#proud to be a black woman!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[pennymaykittensworld]

Would you date a transgirl ?🧩❤️

[the-californicationist]

Brisance

When Johnny MacTavish finds the woman of his dreams, he didn't expect her to be strapped with ten pounds of C-4... but he kinda likes it. Or: How Johnny MacTavish learned to stop worrying and love the bombmaker...

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

Brisance

— August —

Ghost sighed, knocking his bootheel on the edge of the desk where he was perched, smoking his last cigarette, and scrolling through Reddit threads, bored to death and letting everyone know about it. 

“I can hear ye, Ghostie. I’ll jus’ be a wee bit longer,” Johnny called out over his shoulder. 

His masked lieutenant sighed audibly. He thought Soap looked ridiculous in that lighted, magnifying headset, the plastic lenses making his big blue eyes look like saucers. The sergeant had been hunched over an inert explosive device and its mechanical guts for the better part of four hours now, inspecting every inch of the thing, commenting on technical mambo jumbo that Simon hadn’t ever heard - or cared - about. Bombs were not his forte. He knew how to set one, and he knew how to avoid them, but that was about it. 

Soap let out a low whistle of admiration, and Ghost rolled his eyes, knowing some brainy quip was coming next about the “detonation velocity” or the “elastomer bonding” or whatever demolitionist jargon he was moved to speak on. 

“Innit tha’ the bonniest thing there ever was, mate?” Johnny crooned, sounding like a proud father. 

“Does this one kill us real special-like?” Ghost snarled, tired of Soap’s preening exploration of this device.

“You dinnae understand, LT. This is… well, it’s the bloody Mona Lisa of IEDs.”

“Come off it.”

“No, I’m serious. Come see,” Johnny moved his chair over to show off the open, black box where the device’s innards were housed, pointing to a series of tightly-strung wires and cables, “Ye ken how the last one cut through three layers of concrete at the Kadurin silos?”

“Aye,” Simon sauntered over, peering into the mess of wires, trying to divine what his sergeant was seeing.

“See this block here? It would take ten times the RDX to get a high enough brisance to pound through all three layers at once,” Soap sounded like a kid at Christmas, “But, look at how this bastard staggered his fuse layers. He used a visco fuse, cut it like a flying fish, and only had to send one electric match to charge it! Bloody fuckin’ brilliant.”

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost groaned, “Please…”

“This wee box survived because it contains the initial housing, but the bomb itself was in the fuckin’ room, not the detonation package.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and begging Johnny to clarify,

“So, you’re sayin’ that the bomber was in the cafe before the device was planted?”

“Aye,” Johnny’s eyes got even wider, comical when set behind his magnified lenses, “And tha’s not it. They made this box to last. Someone is sendin’ us a message.”

“What does it say?” Ghost looked back into the wires, expecting them to spell out H-E-L-L-O or F-U-C-K-O-F-F. 

“I dinnae ken. Not yet. But, I think he left me a clue.”

“A clue? The fuck…”

“See this? This is a visco fuse alright, but it’s Cordtex, and its got traces of collodion.”

Johnny was waiting on the edge of his seat, buzzing with anticipation, praying for Ghost to have the same, nearly-orgasmic eureka moment that he was. And yet, bored dark eyes glared down at him, waiting for the punchline. So, Soap gave it to him,

“He’s makin’ these from scratch. And,” Soap ripped off the headset and stared down into the box in amazement, “I think he’s a Brit. He could’ve just used any old visco fuse, but he didn’t. He went bloody far out of his way to make these, and I wonder…”

The headset slid back on and Johnny returned to the device, picking around the mechanisms like a dog hunting for a treat, sniffing his way around for anything to chew on. 

“British,” Simon hummed, “Hm, I’ll tell Cap. Maybe he can get Laswell to send it off for testing.”

Soap didn’t respond. As Ghost left the room, he called back over his shoulder, 

“Don’t stay up all night, Johnny. Got PT at 0430.”

“Mm-hm…” Soap replied, not bothering to look up when Ghost finally made his exit, too busy making eyes at his one true love: a beautifully crafted bomb. 

— October — 

The ticking was the worst part, but as he stared down into the blackness of a rigged, plastic tote, Johnny almost wished he would have something to keep him company, even some of that infernal ticking sound that should be happening. But, it wasn’t. The room was silent like the grave, and if Johnny made one wrong move, it would become his own. 

A voice crackled through his headset,

“Five minutes, thirty seconds.”

Gaz was keeping count for him, checking in at regular intervals, his voice trembling from the stress. Johnny wished he wouldn’t worry. This was a timebomb, yes, but it needed input. Someone was waiting for something, and if he could figure out what, maybe he could stop it.

“Aye, any movement from overwatch?”

A short pause and then his lieutenant’s voice came through, 

“Negative.”

This bomb was truly a piece of work. There was no indicator, and in fact, no traceable fuse. All of the ignition was internal to the RDX modules, and there were eight of them altogether, each with its own unique housing. Johnny had disarmed five of the eight, and he was working on number six as quickly as he could. 

The bombmaker had a great deal of skill, but so did Soap, and it was less of a race than it was a fluid, complicated, one-sided conversation. With every choice in material and fuse design and chemical agent, the bombmaker was telling Johnny all about himself. 

The Semex block and guncotton in housing three, wrapped in flash paper and copper-coated fuse links? This bloke had access to high-quality chemicals. The wooden housing and saltpeter dusting in number five? When he didn’t have access to those high-quality chemicals, he was resourceful enough to know how to make do without them. The way the fuse line lay independent from the center of each housing, and yet initiated from different grafting points? Making bombs was more than just a hobby. The bastard was designing these devices like challenges, giving Johnny puzzle after puzzle, testing his abilities. 

Soap should have been angry, but he wasn’t. In fact, this particular model of IED hadn’t taken a single life. The bombed buildings were strategically placed against Makarov’s forces, almost as if this terrorist was on a mission of rebellious freedom. The Russian oligarch’s people were fighting back against their own leader, rejecting his authority. This was the work of a highly intelligent man out for justice, not a simple murderer. 

Johnny had spent the last two months discovering more and more about this particular insurgent, and now that he could see the pattern of his behavior, Soap was more likely to label him as a true freedom fighter. Laswell didn’t seem to care about labels, but Johnny felt like he almost had the captain convinced. 

“This might be someone we could pull to our side, Cap’n,” Johnny had suggested.

“Just make sure you end the day with all your fingers still fuckin’ attached, lad. How about that?” Price had sniped, but it was toothless. Johnny knew he was starting to see the pattern, too.

Staring down at his hands, all ten fingers still hard at work, he marveled at the commitment to craft in everything from the fuses to the housing shells. The sergeant cut through blocks of C-4 in cubes six and seven before Gaz had given him a seven-minute warning. As he inspected housing number eight, Johnny almost felt disappointed that he and the maker of these bombs would never meet. The things he could learn from an artist like this… 

A green laser trembled and danced in front of his face, pointing directly to the bottom of the eighth block. Johnny’s eyes shot up, finding the source right away. Through the window, a cloaked figure crouched on the roof, dressed all in black, tucked behind an air vent, their eyes pinned to him as he gaped in disbelief. 

It was him. The bombmaker was here. 

“Overwatch, target at eleven o’clock, south rooftop, copy,” Johnny’s voice gave away their position, and as soon as he heard the confirmation from Ghost, his ears also picked up on a soft, almost delicate ticking sound. Gunshots popped wildly outside, and the bombmaker disappeared, his body lithe and quick, avoiding danger and leaving Johnny to die at the hands of his creation. 

As quick as he could, Johnny cut through the eighth housing, searching for the fuse. But, he came up empty. Then, he remembered where the laser had been pointing. He turned the dark layer over and saw a hole in the RDX material. On nothing but instinct, he cut down into it and hit something solid. The housing broke open to reveal a wristwatch. 

There was no fuse. And all of the other housings had been rendered inert, so there was no danger. 

Why would the bombmaker start the timer without anything to blow? Johnny’s mind swam with possibilities, and then he turned the watch over to inspect the back. Written in big, bold pen, Soap saw the letters JFM on the dull metal. His initials. John Fergus MacTavish. Not even Ghost knew his middle name.

Suddenly, Johnny heard more ticking. It sounded like a collection of clocks had just come to life. He dug around in the box, finding it empty, but he discovered the final clue too late. A small lip on the edge of the crate hinted at another layer of explosive material, hidden from plain sight.

“Shite! Fall back!” He shouted.

There was a false bottom, and when Johnny pulled it up, he discovered ten more tightly-packed Semex blocks that were fused up together with that same Cordtex line, ready to explode. All over the plasticine blocks, the letters JFM were cut into the material, recurring like an endless pattern. As he looked down at his initials littering the bomb he was trying to diffuse, his head swam with confusion. But, there was no time for that.

Johnny slammed the lid shut and bolted, running for cover. His legs burned as they hauled him out of the stone building, his feet sinking into the dirt and sand outside of the door. Soap could see the cover wall, and he dug in, using every bit of strength he had to reach it and scale it before he was just a stain on the dirt. He barely made it, and as he tumbled behind the sturdy wall, he could feel the searing heat of the blast on his back and legs. It felt like needles were stinging his skin; it was so hot. 

A few moments went by, and although the world was quiet for Johnny, he knew that was just the hearing loss. In fact, he understood that the reality was quite the opposite. As he looked up, he saw Price stomping over to him. The captain was yelling something, but his voice couldn’t reach his ears. All he could see was the bearded man hollering and carrying on with a wrathful look on his face. Then, bits and pieces came through. 

“... could’ve… killed… fuck.. thinkin’... Johnny?!”

Price tried again, pulling his sergeant up from the floor by his gear vest, 

“Do you hear me? What the fuck was that? Almost lost you, boy. Jesus Christ!” Captain Price sounded like he was underwater, but at least the words were coming through. 

“Sorry, sir. But, I needed to find the last clue,” Johnny held up the watch as if it was his well-deserved trophy.

“You were almost the last clue, you bloody idiot,” Price ran his hand through his hair and knocked his boonie hat onto his shoulders, totally exasperated. 

Soap knew he should feel guilty, or at least a little fearful, but everything was different, now. After the realization that the bombs were designed specifically for him, Johnny found himself actually looking forward to the next one. 

— November — 

The mission had gone sideways right from the start. Their comms had been nothing but staticky garbage while they were clearing out the Kotovo Blocs, trying their best to evacuate civilians while simultaneously managing Makarov’s squadrons. It was a crapshoot every time they opened another door. Half the time, a mother and her children rushed out screaming, and the other half, they were greeted by bullets. 

Even worse, they’d been separated by a particularly nasty collection of smoke-filled pipe bombs. It was nothing nasty, but it was enough of a hindrance that they’d lost formation. The plan was to regroup at an abandoned fueling station one klick southeast of their current position, and that’s where Johnny was heading. He tried to connect on comms again, but all he got was soft static. 

“Ghost, Gaz come in! Bravo-seven to Bravo-actual. Do you copy?”

No one replied. He was flying solo. His senses were on high alert, and all of his movements were carefully calculated, measured, and aligned to his new mission: survive.

Luckily, Makarov’s men had been retreating, and there was enough gunfire to scare off most of the civilians, but it was still a long way to the fuel station. 

Suddenly, in his ears, he heard a voice loud and clear.

“Bravo-seven, huh? I think we both know that’s not your name, soldier.”

Johnny’s mind reeled. It was a woman’s voice. She had a sort of blended accent, something he’d heard all of Laswell’s spies use so that no one would be able to tell where they were from. 

“Who is this?” He asked, checking his six and making sure to stay tucked below the window ledge. It would make moving through the bloc much slower, but if someone was in a sniper position, he couldn’t take any chances. 

“Mm,” she whined, “You wound me, Mr. MacTavish. I thought you’d know me by now, especially after I left you that little gift basket in Levin.”

Soap stopped in his tracks, whispering even though he was very much alone,

“It’s you…”

Her voice turned sinister,

“Vladimir is mine. Stay out of Kotovo. You’re too handsome to be in more than one piece.”

The noise in his headset went dead and he knew that she was gone. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a flash of a black cloak, tattered and torn like a destitute comic book hero – Soap looked to the rooftop to find her. 

The moment his eyes met her face, she pulled back her hood to reveal her eyes, piercing and furious, and a full, pouting mouth. When she caught him gaping at her, crouching far out of cover and in a state of pure shock, her lips turned up into a slight smile before she jumped down the opposite side of the bloc building, disappearing into the pelting snow.

“... –vish! Co– … John– where ar– … Johnny!”

“LT?” Johnny tried to listen in to his comms, ducking back under the window and rushing out of the building, “I found her. In pursuit west north west to the docks.”

“What? Soap, we need to RV at the fueling st–”

“There’s no time! I cannae let her get away.”

“Wha’dya mean her?” Gaz asked, interrupting their back and forth, “The terrorist is a fuckin’ bird?”

“Aye,” Johnny panted, running flat out through the thick snowfall, chasing her across the parking lot of the bloc complex, “Bonnie as fuck, too.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, MacTavish?! Get the fuck back to RV. Tha’s a bloody order!” The captain demanded. 

“Aye, sir. Be there in two shakes.”

Johnny muted his mic and ignored the protests from the other end of the comm line. They were coming for him, predictably, so if things did go south, he knew he’d have some backup. 

Suddenly, just as his wee birdie was making her way down the main road to the docks, gunfire popped across her path. On instinct Johnny raised his weapon and returned fire, getting her attention. She peered over her shoulder at him, surprised that he was not shooting at her instead, and pulled her handgun to help him take down the small group of Makarov’s men who were advancing on their position. 

Enemy squads were in direct pursuit, and it was hard to tell if Soap or the bombmaker was their main target. It didn’t matter, in the end. Johnny took out the first squad in a matter of moments, barely reducing his speed to return fire, but there were two stragglers from the second squad, hidden behind a small electrical shed, popping off stray shots in her direction. 

He altered his course, but she stopped him in his tracks. She’d shot at the ground right in front of him, keeping him away from the shed. Soap slowed, but he changed back to his original path, not understanding her motive. It wasn’t until he saw a blinding, golden blaze of fire erupt out of the electrical housing and felt the shockwave of her bomb rattle around in his chest that he understood why she had stopped him. 

“Holy fuck…” he breathed.

Her teasing voice cut through his comms, silencing the chatter from the 141,

“Did ya like that, baby?”

Soap peeled his gaze away from the fiery explosion and found her perched behind a shipping container about fifty meters ahead of him. She was breathing hard, and her body was tense, but she was looking straight at him, a clever smile pasted across her mouth. 

He smiled back,

“Tha’ was bloody beautiful, lass.”

Then, her eyes left him, turning back to her path towards the boat slips, and her tone became resigned,

“You can’t come with me, soldier.”

The line went dark. She had cut his entire communication. He couldn’t even hear Price barking orders anymore. Soap peeled the buds out of his ears and let them hang down by his throat mic. Still, he pursued her. He wasn’t going to give up that easy. 

He was also gaining on her. She was trying her best to weave between shipping crates and huge piles of knotted ropes, but it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and by the time he was ten paces away, she knew she was caught. Suddenly, she ducked into a rundown storage building and disappeared into the room. 

Johnny followed right behind, ignoring his training to stop, assess, and plan his ingress. 

He came into a large, nearly empty room. At the far end, the ceiling was missing from the roof and it cast pale sunshine down into the open area. It illuminated two large wooden crates where his fiery little bird was sitting, waiting for him. The floor was covered in sand and snow, and he couldn’t see the boards beneath his boots. It was like there was no floor at all. The outside was inside, and the destroyed roof let in the wilderness where there should have been cold, clean civilization. 

Johnny stopped in his tracks, holding his gun at the ready position, staring up at her like she was the winged Nike, shaken by her power and amazed by her beauty. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Her lips were pillowy and expressive, her eyes full of her sharp intellect, her body soft with curves yet heavy with muscle… to mix her stunning appearance with her phenomenal talent with demolition engineering seemed almost blasphemous. No one woman could be so perfect, and yet…

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her voice was soft like rain, and it hit his skin in the same way, leaving little drops of its effect behind to remind him of it. 

“Why?” He asked, standing very still as if any movement might scare her off again. 

“I’m going to a place where no one ever comes back from. Alone. Vladimir Makarov killed my sister, and he has to pay for that. I will make him pay.” 

As she finished her explanation, she smiled in a sorrowful, resigned way, understanding that she was on a suicide mission but unwilling to change her course. 

“He will, bonnie. We willnae let him get away this time. You have my word,” Johnny promised her, earnestly. 

“My hero,” she teased. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “Do you have a sister, Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye. Three wildlings, in fact,” he had taken no truth serum and yet it came pouring out of him anyway. 

“Bridgette, Maggie, and Jenny…” She reported back, “All older than you, right?”

Johnny’s heart stopped in his chest, 

“How’d you –”

“When a handsome, young, black ops soldier comes in and defuses a sixteen stage daisycutter that I designed myself, I make sure to learn a thing or two about him. And,” she unzipped her jacket and began to pull it off of her shoulders, “I also know that a man like that, a man with sisters… is not the kind of man who just gives up.”

“No, lass. I willnae give up. Let me help you. If we… oh, Christ,” Johnny watched in horror as she pulled the jacket the rest of the way off to reveal an intricately woven vest packed with explosives with perfectly laid Cordtex wires winding in and out of each of the housings, live and ready to blow. 

“Hands up!” Price’s voice echoed through the empty room as he, Gaz, and Ghost filled in the space behind their sergeant, guns pointed right at her, their red laser sights dancing on her chest like fireflies. 

Johnny held out his hand with the signal to halt, and everyone froze. She, however, slid off of the crate and walked over to him, little white flecks of snow sticking to her hair and cheeks, taking each step slowly and deliberately. As she got closer and closer, Soap could smell her sweat, heady and musky, and he could hear her breaths, hanging on each of her exhales like it was some heavenly edict, memorizing the pace of them like it would unlock all of the world’s many secrets, a passcode to the truth. 

She whispered, inches from his open mouth, 

“You can help me,” she put her hands on his neck, using her thumbs to rub against the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, letting the stiff hairs burn under her touch, “By staying the fuck out of my way.”

Despite the warning timbre of her voice, she was open and pliant for him, letting her lips hang open slightly, like she was expecting his kiss. Johnny leaned toward her, his mouth slotting across hers, tasting her on his tongue and moving his body into her space. He ignored the danger, well aware of the fact that she was strapped with enough Semtex to blow a city block into a dirty crater, and he kissed her deeply, as if they had been lovers for years, as if this was not their first touch. 

She stepped back, pulling away from him, and he took a step forward to follow. 

Click.

Time stopped. Johnny’s skin flashed hot and then cold, all of the adrenaline he had left flooding his system. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” She chided him, backing away while he remained frozen in place, “Sit… stay…” Then, that same sad smile, “Good boy.” 

She climbed up on the crate and escaped through the hole in the roof before any of them could react to what had just happened. 

Captain Price gave an order to Gaz,

“Go after her!”

“No!” Johnny protested, “All of you, get the fuck out of this room. I stepped on a wee mine, and if I know her, this whole dock will be at the bottom of the bloody ocean the moment I lift my boot.”

Ghost came up behind him, shifting his feet carefully through the sand, searching for secondary devices. Then, he used his pneumatic tool to blow the snow away from Johnny’s left foot to reveal the device. 

“Well, she got you fair and square, didn’t she, Johnny? I’ll tell your mum you died a hero’s death,” there was a joking tone in Ghost’s voice that made Soap peer down at the toe of his boot. 

He had stepped on an empty soda can. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny sighed, feeling the tingle of relief skitter through his limbs. 

Then, panic again as Price’s voice growled darkly behind him,

“I should send you on the first flight back to Glasgow with your papers in your fuckin’ hand, boy. What the hell are you doin’, MacTavish? You’ve got one fuckin’ chance to explain yourself before I replace you with a damn bomb robot. At least then I won’t have to write a letter home when he gets blown to bits.”

“I put a tag in her pocket, Cap’n. Should be able to watch her on the SAT-NAV now. She already mapped where Makarov’ll be next. I think we should help her.”

“What’s your deal with her? Are you…” Gaz asked, bewildered by his friend’s unusually careless behavior.

“I dinnae ken how to explain it, but I need to see this through.”

Price’s exhausted sigh was the only response he received, but Johnny knew that the silence was a form of assent. They would help him, and he would help her, if only he could get to her before she did anything too permanent.

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

[starhvney]

hiya! for the winter event could i order for gene <3 i think he’d like a coffee with cream with a side of sugar cookies! thank you so much for hosting this, your work is amazing :3

𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟏: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫!!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: established relationship, fluff, domestic/family

𝐚/𝐧: i don’t have a lot of editing capabilities cause i don’t have my computer right now. hope you guys still like it! this one is so cute!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

“Your mom’s gonna be real upset with me if you get oil all over that new sweater, bub. Take a step back while I do this and just hold the flashlight, okay?”

A soft, quiet laugh huffs through your nose as you stand in the garage doorway, silently aweing over the scene. Your son, obliging to his dad’s request, pouts his lip out while nodding and taking a step back. He’s crouched beside where Gene was inspecting the underside of his motorcycle—his pride and joy that was second to the family he’s made with you.

“Dad when I’m-“ your son’s adorable squeaky voice speaks up. “When I’m, um, older… like fifteen? Can I have a motorcycle too?”

“Is fifteen old?” Gene lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “Oh man…”

“Yeah,” your son says, completely serious as he slowly inches closer again.

Your husband scoffs. “Then what am I?”

“Like, super duper old.”

This time Gene’s laughter turns boisterous, echoing across the cool garage as he scoots back out, his hand reaching up to quickly pinch the boy’s cheek. “Hey, now!”

“Ack! Dad, your hands are yucky!” your son squeals, squirming away with unrestrained giggles.

Fond laughter is returned by Gene as he relents, hoisting himself up onto his elbows. His once harsh eyes from long ago are only filled with fond affection, none of it even slightly dissipating when he spots you from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, there’s a pretty woman spying on us.”

The boy’s round face excitedly turns to you, a smile stretching across his now oil smudged cheek. You repress a sigh at the sight, unable to force yourself to be any sort of upset about it when the scene in front of you is so unbelievably adorable.

“Hi mom! I’m helping dad with the motorcycle, see?” he grins proudly at you with his tongue sticking out of the gap in his missing tooth, holding up the flashlight and a wrench he likely had no idea how to use.

“I see that, sweetheart! Good job!” you applaud proudly, before recalling why you’d come in here before getting distracted. “Why don’t the two of you find a stopping point here and get cleaned up for dinner?”

“Yes ma’am.” Gene nods with a smirk, raising his eyebrow at the little boy when he says nothing.

“Oh, yes ma’am!”

Gene gives his hand a proud squeeze, before gesturing towards the door. “Go on, bud. Wash up your hands and face. I’m almost done here.”

His shoulders dejectedly drop.

“But…!”

“Listen to your mom. I’ll be done with this in a just a second anyways, alright?”

“Okay…” He stands, milking any ounce of pity Gene might hold by dragging his feet with a puppy dog pout. It doesn’t work, of course, but you can still see a small bit of guilt on the man’s face regardless.

You ruffle his messy black hair when he walks by, scooping him up to place a kiss against his forehead. He kicks his little feet, trying to groan at the affection but unable to hold back his shy smile. Once he’s down the hall again, you make your way over to Gene, who was watching you closely from his same spot on the cold floor.

“Just a second, right?” You softly murmur, leaning down to kiss his slightly chapped lips.

“Mhm. Like I said, doll,” he stares up at you with a smirk still plastered on his lips. “One more kiss might make me work a little faster, though.”

Rolling your eyes, you can’t resist his head tilt and expectant face, leaning down to give a longer kiss, pulling away when he sneakily attempts to deepen it. He sighs, letting his head drop back as he closes his eyes, seeming to relish in the ghost feeling of your mouth on his before determinedly laying back down. You stand to leave, but stop in your tracks with a confused hum when he suddenly sighs.

“…What?”

“He took my flashlight.”

©starhvney 2024. do not plagiarize, feed to any AI, or repost my works to any sites.

taglist: @wasting-away-on-the-internet @angelhyperfixates @valentique @arienic @dazedbydeath @theaquaticplant @starsbrightly @kalegrinch @izzybella1807 @marst4rz

[heylavellan]

Happy Friday!How about "tripping, but being caught in the arms of the other" from your RomCom tropes for Emmrich x Rook?

it is time for barry to reveal himself. to be absolutely shit at comprehending his feelings. veilguard ahead! @dadrunkwriting

tell me there's a chance!

rating: m

words: 621

additional notes: referenced sex acts (not in detail), rook being terribly bad at feelings. barry uses he/him!

qReally, Barry should have been paying more attention. Everyone knows that in a foreign place, paying attention to your surroundings is paramount. A dwarven warrior should know that. A former Proving champion should know that. And, especially, a Grey Warden should know that.

Still, the Grand Necropolis is a place of wonder. The skeletons are very strange, after all they were once inside people and used to have tendons and blood vessels surrounding them. Their bones are very clean and a fine grey colour, no black or yellow discolouration. Many of them are digging tunnels, clearing away debris, and generally tending to the maintenance of the necropolis. A bit like the few working golems in Orzammar. But far more macabre. Oghren would shit his pants.

Bellara leads him through a few winding passageways, and spies a well-dressed skeleton. Well, compared to the other working skeletons at least. A hardy pair of goggles, a well-worn leather backpack and a waterskin tucked in his ribcage. The care and attention to that skeleton is actually kind of adorable. Like a freaky little cat.

He misses whatever Bellara says, and immediately trips over something. Barry didn't quite have time to see what caused him to trip. Instead, he careens into a broad chest, hidden behind fine fabrics. A green velvet waistcoat adorns a pin-tucked shirt with two rows of pearly buttons now pressing into the dwarf's cheek. A thick leather coat presses in on either side of his face as lithe arms wrap around his body.

Truly, a phenomenal entrance. "Are you alright?" asks the smoothest Nevarran voice He's ever heard. Right. Not a problem. Just a nice voice.

He leans back and finally gets a decent eyeful of the man who caught him and bronto shit. In that moment, Barry Thorne learns a few new things about him. First, he is a sucker for a refined sounding voice. His previous two wives spoke like filthy dusters. At the time, that was what he wanted. A strong woman who knew how to make even a proud warrior like him feel small. This man, whoever he is, presents him with a new experience. He hopes he gets to hear more of that voice.

Second, he learns he likes men. He always knew it was a possibility that his preferences might change. His second wife didn't need any gadgets to peg him, she had her own prick to use on him. Never bothered him much. After joining the Legion and then the Grey Wardens? Not much attraction at all. But looking at this fine specimen reminds him of more youthful days, when he brought home plenty of women after winning a Proving match. The longing he felt for this spindly man is as intense a passion as he had twenty years prior.

The third is that he doesn't know how to react to this. Hello? After so many years of accepting that he is dead to Orzammar and quite literally dying to the Blight in his veins, Thorne figured there would never be time for anything more. Or finding someone who would willingly help him tend to his needs at 53. He knows he's gone through the wringer. He doesn't keep up with his grooming as he should. Paragons know he hasn't-

"Rook?" asks Bellara interrupting his thoughts.

"Nothing stops this old dwarf," Barry responds with a half smile to the girl.

The fourth thing he realises is that the man he tripped into is looking at him with concern. Rook properly introduces himself, and shakes the necromancer's hand.

"Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch," the mage chirps.

The fifth thing hits Barry harder than he can swing his hammer: there might actually be a chance.

[blackalisondilaurentis1996]

[hopelessromanticsavage]

“Being friendly and being a friend I think are two different things… I think there are many whites who act friendly toward Negros… A fox acts, acts friendly toward the lamb and usually the fox is the one who ends up with the lamb chop on his plate… The wolf doesn’t act friendly and therefore the wolf has more difficulty in getting the lamb chop in his plate. I say that because it is usually the… If you study the structure of the Negro community, economically, politically, civically, psychologically and otherwise; it’s controlled by the white liberal who usually poses as the friend of the Negro, who actually differs from the white conservative and in the same way the fox differs from the wolf… Their appetite is the same, there motives are the same, it’s only their mannerisms and, and methods that differ.” - Malcolm X

[ts-wicked-wonders]

Black history: Did you know?

Phillis Wheatley was only 12 when she became the first female African American author published.

Despite Phyllis Wheatley’s fame, we know surprisingly little about her early life. She was taken from her home in Africa when she was seven or eight, and sold to the Wheatley family in Boston. The family taught her to read and write, and encouraged her to write poetry as soon as they witnessed her talent for it. In 1773, Phyllis published her first poem, making her the first African American to be published. She was only 12 at the time.

Read more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/phillis-wheatley

[mymelaninmatters]

Aaliyah 😇💕 @mymelaninmatters

[pennymaykittensworld]

Would you like to unzip me and find out what I am hiding ?

[yezzyyae]

@sula1956 this is a proud 35 yrs old black woman!!!! I’m not a troll & I have been in a real life love relationship with my boyfriend for the last 6 1/2 years! So I hope yall go outside & learn real love because Carmy & Sydney is not a romantic couple. They have NOTHING IN COMMON BUT FOOD! DID YALL DISMISS THE FACT THAT SYDNEY HAS NEVER OFFERED HER CONDOLENCES TO CARMY ONE TIME IN 2 SEASONS SO FUCK OFF LIKE SHE IS THIS SAVIOR! Sydney is selfish!

And please stop blaming racism when people are stating facts! Sydney & Carmy have nothing in common I mean literally nothing but food & Sydney can’t even cook that good & she can’t handle pressure. And yall Carmy x Syd shippers are ruining the show because it’s so much bigger than a cheesy love story about 2 ppl that are literally PLATONIC! Please grow up & stop ruining the story because it is so important for society! Plus yall shippers are LIARS LEGIT ASS LIARS, it’s not one scene where Carmy is looking lovingly in Sydney’s eyes! There is not 1 scene where Sydney is staring at Carmy lovingly foh yall are liars! Sydney is a clinging ass only child who wants Carmy to herself smh she is not jealous of Claire over Carmy, yall dumb asses! Sydney is jealous because she is clinging and she thought she would have Carmy all to herself while building “The Bear” & its menu! That’s not romantic love yall Damnn kids it’s clinging “only child” behavior!

And Carmy has never had family, friends, a girlfriend, employees or a restaurant to run all at the same time. So for Sydney to be mad that Carmy was spending time with Claire is selfish & weird & I hope I am never like her ever in my life! Carmy cut everybody off in his life when he was in NY but this time he hasn’t so people need to give him room in case he makes an error! I hate that Richie & Sydney judged Carmy so harshly when he was doing his very best to satisfy everybody around him. But @sula1956 don’t ever tell me I am not a 35 yr old black woman! Because I am and I wear my blackness as a badge of honor!

[rubberduckyy]

Face card insaaaaaane 🦋✨️

She's so cutesy. Lover her to death❤️❤️

[girltalkcollectives]

Dating Someone Who "Doesn't See Color" Until It's A Black Ariel

You know what's wild? Finding out your boyfriend has an issue with Black representation while you, his Black girlfriend, are sitting right there.

We were having a normal Tuesday night, scrolling through TikTok together when a clip from the new Little Mermaid came up. Halle Bailey was singing "Part of Your World" (absolutely killing it, by the way), and I was getting emotional because - hello - we finally got a Black Disney princess who isn't a frog for 90% of the movie.

Then my boyfriend said it: "I don't get why they had to change her. The original was perfect. It's like they're just doing this to be different."

I literally felt my body freeze. Here I am, a Black woman, sitting next to someone I'm dating, while he complains about a Black woman being cast as a fictional character.

The Layers of This Moment:

Let me break down what it feels like to hear your white boyfriend complain about a Black Ariel:

It's personal (because hello, I'm right here?)

It's hurtful (so what other "changes" bother you?)

It's revealing (oh, so this is who you are)

It's exhausting (here we go again)

The Conversation That Followed:

Me: "What do you mean 'change her'?"

Him: "You know what I mean. The original is classic. Why do they have to change everything these days?"

Me: "So a mermaid can be half-fish but can't be Black?"

Him: "That's not what I'm saying. You're making this about race."

Sir. YOU made it about race.

The Personal Hit Different:

You want to know what really got me? While he's sitting there complaining about "forced diversity," he's literally dating a Black woman. Make it make sense.

It made me question:

Does he see me as an exception?

Is he okay with Black people as long as we stay in our "lane"?

How does he talk about race when I'm not around?

Does he even understand why this matters to me?

The Uncomfortable Questions:

I started thinking about:

All the times he said he "doesn't see color"

When he dismissed conversations about representation

His "jokes" about certain movies being "too diverse"

How he never quite understood my experiences

The way he'd minimize racial discussions

When It Got Personal:

I tried explaining to him: "Do you understand that when you complain about a Black Ariel, you're basically saying people who look like me shouldn't take up these spaces? That your girlfriend, a Black woman, shouldn't be seen in these roles?"

His response? "You're being too sensitive. It's just a movie."

It's never just a movie.

What It Revealed:

If he couldn't understand why a Black Ariel matters to me:

Does he really see me?

Does he understand my experiences?

Would he stand up for me?

Does he respect my culture?

Will he ever really get it?

The Reality Check:

Dating someone who claims to love you but has an issue with people who look like you being represented is a special kind of hurt.

It's like saying: "I love you as an individual, but people like you should know their place."

Why It Mattered:

As a Black woman:

I grew up rarely seeing myself in princess movies

I never got to be Ariel in playground games

I was always told certain roles "weren't for me"

I had to fight to feel represented

I deserved better than someone who couldn't understand that

The Break Up:

When I ended things, he said I was "making everything about race."

No, baby. YOU made it about race when you couldn't handle a Black mermaid while dating a Black woman.

What I Learned:

Sometimes racism comes in "preferences"

Dating a Black person doesn't make you anti-racist

"I don't see color" actually means "I don't see you"

Your partner should understand why representation matters to you

Some differences aren't about opinion - they're about respect

To my Black girls dating non-Black people: You deserve someone who celebrates all of you, who understands why representation matters, and who would never make you feel like you need to shrink yourself or justify your existence in any space.

And to my ex: Halle Bailey ate that role up. Die mad about it.

[blackalisondilaurentis1996]

𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃, 𝓋𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓁𝓈, 𝓋𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹, 𝟧’𝟫, 𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑀𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒾𝒶 (𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑒)

[eltheabberation]

Her <3

(Version w blood under the cut)

[ts-wicked-wonders]

Rebecca Lee Crumpler was the first Black woman to become a doctor of medicine in the United States.

After moving to Charlestown, Massachusetts in 1852, Rebecca Crumpler worked as a nurse for eight years. At that time, the lack of official schools of nursing meant she required no formal training for the job. But she certainly wasn't afraid of some hard work. She was admitted into the New England Female Medical College in 1860 and graduated four years later with her M.D.

After the end of the Civil War in 1865, Dr. Crumpler moved to Richmond, Virginia to provide medical care for the freed slaves who would otherwise have no one else to turn to. She dedicated herself to the understanding of diseases that particularly afflicted women and children, and when she eventually returned to Massachusetts, she opened her own clinic in Boston. She saw poverty stricken patients and treated them regardless of their ability to pay her.

Read more: https://www.nps.gov/people/dr-rebecca-lee-crumpler.htm

[sketchycerberus]

Butterfly Eyes 🦋