounded. Your team’s point. A rotation was done, and you were serving. They watched you toss the ball up, approach, jump, and smack it down all in less than 15 seconds before you were back in your spot, ready for the ball to be returned.

“Bloody hell..” Simon said, watching the two teams volley. He didn’t know many of the rules of volleyball, only Price knew most of them because of some of your late-night conversations on strategies to use with your team, but he was pretty damn sure you were doing good.

Your team moved in fluidity with each other, and it made Simon wonder what the hell you’d been putting these girls through in those training sessions, and what your coach had been doing. It reminded him a little of his team, his Task Force. The way you all knew each other, how high a set had to be for one specific person, the way one girl would slightly skew her bumps to the left, and the setter would move accordingly, or how to interweave without bumping into one another.

And the way you held everyone together… reminded him of Price the most.

When someone messed up, you didn’t yell or look disappointed, you simply glanced at them, acknowledged them, and gave a small nod. The same when someone pulled something off well. When you won the first set, you didn’t let your team gloat in the victory for too long.

And when you were losing the second set? Your teammates got a bit skittish, sure, but the way you remained almost totally unaffected kept them together. You were the glue of the team, keeping everyone out of their heads and in the game.

The second set was lost, but the third set remained.

“They play the last one to fifteen’.”

Price informed the boys after they’d sat up a little more, on the edge of their seats, bodies taught with stress. Kyle could’ve sworn Johnny was sweating a bit.

It went over fifteen, as you had to win by two points, and it was currently 15-16. One more point and the opposing team would win. But three more points and your team would.

Price’s phone began ringing.

A harsh serve from the opposite team and the bump was skewed by an anxious redhead in the back row. It went too far to the side, and you were running for it, but it looked too far away.

Two steps away.

Price was talking quietly to whoever was calling, his work voice on. Simon was too focused on you to care about the phone.

You weren’t close enough.

One knee went down closer to the ground, and your remaining foot kicked off the ground as your body dove for it.

A grim tone from the Captain as he nodded to whatever question Gaz had asked, while he ended the call.

Only a foot away.

Your hand flattened against the ground just as the ball bounced off of it, your head smacking hard against the floor.

Price muttered something to Soap, who tried nudging Simon, but didn’t get his attention, his eyes on you.

Your team played the ball off of the save, and the opposing team lost the point. The whistle was blown while the game was 16-16, mainly because you weren’t getting up. Out cold.

Simon shot to his feet, already, heading in your direction. There was red spreading on the floor, and he was back in his family home, looking down at his mother’s crumpled body, flashes of his little nephew’s bloodied corpse, and his brother’s shredded body coming into view.

He wasn’t there fast enough, he couldn’t get to you fast enough. He had failed.

Before he could go down even a single step, Price’s hand came down onto his shoulder firmly, holding him back. Grounding him. As he turned to face the Captain, Price spoke.

“It’s Laswell. Urgent, they need us.” He spoke quietly, and Ghost could only look on as they picked up your unconscious form from the floor, a part of your blond hair dyed red with the liquid oozing from it, and carried you away.

“She’ll be alright, Lt. Let’s go,” Soap said, grabbing Simon’s hand and pulling him along like a lost puppy. Gaz and Price were talking about something in front of them as they walked out.

The moment they got to the car, Price pulled their uniforms out of the trunk.

“Jus’ in case,”

He said, tossing them to each respective man, and Price drove while the rest of them changed in the car. The moment Simon slipped his mask on, he willed himself to forget about anything regarding you.

The job came first.

~

Your head was swimming and fuzzy. Your limbs refused to cooperate properly.

You recognized your bed, the dark curtains on the windows, and the smell of your room, covered in the perfume you always wore. Your vision was blurry, too blurry to simply be from sleeping.

Swallowing, you tried to sit up, only to find your throat dryer than a desert and your limbs shaky and weak. You made a small grunt when you tumbled from the bed to the floor, vision blurring more before going slightly back to normal. As normal as it could be right now.

You heard a small female gasp and your bedroom door opened with a creak. One of your closest friends from the volleyball team, Nalani, walked in, immediately going to your side.

Her brown, bronze skin reminded you of Gaz, and her long, dark intricate braids you’d always been amazed by hung in a ponytail behind her. Sure, you two might’ve fooled around a bit a few months back, but that was behind you. Behind both of you. She was a friend, just a friend, even if friends didn’t usually share beds and know how each other tasted.

But you trusted her more than most, that was for sure.

She’d seen your scars, heard what you could tell her without endangering her life, and she hadn’t backed away. She’d embraced it with you. Even on your worst days.

“You just busted your head open, you need to stay in bed.”

She mumbled, putting you back into the bed after lifting you. She’d changed you into your favorite pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt. It was only when she began going on and on about how stubborn you were, that you noticed a blur of movement in the doorway.

You’d seen Simon’s friends leave earlier. Assumed they’d been on a mission again.

You began pushing against Nalani, and she looked confused.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Your throat was too dry and cracked. You rasped to get something out as a gun poked around the corner. A silencer on it.

“Down, get-“

You tried pushing her down, the other hand reaching for the gun in your nightstand, fingers fumbling to find it. You were too late.

A near silent shot, and there was a hole in the back of her head that you couldn’t see but knew was there. She crumpled to the ground as you tried again to grab your pistol from the nightstand drawer, only to realize that Price had never returned it after that night.

Cursing under your breath, you grabbed the knife from under your pillow, a hunting knife, and threw it, watching as it embedded itself into the man peeking around the corner’s neck.

One down.

More came, though. Too many. Your vision blurred as you heard male voices talking, a shot down by your legs, but not quite hitting.

They were trying to disable you.

Your head was throbbing, adrenaline making you forget grief in the moment. Pain exploded through your veins as you felt a bullet whiz past you, nicking your right arm. Three men stormed the room, clearing it, before one of them came into sight, kneeling to be eye level with you.

“Thought we wouldn’t find you, yes? The Wasp’s Nest is not as secure as you thought. We’ll get our retribution.”

He spoke mockingly to you, before shoving a white bag over your head. Other voices filled the room, quiet, but loud enough for your dwindling consciousness to catch.

“…useful?”

“It’ll work……able to….again.”

“…knock her..”

“Roger that..”

You felt the blunt force of the back of a gun being slammed against your head, and your vision went black.

If you’d told the truth, then maybe none of this wouldn’t have happened.

But in the end.

The job came first.

Tags:

@yearninglustfully

@kazuyatokue

@kiwibao

@kurokitty6

@sharkluver

@100percentlazybonez

[allthingsfangirl101]

Deep Undercover – Timothy McGee

"Rise and shine, Mr. and Mrs. McGee!"

McGee and I jumped awake. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes. "Better hurry, Mrs. McGee. You're going to be late for work," DiNozzo jokingly taunted.

"Do you enjoy this, Tony?" Y/N asked as she got out of bed. McGee quickly looked away as she slipped her robe over her thin tank top and shorts.

"Enjoy what, Y/L/N?"

"Watching us play house?" She teased. "Or are you jealous that you don't get to pretend to be married to Tim?"

Y/N and McGee smirked when DiNozzo instantly stuttered an excuse. "Don't daydream about it too much, boys," Y/N teased as she entered the bathroom and shut the door. McGee's heart jumped into his throat when he heard the shower turn on.

He leaned against the bedrest and ran his fingers through his hair. He and Agent Y/L/N have been undercover as a married couple in a neighborhood heavily owned by Navy families. Gibbs put them here a month ago due to a tip NCIS received about an underground home-grown terrorist group. This group was full of civilian husbands, married to women in the Navy with big careers. Y/N and McGee's job was to make friends with the neighbors and get McGee an invite into the group. Getting an invite means looking like a proud Navy husband with a hint of anger and resentment. They had a plan in place to show that hint but they needed to build rapport with the neighbors first.

While Y/N showered, McGee went downstairs and made breakfast. When she came down, she was now in her Navy uniform.

"You don't have to keep doing this," she chuckled as she walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Keep doing what?" He asked as he put the pancakes onto a plate and turned toward her.

"You don't have to keep making breakfast every morning," she smiled as she took the plate from him.

"It's what I would do for my wife," he said. His eyes widened and he quickly added, "If this was real, I mean. I'm just trying to make all of this believable."

"I didn't say it like it was a bad thing," she chuckled. She smirked as she added, "If I was to make this real, I wouldn't have showered alone."

She walked away, fully aware of McGee frozen as her words sank in. She sat at the table and started eating the food McGee made them.

"If this was real, my husband would join me for breakfast, McGee," she called over her shoulder without turning around.

"Right," McGee stuttered. He cleared his throat as he made himself a plate and walked over to the table. He sat down across from her and the two ate without saying anything.

"What are your plans for today, sweetheart?" She asked, putting extra emphasis on the nickname.

"I need to run to the hardware store and pick up a few things," McGee said not sounding so confident. He lowered his voice and added, "Gibbs gave me a list. He thinks I'll run into some of our neighbors at the hardware store."

"We don't have to whisper in our own home, Tim," she whispered. Her voice went back to normal as she continued, "It's a good idea. If I wanted to talk to some of our neighbors, I'd go to the grocery store."

"Why can't I go to the grocery store?"

"Gender stereotypes, my dear husband," she chuckled as she stood up and cleared the table. "They suck but they are what they are around here."

Y/N leaned down and kissed his cheek before doing the dishes. They went through the rest of their morning as they usually do. Soon, McGee walked Y/N out of their house.

"Good morning, Kingstons!"

In the neighborhood, they were known as Kyle and Emily Kingston. Y/N's cover was a flight instructor for the Top Gun program based on her background as a Navy pilot before she joined NCIS. McGee's cover was as a computer forensics professor at MIT. To better sell their backstory, Y/N really did train pilots for the Navy while McGee taught a class at the local college.

The two turned to see the couple across the street waving at them. "The Nelsons," Y/N whispered. "She's a Navy lieutenant who works in IT. He works in some shoe store downtown."

"Morning!" McGee yelled as he raised his hand and waved. He and Y/N turned toward each other and let out small awkward chuckles.

"Show's on," Y/N whispered. She stood on her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to McGee's lips.

"Come on, McLoverboy," DiNozzo taunted into their earpieces. "Kiss your wife goodbye. You never know what will happen at training today. This may be the last time you get to kiss Y/L/N."

"I am going to kill him," McGee mumbled as they broke the kiss. Y/N laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Breathe," she chuckled. "He's just jealous he didn't get picked for this undercover assignment. You know how much DiNozzo loves dressing up and acting like someone he's not."

"I still think Y/N and I look more like a married couple than her and McGee," Dinozzo grumbled.

"McGee makes the more convincing husband," Gibbs countered. Y/N just laughed as she kissed McGee's cheek.

"Don't forget to get more of the paint we need for the baseboards," Y/N said, slightly raising her voice.

"I will," McGee said, matching her voice level. "As long as you don't forget to be careful and to make it home alive."

"I always do," she teased as she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. McGee watched as Y/N got in her car and headed to work.

Y/N was gone all day and McGee was home. Gibbs set it up this way so McGee would be the in. The group was made up of mostly husbands whose wives had big careers in the Navy.

While Y/N went to the base to train pilots, McGee did some digging on their neighbors. A little after noon, he decided to go to the hardware store. He walked through the aisles, grabbing the things from the list Gibbs gave him. His phone rang the same time it does every day.

"Hey, you," he answered it.

"Hi, honey," Y/N said sweetly. "How's your day going?"

"Oh, it's great," McGee laughed. "I'm at the hardware store now."

"Good," Y/N chuckled. "Gibbs will smack the back of your head if you forget anything."

"I'm terrified I'm gonna get the wrong wood or finish," McGee admitted. "I still don't get why you want the house fixed. We're not staying long."

"I don't care if the house is. . .Oh," Y/N said, her voice dropping. "If there's a neighbor nearby, try to talk but act as if I interrupted."

"I don't want the roof to cave in either, honey, but. . . We're not. . ."

"I think it's time to get your invite into the group," Y/N said. "Act as if I just told you I have to stay late. Be upset about it."

"Again?" McGee played along. "This is the third time this week, Emily."

"Wow," she chuckled. "Way to point out how many times I've been late. That's evil, McGee."

"Do you have to stay late?"

"What? My job isn't important?" Y/N laughed as she began to play along.

"I'm not saying your job isn't important, Emily," McGee sighed. "But we haven't had dinner together in what feels like months."

"I'm going to stay on the Navy base tonight. I'll run by NCIS and have Abby set things up. I'll be home early tomorrow," Y/N told McGee her plan. "We should move up our final act."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Having it go down when I get back after a night I don't come home can lead to a natural fight between husband and wife. That will draw the attention of the others."

"Whatever you say," McGee said. "Just be safe, okay?"

"You too, Tim," Y/N said, her voice soft.

"Call me when you're. . ." McGee sighed like Y/N had hung up on him midsentence even though he said it after she hung up. "Love you too," he mumbled as he hung up.

"Everything okay, Kyle?"

McGee looked up to see Tyler Nelson, the neighbor they waved to this morning, walking over.

"Yeah," McGee said, clearing his throat. "Emily is stuck at work. Again."

"She stuck at work a lot?" Tyler fished.

"Occasionally," McGee shrugged. "The group of pilots she's training have a mission in a few weeks. According to her, they aren't close to being able to succeed. She's just trying to make sure they make it home alive."

"Still," Tyler shrugged. "You're her husband. She should be there for you too."

"I'm proud of my wife, Tyler," McGee said a little too harshly.

"Supportive but tired husband, McGee," Gibbs reminded.

"But if I'm being honest," McGee continued calmer, "it's getting tough. I know she loves her job. She's good at it. I've seen her in training and I've seen the pilots she's trained. She's good. But. . ."

"But what about you?" Tyler asked.

"Can I be honest about something that will make me sound like a horrible American?"

"Of course," Tyler said, his voice sounding more eager. "I've probably said it too."

"Really?" McGee asked. He cleared his throat and looked around before saying, "Sometimes I hate Emily's job. And sometimes I hate the Navy for taking my wife away from me."

Tyler put his hand on McGee's shoulder and smiled softly. "It's perfectly okay to feel that way, Kyle. I have felt like that time and time again."

He patted McGee on the shoulder before walking away. Once it was clear, McGee took out his phone and sent Y/N one text.

We're in. Tomorrow is a go.

* * * * *

McGee walked out of their undercover house as Y/N's car pulled into their driveway. McGee could see Tyler Nelson watching from his kitchen window.

Y/N wasn't confused when she saw McGee in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. She got out of her car and instantly started to play along.

"What's with the glare?" She asked, not moving away from her car. "Come on, Kyle. It's not like I was at work all night and didn't call you."

"That's not the point, Emily," McGee said, unable to stop himself from glancing at the car. She needed to move. He needed to get her to move.

"Look," Y/N sighed, "I know that I've been working a lot. Their mission is almost over."

When she still hadn't moved closer, McGee decided to walk over to her. He had to move her away from the car.

"Once it is," Y/N continued, "I will request some time off."

"I've heard that before," McGee sighed.

"What if," Y/N smirked as she wrapped her arms around his neck, "I told you this time it would be different?"

"I've heard that before too," he said as he wrapped his arms around her waist. He leaned in and whispered, "We need to move, Y/N."

"Not yet," she whispered back.

"But. . ."

"It needs to look good, Tim."

"That doesn't mean you need to get hurt, Y/N."

The two pulled apart and it was then that Y/N saw how nervous McGee was. She sent him a smile to try and calm him down. She took his hand and intertwined their fingers.

"How about I make us breakfast?" She offered. They were three steps away from the car when it blew. The blast knocked them off their feet. In order for their plan to work, Y/N needed to be knocked out by the blast.

"Emily?" McGee said, making sure his voice was full of panic. He sat up and pulled Y/N into his chest. He ran his finger through her hair as he tried to get her to wake up. "Emily? Come on, baby. Open your eyes."

"Kyle? Emily? Are you two alright?"

McGee looked to see Tyler Nelson running across the street.

"Tyler, call 911!" McGee turned back to Y/N. "It worked," he said under his breath.

"It worked a little too well," Y/N said through a painful gasp. McGee looked down to see a piece of shrapnel in Y/N's side.

"Your cover is rock-solid," he started to stutter. "We'll get you to the hospital and they will call in NCIS. Vance will send Gibbs. I can handle the rest."

"No," she gasped in pain. "You can't do this alone."

"Tyler Nelson has something to do with all this," he whispered as he gently held her face in his hand. "He's interested in me. This explosion is going to make him come talk to me. I know it. You can stay in the hospital until you're better."

"But Tim. . ."

McGee leaned down and kissed her. He broke the kiss and kept his forehead pressed to hers as he whispered, "I'll be fine."

* * * * *

McGee and Y/N were taken to the hospital. As soon as they got there, Y/N was taken into surgery. McGee waited until Gibbs and DiNozzo came running into the waiting room.

"I thought we told you two to get far from the blast," Gibbs said.

"I tried to get her to move," McGee sighed. "Y/N thought it would be more convincing."

"If what?" DiNozzo scoffed. "She got killed?"

Gibbs instantly slapped the back of his head. "It worked," Gibbs said. "Besides, she's going to be fine."

"Mr. Kingston?"

McGee looked to see a doctor walking over. He jumped up and met him halfway.

"How is she?" He asked.

"Your wife is extremely lucky," the doctor said gently. "There was only one large piece of shrapnel in her side. It didn't hit any of her vital organs. We got it out and sewed her up. We want to keep her here for a couple of days to make sure she doesn't get any mercury poisoning in her blood from the shrapnel."

"Can I see her?" McGee asked.

"Of course," the doctor smiled. "We are settling her into a room now. When she's there, a nurse will come get you."

"Thank you."

McGee turned toward Gibbs, his stomach still in knots. "I'm sorry, boss," he whispered. "I tried to get her away from the car but. . ."

"This wasn't your fault, Tim," Gibbs tried to reassure him.

"Kyle!"

McGee turned to see Tyler Nelson running over. "Are you kidding me?" Tyler scoffed when he saw the NCIS agents talking to McGee. "His wife is fighting for her life and you're already bothering him with pointless questions?"

"It's fine, Tyler," McGee stopped him. "They're NCIS."

"I know who they are," Tyler practically spat at them. He sent Gibbs and DiNozzo one more glare before turning toward McGee. "How is Emily?"

"She's going to be okay," McGee sighed. "They're moving her into a room now. I can see her soon."

McGee walked over and sat in a chair. He put his head in his hands and stayed there.

"We can come back later," Gibbs said, sending Tyler a look before he and DiNozzo left. Once they were gone, Tyler walked over to McGee and sat next to him.

"You okay?"

"No!" McGee said honestly. He stood up and started pacing. "This explosion wasn't an accident. This had something to do with her damn job. Emily has sworn her life to protect the Navy and her country. And how do they repay her?! She gets blown up outside our home!"

To sell the part, McGee kicked a chair over. Tyler calmly walked over and to McGee and lowered his voice.

"What if I told you there was a way to make them pay for this?" He asked, his voice low.

"What are you talking about?"

"What if I told you, you could take things into your own hands and make them pay for not taking care of your Emily?"

* * * * *

A few days later, McGee and the team had successfully taken down the entire terrorist cell. While they arrested everyone involved, Y/N was still in the hospital. The piece of shrapnel that had gotten stuck in her side gave her a mild case of mercury poisoning. Luckily, the doctors caught it before they couldn't reverse it. It took a lot of medication, but they eventually successfully got all the mercury out of Y/N's system.

Y/N woke up to a steady beeping.

"Y/N?" Someone softly gasped next to her. She turned her head to see McGee scooting his chair closer to her bed.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said, her voice soft. "Is the house still standing?"

"Sadly, no," McGee smiled. "We need to move, my dear Emily. Half the neighborhood was arrested. I told you we should've kept looking."

"You got everybody?" Y/N asked, no longer playing along. McGee reached forward and moved some hair out of her face.

He kept his hand on her face and nodded. "The entire cell is gone, Y/N."

"You did it," she smiled weakly.

"We did it," McGee corrected.

"All I did was get blown up," Y/N tried to laugh.

"It was your idea and it worked. When you were in surgery, Tyler came to the hospital and told me all about their group." He stopped talking when he saw how tired she was. "You should get some rest," he said, his voice dropping. "We can debrief later."

Y/N quickly grabbed his hand when she thought he was going to leave. "My husband is allowed to stay past visiting hours," she said, her voice breaking.

"I don't have to play your husband," he started to say but stopped himself. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Y/N grabbed his face and brought his lips down to hers. He smiled as he deepened the kiss. When he broke it, their faces were inches apart.

"We don't have to play pretend anymore. At least. . . I don't want to. I want this to be real, Tim," Y/N said, tears filling her eyes and her voice breaking.

"So do I," he whispered. He leaned in and kissed her again. This time, when they broke apart, she was smiling.

"I'm so glad Gibbs made you my Undercover Husband and not DiNozzo," Y/N said with a small giggle.

"Believe me," McGee chuckled, "I wouldn't have allowed it."

[drdemonprince]

With this read through of Dunbar-Ortiz’s book, I was completely blown away, and radicalized all the more. I unlearned so many intentionally confusing myths about what America is and how it came to be within the book’s 300 pages. 

I came to understand that this is a country created by settler militias, not by immigrants, and that moral culpability for the harm done by the U.S. goes a lot farther than just a handful of wealthy slave-owners and especially badly behaved soldiers.

I learned about how the U.S. government’s political repression of Native peoples set a legal precedent that would one day be used to justify the torture of suspected “terrorists” at Guantanamo Bay and in Abu Ghraib. I saw more parallels between the violent settlement of the U.S. and of Israel than ever. 

More than anything, Dunbar-Ortiz’ book taught me that the colonization of the United States relied upon the committing of several key sins — uniquely cruel political and military innovations that would reverberate forward throughout history, changing everything about how warfare is conducted and how oppressed peoples are exploited across the globe. 

The fundamental sins of American conquest are: gun “rights”, private property, factionalism, and irregular warfare against “unlawful enemy combatants.” In this piece, I will discuss where each of these sins came from, why they were so essential to a successful Indigenous genocide, and the legacy we continue to see from them today: 

Gun “Rights”

As an American, I had grown up being taught that the “well regulated militias” of the Second Amendment had arisen to fight off the British soldiers during the war of independence. 

Under this version of United States history, citizens retain the right to own guns so that we might defend our property from criminals, protect “our” territories against foreign invasions, and resist tyranny from federal government. To this day, Americans evoke this interpretation of the Second Amendment as a justification for concealed carry rights, and for “castle doctrine” laws that allow home owners to shoot intruders (even unarmed ones!) inside their homes. 

In reality, the militias mentioned in the Second Amendment had formed many decades before the revolution, and were initially created to slaughter Indigenous people and clear them out from their lands. The foreign “invaders” that the Second Amendment was created to defend against were not the British colonizers, but the many Native peoples who had been living on Turtle Island for thousands of years before European conquest. 

Dunbar-Ortiz writes:

“…Native peoples are implied in the Second Amendment. 

Male settlers had been required in the colonies to serve in militias during their lifetimes for the purpose of raiding and razing Indigenous communities, the southern colonies included, and later states’ militias were used as “slave patrols.”

 The Second Amendment, ratified in 1791, enshrined these irregular forces into law: ‘A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.’”

Full essay is free to read or listen to at drdevonprice.substack.com

[duckysprouts]

current bat games au lore

ok so here is part of what we have so far:

jason is no longer from district 2, he was originally a scrappy orphan from 12; he changed his name to "RED" after lazrus therapy and becoming a gladiator

Nightwing has a notorious reputation in the capitol as vain and bitchy. he constantly gets procedures done to look as young and beautiful as possible and will actively sabotage the new tributes' relationships with the capitol citizens. in reality, he is trying to protect the younger victors from being sexually exploited by putting himself on the front lines as the sex symbol

tim is the newest victor of the games. his mentor was barbara and they are both secretly working for the anti-capitol resistence.

damian is the political baby of a strategic union between talia and bruce to unite their clans without drawing suspicion from the government on why they're working closely. his parents are both big players in the capitol.

the al ghuls are the tinfoil hat conspiracy theorists of the capitol who believe the revolution is nigh. but instead of underground bunkers they prepare for the apocalypse by training their children in several warrior arts

bruce's alter ego is batman, political terrorist who is working behind the scenes to take down capitol corruption (good luck buddy)

the capitol has a capped maximum on how much wealthy citizens can donate as sponsorship because otherwise bruce wayne would sponsor all the kids in an effort for them to live

when jason was thrown into the arena, he had no living mentor and had to fend for himself. batman secretly helped him with tips and advice on how to survive

Nightwing tried to talk bruce out of sponsoring jason in the arena. it wasn't out of cruelty; he just thought it would be a better investment to sponsor a child who is more likely to live instead of a starving little boy from the weakest district bound to die. bruce sponsored jason anyway

bruce's parents were assassinated for the treasonous act of believing district citizens deserved human rights

jason's abundance of sponsorships made him a target in the arena. he got really messed up and had to go through a brutal, traumatic, and experimental rehabilitation called the lazarus project. he came out of it brain damaged and now most of his body consists of lab-grown flesh or robotic parts. (notice his fake eyes and how most of his body is covered up)

the hunger games are like the annual SuperBowl. for the rest of the year the capitol citizens enjoy entertainment like celebrity escorts (Nightwing) or gladiator games, which is basically the WWE but more deadly and no predetermined winner (RED)

gladiators all have a number that is worn by players and fans alike. most gladiators wear theirs on their armour but RED wears his as a corpse identification tag on his ear

tim purposefully makes himself seem boring and unlikable so that the capitol will allow him to go home rather than stay at the capitol like nightwing and RED.

tim is probably on like 10 different government watchlists

damian keeps nightwing around as a friend/babysitter, since he gave every other one he had a mental breakdown

damian keeps jason around as a personal weaponsmith/arms instructor (hired by talia)

talia and bruce have split custody of damian

nightwing and RED are top-celebs in their fields

bruce's name is brucellosis I'm sorry that's just the way it is

bruce stopped sponsoring for a while after jason's injury cause he blamed himself

hunger games sponsors are like gambling or horse race betting. if your sponsored victor lives you get more money back. but it is so costly with such high stakes that most people don't do it

nightwing volunteered for some random kid who he had no connection with because he has no self-preservation and is kinda self sacrificing like that

nightwing's mentor was starfire. he had a massive crush on her and she'd pat his head

RED has a tense relationship with bruce and Nightwing but also trusts them more than anyone else

there are more but they require more context and characters so hang tight. suggestions welcome! just dm me in my inbox

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: BEN SHIMONI

Full English text of this sign about Ben at the bottom of the page

Ben Shimoni, 31, was celebrating peace at the Nova music festival in southern Israel on October 7, 2023 when the event came under massive terrorist attack by a barbaric well-armed horde of killers and rapists. Amid carnage and chaos, Ben dodged bullets to reach his car and then picked up four strangers. He maneuvered their way out of the festival site and drove thirty minutes to Beersheba, where his passengers got out of the car. To their shock, Ben said he was going back to rescue more people. They tried desperately to change his mind but Ben turned the car around and headed back to hell. 

Ben was very familiar with the roads around the festival area because he spent his childhood in Gaza. Ben lived in Gush Katif, a tight-knit, warm community of Jews. In 2005, when Ben was only 13, his idyllic life was hideously disrupted when his family and all the other Jews in Gush Katif were forcibly ejected by their own government in a tragically misguided attempt to conciliate the Palestinians. Families who’d harvested land and built businesses over a lifetime had to hand it all over to their enemies. The Palestinians immediately destroyed the farms and factories, elected Hamas and began building terror tunnels to kill Jews. Now 18 years later, paragliding terrorists on a mission of destruction were at the Nova music festival and Ben was on a mission of his own: to rescue as many people as possible. 

Like a firefighter rushing into a burning building, Ben drove into a field that was still under massive attack. He immediately filled his car with five more terrified strangers, and drove them to safety in Beersheba. This group, too, was shocked because once again, after reaching safety, Ben chose to go back to the festival site. He’d already saved nine lives but made one more desperate and valiant attempt. He picked up three frantic girls and almost got away until they were stopped at a checkpoint manned by heavily armed soldiers. Ben’s girlfriend Jessica Elter was on the phone with him and heard what happened next. Jessica told the Jewish Chronicle: “Suddenly I heard Ben asking, confused but not afraid, if some people in the road were Hamas terrorists or Israeli police. I heard the girls in the back screaming and pleading with Ben at the top of their lungs to ‘Drive, drive, drive.’ I heard a lot of yelling in Arabic and a big crash, some shooting and, after a minute of quiet the phone just hung up.”

Ben’s car was later found riddled with bullets but empty and he was initially classified as missing. However after five days Ben’s family was notified that his body had been identified, some distance from the car. Nearby was the body of the girl who’d been in the passenger seat. They had both been shot. The two girls who were in the back of the car have never been found and are presumed to be hostages in Gaza. Jessica is praying for their rescue and hoping to learn more from them about Ben’s final minutes.

Jessica says that Ben’s heroic self-sacrifice to save at least nine other people was completely in character. “He was shy, loyal, very honest with every person he met, and never said no to someone in need. He always put others before himself, truly. He had the best heart ever. And the thing he did that morning testifies to the person he was.” Jessica and Ben had attended several previous Nova festivals. Jessica would have been at that one too, except that she had recently grown more religious and stayed home to observe Shabbat.

Ben was a successful businessman who worked in the restaurant industry and appreciated the Israeli night life scene. His brother Avinoam remembers that Ben “loved life. Loved cars, traveling and parties. Always puts himself last and wants to help, so it’s not surprising that the last action he did in his life was trying to rescue his friends from hell.” 

Israeli band Synergia released a song based on a poem written about Ben Shimoni. It begins, “Who is the person who goes back into hell, a moment after he escaped?”

At the Nova festival site, Ben’s loved ones put up a sign about Ben’s life and his heroic actions on October 7, 2023. May his memory always be for a blessing and may his soul have a great elevation!

Full text about Ben (from the blue sign in the image above) at the memorial site, written by his family:

Ben Binyamin Shimon was the first born son to parents Pnina and Rafi Shimoni after many efforts to bring children into the world. Ben has younger twin brothers, Avinoam and Chai, and Chai has special needs. The three of them grew up in Dugit of Gush Katif near the sea. Following the Israeli disengagement from Gaza, Ben’s parents Pnina and Rafi divorced. Ben moved to the north with his father, and two years later, his brother Avinoam joined him, spending their teenage years there together. After completing his military service, both Ben and his father decided to leave the north and move to Modiin to start a business together, which led Ben into the world of business and back to the south. In recent years, Ben moved back to live with his mother and brother Chai in their home in Ashkelon. Later on, his partner Jessica also joined them. Ben always loved extreme sports, cars, and motorcycle racing. His friends and close-knit family were his whole world.

He was always ready to help, even when not asked. Ben loved to celebrate life and live in the moment; nightlife and parties were an integral part of his life. He owned several businesses related to food and nightlife.

In the last few months of his life, he decided to leave these businesses and began working as a sous- chef with his good friend Matan Zafrir at the Pitmaster restaurant in Petah Tikva, with a bright future ahead in the industry. His coworkers recount that they had never met a more professional, caring, and dedicated person than him. 

That Saturday, Ben decided to stay home for the second holiday of Sukkot, a decision that, as it turned out later, saved his mother and brother Chai from traveling to celebrate at the home of their friend from Dugit, Tova Goren, who lived in Kfar Aza and was murdered in her home along with her daughter Eran.

On October 7th, in the early morning hours, Ben left for the Nova festival, where he met up with his friends Tom Peretz and Michal Ohana. His partner Jessica, who was inseparable from him, surprisingly decided to stay home that evening with his mother and brother Chai. When the attack began, Ben immediately called his mother to inform her that there were rockets and to wake up Jessicaand take everyone to the safe room (bomb shelter).

Ben wasn’t afraid of the rockets; he got in his car and started to flee. He knew the area well, having grown up there and served there during his military service. Ben was an experienced driver and knew how to navigate the roads of the Gaza envelope. At the beginning of the journey, he picked up four passengers he didn’t know; Jude Kotler, Amit Shalit, Mashi Lindner, and Tal Gozal. From their testimonies, we understand that Ben quickly grasped the situation and did everything to calm them down and bring them to safety.

He rescued them to Be’er Sheva. On his way there, he contacted his father, who lives in Be’er Sheva, and asked if he could bring them to his house.

His father was at work in Omer (another city in the South) and told Ben to come and get the key. Ben realized this would delay him and decided to drop them off at a house he didn’t know at the entrance to Be’er Sheva. There, they begged him to stay with them and not return to the festival area, but he was determined to save his friends who were still there. That morning, during the rescues, Ben managed to speak with his friends and family. Everyone had the chance to talk to him; his father Rafi, his mother Pnina, his brother Avinoam, and his girlfriend Jessica.

They were all proud of him for saving people, and asked him to come home and not return to the area of the festival. However, Ben was determined to save his friends. He returned and managed to save another eight people he didn’t know to the Netivot area. Only ten months later we were connected with these people and learned that they were physically healthy but not mentally. Afterward, he returned to the festival area for a second time in hopes of finding his friends Tom and Michal, even though they told him not to come.

Nevertheless, he drove to the last location they sent him. But when he arrived at the location, Tom and Michal were no longer there (probably because their phone battery died, and they had already moved to their next hiding place). Today Tom and Michal are safe and sound. At that time, Ben knew that Gaya Halifa (Z”L), who worked with him at the Pitmaster, was also at the festival, so he contacted her and understood she was in danger. He asked her to send him her location. Gaya was with her friend Romi Gonen; they were hiding from the terrorists’ gunfire in a small bush near the Re’im parking lot.

Gaya sent Ben the location, and along with it, she wrote, “Don’t come; there are gunshots.” Despite this, Ben chose to look for them. He found them and got them into his car. In addition to them, Ben saw Ofir Tzarfati (Z’L) and offered him to join them in the car. Ofir had just made sure that his friends and girlfriend were rescued into another car and there was no space for him to go with them, so he joined Ben’s car.The four of them began driving towards Ashkelon on Road 232. Gaya managed to speak with her father, Avi and tell him that Ben rescued them and they were on their way out, asking him to pick her up from Ashdod. Romi texted her friends and family that a friend of Gaya’s from work (Ben) came to rescue them and that they were on their way out. After a short drive of a few kilometers at a crazy speed, during which Ben was on the phone with Jessica, he told her that he saw figures ahead and asked, “Are they terrorists? Arabs?” Immediately after, Jessica heard gunfire and screams. At 10:12 AM, at the Alumim Junction, they encountered an ambush by terrorists who slaughtered them.

The car stopped, and Ben and Gaya were murdered on the spot. Ofir and Romi were injured and half an hour later, kidnapped to Gaza. All this was recorded on a phone call between Romi and her mother, Mirav. After 54 days, we learned that Ofir was murdered in captivity at Shifa Hospital, and his body was found and returned for burial in Israel. As of today (ten months after October 7th, at the time of this writing), Romi is still held captive by Hamas, and we all pray for her safe return to her family, healthy in body and soul. Ben and Gaya were declared missing for five days. After extensive searches and understanding that something terrible had happened, we hoped that perhaps they were injured or even kidnapped, but the bitter news came. Ben planned to continue living life to the fullest and build his life his way, but fate chose for him to die a hero. Ben left behind a grieving family, friends, and a girlfriend who miss him, are proud of him, and love him deeply.

[mariacallous]

Last weekend, former President Donald Trump posted another anti-immigrant screed to Truth Social. It would have been unremarkable ― at least, graded on the Trumpian curve of extreme xenophobia ― except for one word.

“[We will] return Kamala’s illegal migrants to their home countries (also known as remigration),” he wrote. “I will save our cities and towns in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and all across America.”

Many people might have glossed over his use of “remigration.” White nationalists did not.

“#Remigration has had a massive conceptual career,” Martin Sellner — leader of the Austrian chapter of Generation Identity, a pan-European white supremacist network — tweeted in his native German. “Born in France, popularized in German-speaking countries and now the term of the hour from Sweden to the USA!”

It was a succinct and accurate history from Sellner, a 35-year-old who typically trafficks in vicious lies and conspiracy theories, particularly about Black and brown people. He has been at the vanguard of pushing “remigration” — a euphemism for ethnically cleansing non-white people from Western countries — into the popular political lexicon in Europe.

Now Sellner was seeing his favorite little word all grown up, moving overseas in service of the 45th president of the United States, who has promised to implement the largest mass deportation of immigrants in U.S. history if elected back to the White House in six weeks’ time.

Trump’s use of “remigration” is the latest instance of the GOP’s intensifying anti-immigrant rhetoric in the run-up to November’s election, underscoring the degree to which one of America’s two major political parties is sourcing many of its talking points and policy ideas directly from neo-fascists.

“Trump’s rhetoric about ‘remigration’ has its origins in the international far-right,” Jakob Guhl, a senior manager of policy and research at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, explained to HuffPost in an email. “The term remigration was popularized by groups adhering to Identitarianism, a pan-European ethno-nationalist movement, as their policy to reverse the so-called ‘great replacement.’”

“The great replacement theory is a conspiracy theory which claims that ‘native’ Europeans are being deliberately replaced through non-European migration while suppressing European birth-rates,” he continued. “This theory has inspired numerous terrorist attacks, including the Christchurch massacre, where 51 people were killed, as well as attacks in Poway, El Paso, Halle, Buffalo, and Bratislava.”

Pat Buchanan, the onetime presidential hopeful and former aide to President Richard Nixon, used the term “remigration” to whitewash his own call for ethnic cleansing as early as 2006, in his racist tract “State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America.” But the term’s journey into the Trump campaign’s vernacular more likely got its start in November 2014, when 500 far-right activists gathered in Paris.

The inaugural Assises de la Remigration, or Annual Meeting on Remigration, was organized by Generation Identity. Its featured speaker was Renaud Camus, the travel writer-turned-philosopher who coined the term “great replacement” in his 2012 book by the same name. Camus’ book built off the work of another French author, Jean Raspail, who wrote “The Camp of the Saints,” an extraordinarily racist French novel that depicts a flotilla of feces-eating brown people invading Europe.

“The Great Replacement is the most serious crisis that France has witnessed in 15 centuries,” Camus told the crowd, eliding many bloody episodes in the country’s history, including a pair of world wars that killed nearly 2 million French people. For Camus, “remigration” was the best solution to the imagined crisis of the “great replacement,” the two terms essentially joined at the hip.

Camus and his fellow subscribers to identitarianism “have always been quite clear that the objective of ‘remigration’ is to create greater ‘ethnocultural’ homogeneity,” Ruhl told HuffPost. “For them, culture and ethnicity are inseparable, and they view (white) European identity as being fundamentally threatened by the presence of migrants ― necessitating drastic, far-reaching responses.”

According to a study by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, the term “remigration” was “used over 540,000 times between April 2012 and April 2019” on Twitter, particularly from accounts in France and Germany. Usage of the term skyrocketed after the Annual Meeting on Remigration in Paris. Camus himself was one of the main promoters of the word online.

As “remigration” became an increasingly discussed term, militant far-right groups adapted it as their own. In 2017, police in France arrested 10 far-right activists over a suspected plot to kill politicians and migrants and to attack mosques. Officers found a shotgun and two revolvers in the home of the group’s ringleader, who’d sought to create a militia, according to a post on Facebook, to kill “arabs, blacks dealers, migrants, [and] jihadist scum.” Per French investigators, the group, known as OAS, was formed to “spark remigration.”

The term made an appearance in Canada, too, where a far-right fight club called Falange — named for the fascist group that served under the Spanish general Francisco Franco during the Spanish Civil War — put signs with the word “Remigration” across Quebec City.

And that same year in the U.S., the group Identity Evropa — modeled after Generation Identity in Europe — burst into the public consciousness for its participation in the deadly white supremacist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia. Identity Evropa’s proposed policies included “remigration,” and when its members marched in Charlottesville, they invoked the “great replacement” concept, chanting “You will not replace us.”

Back in Europe, in March 2019, Sellner started a channel on the chat app Telegram called the “European Compact for Remigration,” the beginning of a campaign, he announced, to influence far-right parties across Europe to support “de-Islamisation” and “remigration.”

That same month, a white supremacist in Christchurch, New Zealand, livestreamed himself walking into two mosques and opening fire, killing 51 Muslim worshipers. He’d posted a genocidal screed online before the shooting. Its title was “The Great Replacement.” Nevertheless, one week after the shooting, Sellner’s Generation Identity group in Austria staged a protest against the “great replacement,” again calling for “de-Islamisation” and “remigration.”

A couple of months later, it emerged that the shooter in New Zealand had communicated with Sellner only a year prior, donating over $2,300 to Sellner’s white supremacist group. “Thank you that really gives me energy and motivation,” Sellner wrote to the shooter in an email.

“If you ever come to Vienna,” Sellner added, “we need to go for a café or a beer.”

Despite these revelations, Sellner’s efforts to get far-right political parties to support remigration started to see results in the following years. In 2019, Alternative for Deutschland — which recently became the first far-right party since the Nazis to win a state election in Germany — inserted “remigration” into its list of official policy proposals.

Four years later, an investigation from Correctiv found that AfD members held a secret meeting with neo-Nazis and wealthy businesspeople to discuss the “remigration” of asylum seekers, immigrants with legal status, and “unassimilated citizens” to a “model state” in North Africa. The plan — which bore an unnerving resemblance to the Nazis’ initial idea to mass-deport Jews to Madagascar, before they settled on a wholesale extermination campaign — was Sellner’s brainchild.

That same year, as noted recently by Mother Jones, a jury of linguists in Germany selected “remigration” as the “non-word” of the year. “The seemingly harmless term remigration is used by the ethnic nationalists of the AfD and the Identitarian Movement to conceal their true intentions: the deportation of all people with supposedly the wrong skin color or origin, even if they are German citizens,” one guest juror wrote.

Mother Jones also noted that earlier this year, “an AfD candidate in Stuttgart campaigned with the slogan ‘Rapid remigration creates living space,’ a nod to the concept of Lebensraum used by the Nazis to justify the genocidal expansion into Eastern Europe.”

And finally, this year in Austria, the far-right Freedom Party (FPOe), founded after World War II by former Nazis, and which recently enjoyed success in national elections, called for the creation of a “remigration commissioner” in the country.

Still, very few, if any, U.S. politicians have uttered the word “remigration” in recent years. Trump’s use of the term stateside has coincided with his renewed embrace of dehumanizing language when talking about immigrants.

The former president’s promotion of a false story about Haitian immigrants eating pets in Ohio was classic fascist fare, depicting an entire category of people as savages. And earlier this year, the GOP nominee said immigrants were “poisoning the blood” of the nation. Historians quickly noted that Trump’s language echoed the words of Adolf Hitler. “All great cultures of the past perished only because the originally creative race died out from blood poisoning,” Hitler wrote in “Mein Kampf.”

But who in Trump’s orbit might have introduced him to the term “remigration”? The Trump campaign didn’t immediately respond to HuffPost’s request for comment. One possible culprit, though, might be Stephen Miller, who served in the Trump White House as an adviser and speechwriter. Miller’s ties to white supremacists are legion, and while working as an editor at Breitbart in 2015, according to leaked emails obtained by the Southern Poverty Law Center, he suggested the website publish articles about “The Camp of the Saints,”the racist French novel that inspired Renaud Camus.

Miller, like Sellner, was thrilled with Trump’s use of “remigration” last weekend.

“THE TRUMP PLAN TO END THE INVASION OF SMALL TOWN AMERICA: REMIGRATION!” he tweeted.

[hotchy-poo]

Five Minutes

a/n: This is my literal first ever piece of fanfiction I've ever written so bare with me please, any and all feedback I would love. This is based off of season 3 episode 20 Lo-Fi.

Summary: The final moments of a terrorism case and too many close calls leaves the reader more shaken than usual.

GN!reader x BAU!Team, some slight Hotch x Reader, maybe Morgan x Reader if you look hard enough.

Word Count: 1.7k

cw: some swearing, discussions of death and explosions

You can hear your heart thudding in your chest, it feels like your ears are ringing but you can still clearly hear the sounds of the shoes and boots you and most of your team were wearing. Dave and Hotch had pieced it together that the profile your team had been putting together was wrong, it wasn't a trio or duo of serial killers, it was a home grown terrorism attack, and it was going to take place in a hospital in downtown New York. The hospital you and your team are currently in. Almost your entire attention is being put towards sweeping the parking lot searching for the terrorist ambulance driver.

The rest of your brain was occupied with two thoughts. 1. Where the hell is Derek Morgan and 2. That surveillance video of Kate Joyner's SUV blowing up, sending her and Hotch flying. He's behind you now, you can hear the change in his gait, his limp from the shrapnel cutting its way into his leg. You also know his face is scratched to hell and his ear is bleeding. Part of you wishes he would have sat this out due to his injuries but everyone knows he's allergic to taking care of himself.

Turning the corner, gun in hand, finger on trigger, you shake those last two thoughts from your head. All focus needs to be on this current situation. Reid nods towards the elevator and you see the dead special service agents lying there covered in blood. One of their legs in the way of the door preventing it from closing all the way.

Your attention is then drawn to a man who is sitting on the concrete floor with his legs crossed. A phone in one hand and a knife in the other. The team surrounds him, guns raised and ready. You notice his EMS uniform and know this is one of the UnSubs, the master bomber. You also notice the lack of ambulance with a bomb that would decimate this hospital and surrounding buildings. The bomber decides he won't be arrested and uses the knife to end his life, proving that he would kill and be killed for his cause.

A faint explosion is heard far in the distance as Hotch calls in that the hospital is secure. The tension could be felt in everyone's chest as they turned their heads to the sound, making eye contact with others, panic visible in their expressions. Reids phone rings and he immediately answers, only a second passing before his whole body sags with relief as he hears Morgans voice on the other side letting him know he is ok and the bomb exploded in a safe location away from the city and its residents. Relief fills your chest as you realize everyone is safe and that another case has come to an end. And while it may not have been the ending anyone wanted, it was over and you looked forward to leaving this experience in the past.

You had barely gotten enough sleep in your hotel room, expecting to have passed out from exhaustion from the events of the case, but you found yourself thinking of all of the what ifs. What if Morgan hadn't of gotten to a safe location in the ambulance, or what if he hadn't gotten out in time, what if Garcia couldn't have jammed the cell towers like she did, what if Hotch had been closer to the SUV or even inside of it. Tossing and turning all night left you quieter than usual in the morning and it was not unnoticed by your team.

Reid, Morgan, Garcia, Prentiss, JJ, and Rossi said their goodbyes and see you laters to you and Hotch outside the federal building. You offered to make the drive with the injured man and Morgan was more than happy to let you as he wanted to lay down on the flight and drink his Cristal. Keys in hand you and Hotch begin the walk to the black SUV you would be driving, subconsciously you brace for some sort of impact as you approach the vehicle and before you can try to play it off Hotchner is suddenly standing in front of you with a concerned look in his eye.

"Everything ok Agent L/N?" he asks raising his eyebrow.

You brush him off trying to step around him "yeah of course I'm fine." Hotch shuffles his feet and prevents you from walking away. "I'm just not super excited for the long drive Hotch, I'm good."

You hope that that was enough to sway him and you think is has as he lets you step around him. Just as you reach for the cars handle to throw your bag in the back, you feel his hand grasp your elbow and turn you to face him.

"You know" he begins "it's ok to be upset, what we all just went through in the past couple of days was hard and damaging, and its ok to feel conflicted, or sad, or angry." He moves his head trying to make eye contact with you but your eyes are firmly placed on the sidewalk. Knowing that if you try to explain what it is that you are feeling it might all come out as word vomit and your emotions might get the best of you.

"I'm good Hotch" you respond still not making eye contact "let's just go." You pull your arm out of his grasp before throwing yours and his bag in the back seat. Shutting the door you go to walk to the drivers side when Hotch calls your name.

"Y/N." Him saying your name doesn't leave room for you to walk away. You slowly turn to face him and you see his lips in a straight line and his eyebrows furrowed. He starts to walk towards you, his limp so prevalent and you can't keep it together anymore. Your eyes fill with tears threatening to spill over and you know that if you start to cry you won't be able to stop.

Hotch gently grabs your shoulder and sighs as he asks you again if you're ok and you can't keep your emotions and tears at bay any longer. Tears start to fall down your cheeks as you try to speak.

"It's just... this case was so much... we thought we had it figured out and that we could catch them but they were always a step ahead of us" The tears keep rolling and you can't stop talking even if you wanted too. A sob breaks out of your mouth and you drop your head as your body shakes with your cries. "All I can think about is the what ifs, all I can see is that surveillance video of you being BLOWN up Hotch" You're aware that your voice is much louder than it needs to be and Hotch's ear rings and aches but he acts like it doesn't bother him. "You got flung across a street Hotch! Derek climbed into a goddamn ambulance with an explosive that would have decimated three blocks of this city at least!" Your breathing is erratic, chest falling and raising quickly. You're using your hands very expressively and Hotch grabs both of your arms to try and slow you down.

"I need you to breathe Y/N" he says but you're not listening.

"I thought you had died when I saw that video!" you sob. " And you weren't answering your phone!"

"I left it behind, I forgot about it" He responds "I didn't mean to I'm sorry" his voice is quiet and gentle.

"And then once we were in the hospital Derek took off like a madman and when the ambulance blew up I thought he was in it!" You are still almost yelling, the tears have not slowed at all, in fact they may have sped up. You keep rambling about how you thought you had lost Hotch and then how you thought you had lost Derek. Starting to stumble over your words you stop talking and just start to sob, pulling your hands up over your face.

Suddenly you're pulled into Hotch's chest, one arm wraps around the middle of your back securing you to him, and the other goes to the back of your head. You can his thumb moving on your back trying to calm you. You know your tears are staining his clothes but you can't seem to care, you also wouldn't be able to escape his hug even if you wanted to.

He holds you as you cry, not caring that you are on a busy sidewalk, ignoring peering eyes. His only concern right now is you.

"I know that this case was a lot Y/N" he begins "this case demanded a lot of us, and we were put into dangerous situations. But I'm ok" He moves his hands to grab the sides of your face and pull your head up so that you can look at each other. "Derek and I are ok, some healing time is necessary but we're alive and well."

Your cries have stopped and now you're just left with a runny nose. Sniffling you take a step out of the embrace allowing his hands to fall back to his sides. You let out a singular breathy laugh and wipe your face with your hands.

"You're right" you agree with him, Derek and Hotch are alive and that is what matters the most. "I'm still gonna kick Derek's ass for what he did."

Hotch exhales through his nose and cracks a small smile "why don't we start driving back to Quantico L/N, its a long journey ahead of us."

You nod and climb into the drivers seat of the car, immediately refusing his offer to drive. Turning the key in the ignition and plugging in the offices address into the GPS, you take one deep breath and let it out slowly as you turn on the blinker and pull out into traffic.

The car is silent for a few minutes before you decide to break it

"Hotch?" you ask. He turns his head to you, prompting you to continue, "promise me you won't tell the others that I just cried in your arms for a minute in the middle of down town New York?" You glance over at him and you see a small smirk form on his face.

"I would never" he responds. I also won't say that it was five minutes not one he thinks to himself.

a/n ok im kinda proud of this, and i hope i can articulate myself well enough, literally just watched this episode for the first time and i cried. if it sucks or you have any tips for me to write better please let me know! I really hope you enjoy it and I hope i get to make more fics hehe

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Surprise Pt. 2 | Soap x Reader

Summary: The boys are slowly settling into your apartment, looking for the terrorist group they’re hunting down, while memories begin resurfacing for Simon.

Word Count: ~ 3.8k

Warnings: Mentions of death, toxic relationship, toxic family, abusive dad, panic attack/ptsd episodes, guns, violence, prob terribly inaccurate to anything military (I’m trying my hardest ok😭)

A/N: this part is mainly for worldbuilding, I’m alr working on part 3 but felt like y’all might want a little update, lmk what you want to see, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

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It was safe to say that Ghost and Price had a long conversation that night.

“How much does she know?”

The captain had asked, hat hanging over his head before he picked it off between two fingers, setting it on the bedside table in a guest room. The two available rooms were split with Gaz and Price in one, and Ghost and Soap in the other.

Simon thought for a solid moment. He hadn’t told you anything, other than he was going to the military. He’d stayed over at your place maybe once before, years earlier, and all he’d told you was that he had a mission, an important one, something he couldn’t tell you about. To keep you safe.

It wasn’t a lie. At first, you’d been angry that he wouldn’t tell you, but something must’ve clicked at 15 because that was when you stopped questioning it altogether. Then again, at that point, he’d rarely texted you or called you at all. It had been years since physical words were exchanged at this point.

He felt bad about it, but with the last words exchanged between the two of you…it made regret and grief flare up in him all over again.

~

You were pacing. Back and forth, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you burnt a trail in the carpet with how frenzied you looked. Shock, grief, anger, and pure disbelief mixed all into one, your body language reflecting as much.

He hadn’t even taken his mask off yet, leaning against the wall behind him in the home his mother had grown up in. The home he’d grown up in. A home you’d visited before, only because of the court-deemed custody that your father somehow got.

“You didn’t come to the funeral.”

His harsh voice finally rang out, and your pacing stopped. You turned to look at him, defensiveness automatically rendering itself in your expression. Always so easy to read. If only you were like that now.

“I couldn’t make it in time. You know that, Simon.”

You said, and his temper flared. Every single lesson he’d had drilled into him in his military-deemed anger management classes went out of the window at that. At how you defended yourself, even when he knew you could’ve made it on time for that funeral. Or at least he thought you could’ve.

“Really? Or did you know about this, huh?”

He accused, anger building in his tone as he pushed off the wall, stalking closer to you, now pacing in his own slower, more predatory manner. Your eyes widened at his accusation.

“You think I was plotting to kill your mum? The fuck is wrong with you?”

Simon knew it was outrageous, there was no way in hell you would’ve done it. Not when you’d known her, even if only for a little bit. But Ghost….Ghost had been betrayed too many times. He was desperate for any answer, any way to get rid of you so he didn’t have to deal with any reminder of his mother, or Tommy, or his little nephew that had been so painfully young.

Maybe you didn’t understand, but if he made himself believe this…then you wouldn’t be around him anymore, and he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone killing you like they had everyone else around him.

“What about Tommy? Or Joseph? Didn’t make it to theirs either, did you.”

“Simon, I came as soon as I could, you know that. I was in that camp for a month, there was nothing I could-“

“That’s convenient, isn’t it.”

He said drily, stalking closer, hand moving to the hilt of his gun. You didn’t notice, probably because you had no military training or anything of the sort. If he wanted to kill you right now, make you disappear, he could. Easily, too. He could already think of how he’d do it, the silencer on his gun covering the sound as he would shoot you, once in the head, twice in the heart, then he would take you down into the sewers, and you’d disappear-

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Your voice, slightly scared now, and your body language showing just how intimidated and panicked you were, was wobbly at best. Tears welled in your eyes as you opened the door to leave out of the front, your car, a black jeep you weren’t old enough to drive yet, but did anyway thanks to the fake ID you’d made, parked in the rocky driveway.

He snatched your arm up, yanking you back into the room as he pressed you against the wall he’d previously been leaning on. He leaned close, breath coming through the fabric of his baklava and speaking softly, like the old Simon would, to you in your ear.

“I wouldn’t blame you, you know.” He began.

“He was your dad, he was all you had, wasn’t he? Maybe you were jealous, or angry about what happened to him. What I did to him.”

He almost whispered to you, as if it was some forbidden knowledge. Your small body was stiff against the wall, unconsciously leaning away from him. You were terrified. He could feel it.

“You’re insane. Completely fuckin’ insane.”

You said, trying to squirm away, and he let you gain an inch of room, only to force you another inch against the wall. One more and your breathing would be strained if you could breathe at that.

“I’ll let you off, but if I find out you had anything to do with this, with her…”

He didn’t get to finish the rest before you struggled free, and you made it to your car quicker than ever before, and drove off, not caring about any speed limits or anything.

~

“Simon? You here?”

Price’s voice snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in, and he gave a little grunt in response. Shaking himself out of it, he tried to remember what the captain’s question had been. Something about what you knew.

“The bare minimum.”

“Good. She seems like a good kid, keep her outta this.”

Simon didn’t mention the fact that you had already faced minor charges multiple times, some for breaking and entering or assault and battery, most of which were dismissed by a judge he suspected was paid off. Or the fact that you’d used a fake ID for your car for multiple years. He would know, considering he’d asked Gaz to find you multiple times. You weren’t an easy one to find, almost as if you’d tried to wipe yourself off the grid before turning back on it.

You weren’t a good kid by any means, but by your age, he’d probably been killing people already, so he supposed there were worse things to be doing.

“Roger that.”

Price gave a small nod of confirmation, clapping him on the shoulder as he went to walk to the room that he was sharing with Gaz.

“Get some rest, Simon. We’ll get directions from Laswell tomorrow. Don’t stress over it.”

Despite himself, Simon gave a little nod.

If only he was stressing over things as simple as terrorists and covert warfare.

~

Soap, surprisingly enough, woke up first. It was around 5:30 AM when he did, and Simon was still fast asleep on the bed beside him.

“Scuse me, Lt.”

He mumbled while sliding out of the bed, and walking to where he thought the kitchen probably was, and after wandering around, he found one small dim light on in the general kitchen area. You were standing in the kitchen, wrapping some sort of spandex-looking bandage material around your left knee. The type to help support it, in the case of an injury.

You were wearing a pair of blank shorts that didn’t go nearly far enough down your thighs, and what looked like an old jersey, with a faded number ‘14’ on it. Your right knee had a knee pad on, your left knee pad laying on the table. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was braided.

You both just stared at each other for a minute, before he grinned and obnoxiously whistled.

“Lookin’ good, lass. Where ya headed?”

He asked, already watching the gears turn in your head as you tried to decode his thick accent. Surprisingly, it didn’t take you nearly as long as he thought it would. Usually, new people had to take a few seconds, but you responded almost immediately.

“Practice.”

You replied bluntly, either not a morning person, or just not a talker. By the blank look on your face, he was just assuming you were also a heartless bastard like Ghost. But even Simon Riley had his tells, and he was sure you did too.

“What the hell’ve they got you practicing for at 5 in the mornin’?” He asked, and you looked at him for a moment, as if trying to see if what he’d said was a joke. As if he was stupid. He was not stupid.

“Volleyball. I’m on the team. Got a scholarship.”

His brows raised at that. Another blunt answer. You really were Simon’s sister, weren’t you? And to get a scholarship in volleyball…he hadn’t even known you’d gone to a private school, let alone the fact that you played sports.

I mean, sure, he’d sort of assumed you might based on your muscular thighs and arms he was entranced by, or the sheer unmoving look you always had, barely changing. Volleyball girls always had nice asses though, and you weren’t an exception, that was for sure.

You were either telepathic or had seen him staring because, with a simple snap of your fingers, he had flinched out of his daze.

“Eyes up here, MacTavish.”

You said in a mildly annoyed tone, and he gave you a slightly pouty look.

“Can’t blame me for looking at it when it’s right there, now can you?”

You had only given him another annoyed glance, before slinging a bag over your shoulder and walking out. He didn’t fail to notice the way you checked the peephole before walking out. Or how your eyes darted to the windows consistently, or the nearest available exit.

He didn’t blame you, living alone as a girl in this end of town, you had to be cautious.

~

They had been at this all day.

Laswell had radioed them in earlier, probably around noon after they’d raided your pantry, which only really had bread in various forms in it. Your fridge wasn’t much better, only cheap lunch meats, lettuce, tomatoes, and a few miscellaneous vegetables and fruits.

Since then, they’d been on the hunt for any suspicious characters, any sign of the terrorist group that had gotten away. It had taken a bit of travel, but a few miles out, they’d passed a van, white, with four burly shadowy figures in the darkened windows. Windows too dark to even be legal.

“Armed men, four of ‘em, cap.”

Soap had said, and Price had only given a nod, taking a U-turn to trail the vehicle. It wasn’t every day you would see any military men driving in a white van with tinted windows.

It had only escalated from there.

The van had stopped near an old alleyway with no people around, failing to notice T141, who were now all trailing on foot. They’d left the car behind with Gaz, despite his protests. They needed someone able to drive, and Soap was needed to disable any possible bombs. They were dealing with terrorists here.

Slowly crawling up the building to the right of the alleyway, Ghost let his gun peek down into it through some crumbling brick on the sides of the roof’s edge.

“We droppin’ em’?”

He asked quietly over the radio, and Price, on the building roof opposite of him, replied.

“Not yet. If we can get one alive, we’ll want ‘im for interrogation. Three of ‘em on my count.”

Soap, to the left of Ghost, nodded mainly to himself, his gun focusing on the man closest to a trash can, Price on the man to the right of him, and Ghost to the man leading the other two. The fourth was lingering behind a bit, examining the surroundings. Paranoid.

“Gaz, start bringing in our exfil.”

“Got it, Captain.”

“On your mark, Sergeant.”

With that, the first relatively silent shot went off, and two more followed until all that was left was the one man, who immediately took cover and jumped through the open window of the nearly abandoned building Price was on the roof of.

“Shit. Get him.”

Price’s voice cursed over the radio, and Gaz driving the car came into view only moments later, as Ghost and Soap hopped down from the roof of the building, taking the same route as the escaped terrorist through the building, and clearing it one floor at a time.

Hours later, it felt like they’d searched the whole damn city and come up with absolutely nothing. Whoever they’d missed had disappeared completely, and possibly contacted outside forces of their presence. They had to be careful with this.

“We headin’ back?” Soap asked, and Price replied.

“Affirmative. I’ll let Laswell know what happened.”

And so they headed back to the apartment, only to find you completely not there. Gaz got there first, gun still in hand as he cleared the apartment. Just in case.

“Clear.” He radioed over,

The rest of the boys filed in after that, taking the time to take showers, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice their bloodstained clothes. It was only after they had all changed into casual clothes that Soap remembered about you.

“Anyone know where the girl is?”

Gaz seemed to stir at that, immediately on his feet, when Ghost pushed him back down into the chair he was sitting in at the dinner table.

“She’s at school, lads.” His rough voice spoke, and Gaz and Soap both made an “ohhhh” sound at the answer. It was obvious, but they hadn’t gone to school in…a long time, and you were almost an adult now, so they tended to forget about that.

“Where does she go?” Price asked, taking a sip of his cup of water. Ghost shrugged.

“Some private school, said she got a scholarship for volleyball or somethin’,” Soap added, and Ghost shot a tiny glare at him. The fact that a random Scottish man knew more about you than Simon Riley, your technical brother, wasn’t making him too happy. Soap only gave him a cheeky grin in return.

“You seem to know an awful lot about her, Soap.”

Kyle then spoke up, carefully eying Simon and Johnnie. Even as Simon huffed out of his nose, taking a sip of water. His lips were chapped, Gaz noticed. Soap gave a little shrug, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Just curious about ‘er is all. We are living in her house, after all.” He answered, and Price stood up, mumbling something about a smoke break while walking across the kitchen to reach the balcony, where he smoked. The first time he’d tried to smoke inside, you’d grabbed it straight from his fingers, and thrown it into the sink before running cold water over it.

It took him a minute to realize that had only been yesterday night.

The week went by quickly, and the boys slowly got used to your schedule. More like they just started fitting into the routine you had, really. Having four random military men inside of your house wasn’t easy, especially when they kept leaving the toilet seat up in the bathroom in the hallway.

“Couldn’t just put the seat down, could they..”

You mumbled to yourself late into the night, slamming the seat down as hard as you could without breaking it. Every time they left it up, you made sure to put it down hard, making enough noise to wake them up. Distantly, you could’ve sworn you heard Johnny’s laughter from the room he was in with Simon, before a low “Shut it.” and a “Roger that, Lt.” was faintly audible.

You had practice almost every night, even some on weekends, which made sense considering you were the team captain for the junior varsity of your school. Once you became a Senior next year, you’d probably get team captain of the full varsity team. A big responsibility, but one you seemed to enjoy, even when some days you would come home, lock yourself in your room, and fall straight asleep without eating anything.

Where they went every day, you never asked. Didn’t want to.

One night, Price walked into the kitchen, where you kept a washer and dryer for the clothes as well, tucked into the room where it wasn’t easily noticed, and saw you pouring hydrogen peroxide on some bloodstains in their clothes. It was strong, stronger than anything you could legally get from a pharmacy, he could tell that much.

Your eyes both met, and you didn’t waver from his stare, and he didn’t from yours.

“You aren’t going to ask questions?” He asked, voice a deep rumble. Your eyes shifted away at that, back to the clothes. As if hiding whatever gleamed within them, the knowledge you had, or what you’d seen. What you knew they did every day.

“Better for all of us if I don’t.”

You’d replied simply, voice still relatively neutral, the barest amount of a British accent lingering even when you’d spent so many years in America. You almost mumbled it, as if used to speaking quietly. Based on the small fragments he knew of Simon’s past, and his father, one that you both shared, he wasn’t surprised. It would be a hard habit to break.

Whatever had kept you from interacting much with Price must’ve changed after that night, because you showed up more after that. It was late at night, and you looked beat, but he could still see the gears working behind your eyes.

“What is it?” He asked as you walked over to where he was sitting in the bed he and Gaz shared, and sat down next to him on it, showing him a notebook. He recognized what was on it, a court of some sort, a net in the middle, and a rotation of numbers, with all the enemy patterns and numbers on the other side of the net.

“Help.”

You stated simply, and he nodded before you explained to him the basics of volleyball. He only really knew the frequently adjusted rules he’d seen on the Olympics sometimes, so it was a lot of explaining, but after that, the both of you were straight to work on finding a rotation and pattern that would work to beat the team that you’d lost to twice this season.

“If 28 is your hitter, why not move them back row, to move in for the kill?”

“It would leave our defenses entirely open. A tip could lose the point and serve, and when we got the serve back, 14 would be serving. She doesn’t do well with serving under pressure. 28 needs to stay front row as long as possible to block.”

“Got it, so..”

He would admit, you were not stupid, and that was for sure. You knew everyone on your team’s strengths and weaknesses and used them to your advantage. It was almost like looking at a younger, female version of himself. Always taking charge, always thinking ahead.

And Johnny…he was obnoxious.

Always flirting with you in any way he could, making random jokes just to hear your tiny laugh or the snort you usually made instead. He couldn’t help it, even when the rest of the guys were getting sick of hearing him.

But, he had his uses, too.

When the remote would break down? Don’t worry, he only took it entirely apart, replaced and tweaked it so it would work, and put it all back together with his nails as a screwdriver.

When you were in an especially foul mood? His terrible jokes came in handy, not because you were laughing at them, but at how stupid he looked telling these jokes, chest puffed out like a proud bird when he saw you snort or your lips twitch, even though he didn’t know whether you were laughing with him or at him.

Johnny was smarter than you originally thought, as well. Had incredibly complicated math homework, and giving you a serious headache? Somehow, the bastard knew exactly how to do it.

“How do you know that equation.”

“It’s simple, really, I use it all the time for me explosives. Reminds me of the time I and the Lt planted them all over, you should’ve seen-“

“On topic, Johnny.”

“Right, sorry.”

But living with military men did have downsides, more obvious than them leaving the toilet seat up, forgetting to do the dishes when it was their day or the same for laundry, or messing up the guest beds. (Though Gaz never forgot about his responsibilities, even taking the time to make you dinner when you would get home late with what little ingredients you had.)

You were a quiet person, and Gaz had noticed it first. How you rolled on your feet, careful not to make noise, not even noticing how you were doing it. Or the way that unless you were slamming the toilet seat down for the umpteenth time, you took extra care in placing things down gently, not dropping them. It was an odd contrast with your blunt, slightly harsh demeanor that reminded him of Simon.

But it had been Gaz that made you fully remember what these men had gone through when you had been scared shitless because of Soap purposefully sneaking up behind you and scaring you, and accidentally letting out a small scream that was more like a yell. Instinct had kicked in, muscle memory as well, and before his mind even knew whose scream it was, his body was moving.

He’d tackled Soap straight to the floor, hands around his throat.

“The fuck, Kyle-“ Johnny had choked out, and it had been Price who’d snatched Gaz up, restraining his hands against his back while you watched in slight sympathy.

It had taken him only a few seconds to calm back down and figure out what the hell was happening, at which he sighed, giving Soap a regretful look.

“Sorry, don’t know what got into me.” He mumbled, and Johnny only stood up, brushing his knees off, and patted Kyle softly on the back.

“Don’t. I get it.” The Scotsman said, before walking out. When he glanced at you, it was the empathy for him that Kyle found most odd. The fact that you seemed to understand.

It was only weeks later that he understood why you could empathize with him over his actions.

Tags:

@yearninglustfully

@kazuyatokue

@kiwibao

@kurokitty6

[milkcioccolato]

I freaking love your ObiMaul AU so much, it’s so damn wholesome! How can someone not like two idiots in love?!?! 🥹🥰🏳️‍🌈

And Qui-Gon and Mace being the supportive masters in their own different but very much them kind of ways?!? 😍😍😍

I’m curious to see how ObiMaul would react though, then their grown up teenage baby girl ‘Soka comes home to tell them she’s got a crush on the notorious, older, butch lesbian Bo-Katan Kryze who, oh yeah, is currently going through her terrorist phase! 😂🙈😏🥰

THANK YOU SO MUCHHHHHH💖💖💖💖💖

Maul is definitely going to be the kind that says "she’s old, and you’re a baby, don’t even fucking think about it. God knows it went to fucking shit with Anakin"

Obi-Wan is kinda weirded out bc he had a crush on her sister🤣

[oldguardleatherdog]

I am a survivor of the terror attacks on the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan on September 11, 2001. I lived four blocks due east of the Towers.

I lost my home that day, was homeless and destitute for years, and in 2018, after extensive vetting by the CDC, NIH, and NIOSH, was given a Zadroga Act diagnosis of 9/11-connected PTSD as a result of my experience and exposure to the aftermath in the World Trade Center Disaster Area from 9/11/01-1/20/02.

Monday will be the 22nd anniversary. As always, I will mark the day with my family and loved ones, and I may or may not be online that day and evening... every year is different.

I no longer dread it, and neither should you. Speaking as the only person most of you will ever likely know who was directly affected, literally a card-carrying Certified Survivor of 9/11, I hereby grant you freedom from all anxiety, guilt, despair, anger, resentment, discomfort, and anything and everything else that remains in your spirit and mind and heart that troubles you about that day, that has never quite resolved, that prevents you from sharing the joy in my own heart at having survived, at being alive.

If you must be angry, be angry at the way we were used in the years that followed, but do not aim that anger at us any longer. We who were injured in the attacks that day are not the ones to blame, nor did we have any say in or influence over anything that flowed from them. We who survived are not to blame for the bigotry you suffered or the wars that followed or the scorn of your view of this country and its leaders. We did not slaughter untold millions of innocents in faraway lands.

The random, free-floating anger, the wishes that we too had died in the attacks, the perverse cries to me and others of "you deserved it!", make those who attack us complicit in the attacks of that day - because we were targeted for 22 years in the same way that the terrorists targeted us for slaughter that morning.

The home I knew and the place I loved no longer exists. What's there now belongs to another generation, where new life has grown out of the charnel house of devastation, where memories have been made and children have played and careers have flourished and love has been found and lost and found again, and there is comfort there.

Don't worry about us; we take care of our own. You honor us best by living as we do: fully, freely, always going forward, always in the light.

I will keep you close in the days ahead. You are never far from my heart.

"I AM ALIVE"

Animal J. Smith