Hi! Thanks for stopping by~ You can call me Platinum!
About Me:
I'm a 25 years old and female, my pronouns are she/her :)
I love drawing, writing stories, writing poetry, reading (and collecting) books, and daydreaming
My personality type is INFJ
Platinum is my pen-name for both stories and poetry
What You'll See on This Blog:
This blog is multifandom! I write fanfiction mainly for Call of Duty and Red Dead Redemption 1 and 2. And I rb stuff from other fandoms too :)
You can find the cool stuff I made below! 👇🏻
Original Characters Content Masterlist
My Fanfiction Masterlist/ Everything I've Written
My Book Reviews
Tags:
Art tag - #aoioozora draws
Yapping tag - #aoioozora shower thoughts
Asks tag - #aoioozora answers
My favourite posts - #aoioozora loves
My reading list - #aoioozora reads later
Book reviews - #aoioozora reviews
Writing tag - #aoioozora writes
we gotta get back to torrent distribution, i just watched someone eat eight grand in bandwidth charges because they ran a direct-download piracy site with local file hosting through cloudflare. torrents were invented literally for this exact reason
i have a file or folder on my pc that i want to share with other people. let's call it gayshit.mp3
unfortunately gayshit.mp3 is 750mb and im not paying for discord nitro so i need another way to send it
i put it into qbittorrent and it makes a torrent file. this is essentially a very small file that points to gayshit.mp3 so other computers can find it. kinda like a treasure map
i send this tiny file to my friend, who loads it into qbittorrent. their computer takes a moment to find mine over the vast expanse of cyberspace and then (as long as my pc is running and the file is still where it should be), it gets copied from my hard drive to theirs
this is the cool part: if somebody else loads that tiny file, they can download it from both of us. if i'm offline but my friend is on, the third person can still get it. this also means that if two people have separate halves of the file, they can download the other half from each other. as long as some combination of people have the pieces between them, they can all have the whole thing.
crucially this does not require a server!!! you can just upload the file to a few people and as long as they keep it, it's still accessible. as long as somebody, somewhere is still connected, it's available forever. the only way it goes away is if everybody disconnects from it.
>> Simon Riley x Fem Reader, fluff, 2k words
>> Note: I'm not gonna write a part 2, I don't have a lot of time to spare :') I'll have to leave it to you to imagine the rest. Enjoy!!
"Excuse me, is Simon in today?" you asked the cashier at the counter, fingers tapping on the high desk.
She looked up at you through her glasses and then at the bustling flurry of barbers and hairdressers behind her. A whiff of hair serum reached her nose and she sneezed. Sniffing, she said, "I'll give him a call."
The cashier pressed her phone to her ear, waited a few moments, and then, "Ah, yes, Simon. A customer is waiting for you. Make it quick." She hung up brusquely. "Have a seat, ma'am. He'll be here in five minutes."
You thanked her and then took a seat, thighs pressed together and back straight and rigid. You were always nervous when you came for your monthly salon visit, mostly because your usual hairdresser was---
A motorcycle roared outside the salon, making you flinch. It grumbled and rumbled and came to a halt directly behind you. You peered over your shoulder through the glass wall.
There he was, all six feet of him, getting off the vehicle. You looked down at your bag, holding it close to your thundering heart. In a minute, he was inside, ruffling his short, tousled blond hair. He glanced at the seating area and met your eyes. Your heart jumped when he gave you a slight nod of greeting.
"Two minutes," he said, low and quiet. He then marched off to the back of the salon.
After two minutes, he beckoned you to a chair. You sprang out of your seat like a Jack in the box and hobbled over.
He never asked if you wanted your hair washed because you always did so at home first.
It would be severe on your heart and nerves if he did it.
As soon as you plopped down, he slid the cape around your neck, clipping it in place and adjusting it around your shoulders. You breathed in as you felt his fingers against your skin, even over the layers.
"The usual?" he asked, moving to your right to roll his tool cart over.
"I'm thinking of getting it cut shorter."
"How much?" He turned around.
You pointed to a certain length, hand trembling under his gaze. He gave a short grunt and turned back to his tools.
You sat straighter in your seat, adjusting the ugly cloth around your knees as you stared at his back. He wore a black oversized tee, but the sharp edges of his shoulder blades jutted out like a mountain range. You had an irresistible urge to slip your hand out of the cape and poke it. Then, there were the arms, heavily tattooed sleeves, muscular, and well-sculpted. A proper Michelangelo's David.
Something tugged at your hair. It was Simon, pulling out your hair tie, letting your hair fall over your shoulders.
A vaguely dirty thought threatened to make its suggestion to you, but you pushed it aside and kept your eyes on your knees.
His fingers slid across your temples, tickling your ears as he gathered your hair back. A delightful tingle ran down your spine. The sides of his hands passed over your shoulders to do the same, ensuring he didn't leave out a single lock. Then, he passed the brush over your scalp and through your hair, gently and carefully untangling the knots. As he always did.
You finally mustered up the courage to glance at him through the mirror. His dark, shadowed eyes were settled on your hair, focused yet relaxed, as though he was about to cook a go-to meal. Go through the motions and be proud of the end result.
"How much did you want your hair cut again?" he asked, grabbing a lock of hair and pressing it between his index and middle fingers. He passed it over your shoulder for you to see.
"A little higher, please."
He did. "This much?"
You nodded. He pulled the hair back and took the spray bottle. A mist lightly kissed your hair, and you felt the chill fizzle down your neck.
Why on earth did you have a crush on him? It's because he was the only one who cut your hair exactly how you wanted it.
Maybe that was a shallow reason, but it meant a lot to you. You were very concerned about your looks, especially about your hair. Which made Simon a godsend.
While that may have been the foundation, you were attracted to him as a person. Though he didn't talk much to you and just did his job, you liked the little smile he'd give you when you thanked him. And when you'd enter the salon and catch him laughing with another of the hairdressers.
"If I can ask, why do you want to get your hair shorter this time?"
Your heart lodged in your throat. Was he speaking to you? He never did, unless you spoke.
"Uh, just for a change," you squeaked out.
He hummed thoughtfully. "Are you... a model?"
The air conditioning must've turned off because your face started burning. "No, why?"
"Oh, I thought you were trying to change your hair so you could start modeling. I've had some people do that," he explained, grabbing a clip and partitioning a section of your wet hair.
Not because you thought I was pretty? Well, why would he? He's worked on models! You lamented. "Oh. Well, I'm just... going through a breakup. So, I want to do something drastic for once."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said steadily. "The breakup, I mean."
There was a moment's pause. Simon took a lock of your hair and taking his scissors, he snipped off a carefully measured chunk.
"What do you do? For work," he asked, combing the cut lock with a fine tooth comb.
This was the most he's ever spoken to you. You told him. "And what about you?"
The pause lasted a full minute.
Your face burned all the way to your ears. What a stupid question!
"I'm a hairdresser," he said. The corners of his lips twitched, and he pressed them tight.
"Great," you squeaked out again, utterly mortified. You decided to keep your mouth shut for the rest of the session--- "Would it be possible if I got bangs?"
"Sure, why not."
You immediately regretted it. If you got your bangs cut, he'd be in front of you the whole time. And you weren't sure your heart could take it.
"Actually, never mind. I'll not get bangs."
"Why not? I think it would look good," he said, misting your hair again, combing, and snipping away.
That statement alone made you reconsider. But you remained steadfast.
"Maybe some other time... when I don't have commitment issues." You dipped your head.
He exhaled. "Head up, please."
It was silence again. Chunks of your wet hair fell over the cape and the floor, and your eyes ventured everywhere except the mirror. Under the cape, your fingers twiddled nervously. Should you start talking again or just keep quiet?
Simon moved to your right, taking out a clip, twisting a section of hair and pinning it on your head. Another mist, another comb, another snip, snip, snip.
"Your face," he began, "looks a little red."
Your eyes flew wide open. Was your shyness that obvious?
"Do you have a fever?" he asked, genuinely concerned. "Maybe you should go home and take some rest. Breakups are hard, I know. I've met plenty of people who fell ill because they were sad."
You didn't know whether you wanted to laugh or cry. "No, I don't have a fever," you choked out, stifling a laugh. "I'm just... really hot and bothered."
He blinked. Twice.
Did you really just say that? This time, you wanted to cry.
"Oh, I mean---"
"Oi, Johnny, turn down the thermostat. It's hot in here," Simon called out to his left.
"Aye, boss," came a Scottish accent from somewhere. A couple beeps followed, and a slow chill came over the room.
"Sorry about that," sighed Simon. "The girls here can't take the cold."
"It's alright," you answered in a half-groan. "Also, are you the boss? Like, of this establishment?"
"No. Johnny likes to call me that for fun." He took a lock of your hair, set down the scissors, twisted his wrist around, and then went back to work.
The slight bulge of his veins on the back of his hand didn't go unnoticed. You looked down again.
"Did you always want to be a hairdresser?" you asked. Finally, a normal question.
"No. I was in the army before this," he said over a couple spritzes of mist, which made you wince. "When I retired, I didn't know what to do with myself, so when I went to therapy, my therapist suggested I do something creative."
"So, it was hairdressing, then?" you breathed, surprised that he'd come from such a brutal background.
"I liked cutting my own hair as a soldier," he said in a low tone, as if it was an embarrassing confession. "I liked the buzz of the trimmer. It was relaxing somehow."
He was right. Something about sitting in a salon and getting your hair done somehow always made you sleepy.
"So, I got my license and here I am, doing your hair," he concluded with a loud snip of the scissors. Another chunk of hair plopped to the floor.
You smiled brightly. "I'm glad. You know, you're the only one who does my hair exactly the way I want it. It's like you understand just what I want."
His hand paused over the clip he was about to remove.
Then, a twisted lock of your hair tumbled over your face. Simon slowly passed his comb through it.
"That's good," he said tamely, though his voice was a touch strained. "I'm almost done here."
Your shoulders dropped. Already? Time passed quicker than usual, you thought.
That besides, you had come in not just to get your hair cut, but also for something else.
You sat as rigid as a three day old corpse, breathing in and out, in and out, just to calm your nerves.
It had to be done. You weren't going to leave without doing this.
A light touch settled under your chin. "Head up, please," said Simon, looking down at you.
Your body was a bottle of an excited lightning bolt that zapped every far extremity, from your fingertips to your stomach to the ends of your hair. The heat rushed to your face, fervent and burning.
This time, Simon couldn't interpret this as being "hot and bothered" temperature-wise.
His throat convulsed. "I can't cut your hair right if you're looking down. Please keep it up and straight," he advised, voice strained again.
You squeaked out an incoherent reply which Simon was too occupied to hear. He went on cutting, now with a grave and stony face. A slight crease between his brow told you that the cogs and gears were turning in his brain.
He set down the scissors and held out a lock of your hair again. "Is this length okay? Or do you want it shorter?"
"It's perfect." You stared at yourself in the mirror, not even looking at your hair.
"Are you sure you don't want bangs?" He stepped away to get the hair dryer.
"I'll get bangs when I get a new boyfriend," you blurted, fingers curling into a fist under the cape.
"Right then." He grabbed the dryer and plugged it in.
Just as he was about to press the button to start it, you blurted, again, "Can I take you out?"
He blinked again. Thrice this time.
He scowled in confusion. "Like... In a fight?"
You wanted to scream. Why was he making this so hard by being so clueless?
"No, a date," you clarified, cheeks flaming again.
He blinked four times. "Oh," he breathed out, dazed, confused, and disbelieving. "Yeah, sure. You want my number?"
"Yes, please," you murmured.
He put his hand in his pocket. You expected a phone, but no.
He handed you a business card.
"Call me anytime, except between nine to five. I'm off Saturdays and Sundays," he said, putting it in your hand.
Again, you didn't know whether you wanted to laugh or cry or both.
it also includes short films, animated movies, documentaries of every genre, full recordings of live performances. all spanning different decades from different countries. YOU DONT EVEN FUCKING KNOW
there are also websites like worldscinema, solidaritycinema, and rarefilmm hosting incredible obscure world cinema for free! and if you're more inclined towards the esoteric, there's also evilbjork's avant-garde canon playlist on youtube! also important to mention Maya S. Cade's incredible black film archive and the otherness archive, an obscure queer cinema archive! You could always be watching more films !
As an adult woman, I love interacting with pre-teen and teen girls. I feel so sisterly to them. I love encouraging them, calling them pretty, complimenting their clothes and shoes, engaging in their interests. It's almost as if I can see my teen self in them. I used to have so low self-esteem and I always felt unloved and always wished someone would encourage me the same way. I don't want young girls to feel unloved. The world is hard enough on them as it is. The least I can do is to love and protect these girls because nobody did so for me.
I wonder if this is why I love children's books like Heidi and Anne of Green Gables. I see these fictional little orphan girls and I just want to cry and hug and kiss them and tell them they're gonna be okay and protect them from the mean and bad people in the world. They're not gonna be alone anymore. They'll be happy and healthy and loved.
Word count: 3k~
Divider: saradika-graphics
Tags: @moonymoo1 @mysticmaidenxoxo @dottedsugarkiss @anotherrickinthewall @art2emily @simons-missus
Note: I was doing well for a while and then I got sick again lol. Atp I'm sick so often that it's more annoying than miserable. Anyway, this took a while because I had no idea what to write for the ending. Glad to finally have it done!! Also this is the last chapter :( I made it extra long for your enjoyment :)
No loss has ever been sweeter than the one followed by a second date with your crush.
You were positively glowing with excitement as you waited outside a buffet place known for their elaborate salad bar. Even though it was a casual date, you still dressed and did your hair with twice as much care.
As you habitually scraped the interlocking lines of the tiles on the pavement with your shoes, you thought of how Ghost groaned and protested about going to a salad bar. A giggle bubbled out of you--- you knew he was just playing around. The twinkle in his eyes told you enough.
At least at this buffet place, you could have all the salad you wanted, and he could have all the meat he wanted.
"Nightingale."
You lifted your head, meeting the bright brown eyes of your date. A sly smile lifted your cheeks.
He started calling you that earlier that day. When you asked him why, he said you reminded him of Florence Nightingale. It was a little cheesy, you thought, but very flattering.
"Can I help you, mate?" you echoed the greeting from your first date, smirking.
"It's me, Ghost," he played along. Then, he brought out a bouquet from behind him, paper and plastic rustling as he held it out. "I got you... flowers."
You stared at the fresh bouquet, taking in its sweet green scent and the gleam of water droplets on the rose petals. To whoever asked, you had always declared you never wanted flowers, never needed them, and that they were a practical waste of money and flowers. But now that a bouquet was presented to you, those thoughts vanished into thin air.
You reached out, carefully taking the flowers and holding them to your chest. It was then that you realised why you hadn't wanted flowers.
Because you never received any.
You took in a deep, greedy breath of the bouquet. "They're beautiful. Thank you."
Simon saw a gentle gleam in your eyes, and for a moment, he thought you were much prettier than the roses.
"Yeah, no problem." He cleared his throat and then blurted involuntarily, "Cathy... always used to tell me I ought to get her flowers. And I did sometimes. I always thought it was a bloody waste but it made her happy."
He immediately regretted saying that. Because why would he talk about his late wife to someone he was on a date with?
But your laughter surprised him. "Honestly, I used to think that way too. But getting flowers from a guy makes us ladies feel special. Cathy knows what's up."
"But they all die in the end," he said gloomily, eyes settling on a pure white daisy nestled among the roses.
Your arms tightened around the bouquet, breathing in the scent once more. "Yeah, but the fact that you did a kind gesture won't die in the other person's mind, even if the flowers do." You gave him another of your sly smiles. "And you know we women never forget anything."
Simon thought of Catherine again, and how she'd lovingly gaze at the flowers he'd given her, put them in a vase and put all her care into tending them.
Maybe it was worth it, even if they died in the end. Making her happy was all he wanted back then.
But right now, all he wanted was to see you smile.
Simon was snapped out of his momentary daze by a touch on his upper arm. You curled your hand just below his bicep and looked up at him.
"Let's go," you said, squeezing him.
He stiffly led you inside.
---
You found that you didn't feel jealous whenever Simon talked about his late wife.
In fact, it relieved you.
Back when you knew him only through snatches of secondhand gossip, you thought he was this mysterious, closed off creature that refused dates because he was incapable of loving. But how wrong you had been. He'd loved to the point of marriage. To the point of almost procreation.
It relieved you to know that his mysterious man was just like any other person. And you didn't even know why you thought he was so peculiar. Or how you came to that conclusion.
As for you, you were tired of hookups and one night stands. You wanted something permanent, stable, reliable. You wanted someone to care about you beyond your body, someone to share your interests with, and grow old with.
Your eyes trailed up from the cracked steps you climbed, settling on the strong, wide shoulders of Simon. Both of you stood in front of his door, a worn, brown thing, but very welcoming. After the dinner, both of you decided on going to his place to relax and watch a movie.
He shoved his hand in his pocket and brought out his keys, sticking one from the jangling bunch into the keyhole. He muttered something under his breath.
As you watched him, it came to you then. This is what you want. Go on a delightful date with the man you love and come back to a warm, cozy home for a movie. A warmth rushed to your cheeks, something like eagerness fizzed and bubbled in your stomach.
"Come on in," Simon's voice interrupted your stream of thoughts.
Simon lived in a compact townhouse, old style with a sloping gable roof and three floors. He cracked the door open and entered, not being gentlemanly as usual. But you overlooked it, as usual. You'd teach him that later.
The scent of leather and detergent greeted you as you closed the door.
"The living room's upstairs," said Simon.
At the mere sound of his voice, a dog barked upstairs, loud, snapping, and resounding. It whined and barked desperately, scratching at the door. Simon chuckled, shaking his head.
"Is that Riley?" you asked, following him up the creaking stairs.
"Yeah, she's a little handful, that one. My friend's there too, dog-sitting, but he'll be going now that we're here."
When Simon opened the door, a dog jumped into his arms, whining and kissing him like she was seeing him after ten years. Simon caught her easily, cradling her in his arms like this was just another day.
"Hey, darling," he crooned, kissing her head, placing her down.
Riley arched her back and wagged her tail, whining. With her black ears pinned back, she gazed entreatingly at Simon, begging him to pet her. Her paws tapped loudly and impatiently on the tiled floor.
"Alright, alright," Simon chuckled, stroking her smooth, shiny fur. Riley excitedly nosed his face and kissed him.
"Awright then, mate," said a third voice that carried a strong Scottish accent. "I'll be off then."
Simon looked up at the dog sitter, a friend and colleague, John MacTavish. "Right then, cheers. See you tomorrow."
You stared at John, wondering where you've seen him before. Then it struck you--- he worked with Simon four years ago. You knew him from the handful of times you've seen him in the medical bay back then.
John gave you a smile--- it didn't look like he recognised you--- and then disappeared behind the door.
"Make yourself comfortable. You want anything to drink? Water, beer, tea?" Simon said, taking off his jacket. Riley, by this time, went to her bowl to lap up some water.
You took off your jacket and hung it on the coat hook right next to Simon's. "Just water. Thanks."
As you sat down on his black couch, you observed the narrow living room. Simon seemed go like blacks, blues, browns, and dark greens for a colour palette. The floors were all tile with no carpet except for door mats. The long, dark windows had their eyes drawn with lush pthalo green curtains, thick and hanging on black hoops from black curtain rods. The couch you sat on faced the hearth, which was clean and unused. Above the black mantlepiece rested his television. His white walls were bare, except for the ticking clock. A wooden bookshelf sat to the left of the hearth, filled less with books and more with odd knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the world, definitely from past deployments.
Something nudged your knee. It was Riley, sniffing your jeans and taking inventory of your identity.
"She isn't barking at me," you observed to Simon as he brought a glass of water for you.
"She's used to company. She used to bark my ears off when she was younger, but now that she's older, she doesn't seem to bother much." Simon flopped down beside you, scooting to the corner, leaning against the arm rest.
Riley jumped up, settling herself on his lap. She gave you a sideways glance as if to say, he's mine. You gave her the look right back, no he's mine.
Simon soon put on the movie he picked--- Blade Runner 2049. The bowl of popcorn sat between both of you, steadily being eaten, with both of you ignoring how your fingers fumbled against each other, trying to get the popcorn.
You stared vacantly at the screen, not registering what was going on. Instead, your eyes kept drifting over to the man next to you, half-slouched and very relaxed. Riley was on the floor by this time, dozing away with her head on his foot. That left Simon all to yourself.
Taking a breath in, you scooted. Just a little bit.
Simon felt the movement of you sidling up to him, your shoulder lightly brushing against his, and thighs touching over a layer of denim. He cleared his throat quietly and slowly sat up straighter.
"How are you liking it so far?" he whispered, leaning his head down just a little, just enough to see the movie flickering in your eyes.
"It's pretty good," you whispered back. Why were you guys whispering?
Feeling bolder, you lifted his arm and slipped underneath it, letting it rest on your shoulders. Simon turned into a block of ice the moment your head rested on his shoulder. But he soon melted, tightening his arm around you and sitting up a little so you could be comfortable.
"Getting cozy, are we?" he mumbled, equal parts shy and teasing, staring at the TV but registering nothing.
"Mmhm. You're warm." The soft sleeve of his black jumper brushed against your cheek, sending up a subtle scent of pine and cinnamon up your nose. Did he put perfume on his wrist? If he did, you were impressed.
Something like a pool of magma jostled Simon's stomach in turn. "You have good taste in life-sized heaters." The pitch of his normally deep voice dipped.
A soft, delighted chuckle slipped out. "I have good taste in everything." Your lips pressed, giving him a coy glance. "Including men."
His throat visible convulsed. His chest expanded slowly. You felt his shoulders lift just a little. His fingers twitched--- as though they were aching to do something.
"I don't know if you did right in choosing me, darling." His words deepened enough for anyone afar off to mistake it for a grumble. He stared at the television, finding it was easier to stare at Ryan Gosling than at you.
A butterfly touch settled on Simon's cleanly shaved jaw. Your fingers gently turned his head, making him face you. Simon inhaled at the sight of deep earnestness in your eyes, as though that was the exact thing he needed to breathe easy.
"Are you doubting my impeccable judgement?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, your tone challenging, teasing, and adoring all at once.
He leaned into your hand. "I normally wouldn't. I'm not sure about now. Why... Why do you bother?"
A small frown tugged your lips down slightly. Your fingers thoughtfully traced his jaw, while your eyes traced the contours of his face.
Should you say it?
It felt like an arm-wrestling match all over again, but with feelings.
Were you going to be the one to pin his hand down and claim him?
"Why not, Simon? I like you," you replied, soft but insistent.
He stilled at those words. His lips parted slightly, eyes flickering and searching for any trace of insincerity on your face.
You watched him, thumb stroking his jaw as though you were trying to gently coax it to open and speak. It tensed under your fingers, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His gaze grew distant, staring past you rather than at you.
Something tightened in your stomach. Was he having second thoughts about you? Did he not want to go any further?
"Simon," you called, soft but frantic.
He blinked, and his gaze zeroed in on you.
"What are you thinking about?"
"It's nothing." He tried to pull away from your touch, tried to not be a weak sort of man in front of you, but you held his face in your hands firmly.
"No, it's not," you pleaded. "Tell me what's going on. How can I help you if I don't know what you're feeling?"
"I don't need any help," he muttered, feeling himself slip back into his old self, the one that Cathy tried so hard to pull him out of.
Simon felt a twinge of guilt. Cathy was the same as you--- begging to know what was on his mind. Didn't he feel so much better when he confessed what was bothering him and she consoled him and kissed his fears away?
His eyes settled on you, on the determined and pleading look in your eyes. Back then, Cathy was the only one he could trust. Could he trust you too?
Hadn't he done so already? In telling you how he loved you in silence for four years, and confessing to you how Cathy died?
Simon breathed in. "I don't... want you to turn out like Cathy. What if I'm some sort of bad luck and I accidentally kill you or something. I don't want that." His words turned garbled at the end, realizing how absurd his anxieties sounded when said out loud. And yet he couldn't help himself.
Your eyes softened. "Simon, you're not bad luck. What happened to Cathy was not your fault. It was an accident." You gathered him in your arms, and he rested his head on your shoulder, sighing heavily.
The movie droned on by itself, it's dull light washing both of you in the dark. The music and dialogue felt distant, for you could only hear Simon's breathing.
Your fingers coursed through his short hair.
"Hastings has done a lot of damage, hasn't she?" you whispered.
A rumble vibrated in his throat. "More than I thought."
"I told her off the other day. Told her to leave us alone. She won't bother us anymore." Your other arm rubbed his broad, muscular shoulder in slow, soothing circles. "Once again, you're not bad luck. We've arm wrestled, been on two dates, and talked extensively. And I've not died once."
The rumble now sounded like a chuckle. "You say that as if you have nine lives."
"Because I do. I'm Puss In Boots, baby. Nothing can kill me." You smiled, your hand leaving his hair to stroke the back of his neck.
Simon breathed in deeply at that. His arm brushed against your thigh and then folded around your waist. Before you even thought about it, you slid onto his lap, straddling him.
Another chuckle. He liked the weight and the warmth against him. You weren't heavy at all. "Getting bold, are we?"
"Is that not why you like me?" As your arms curled around his neck, his tightened around your waist.
He mumbled into your neck, "No."
You scoffed. "No?"
"I like you because you beat me at arm wrestling that one time."
And you had, sometime after the arm wrestling match that would decide your second date. Simon gave you the compliment of putting all his strength into it, and victory was sweet.
"That was just one time." You grinned, watching him lift his head to meet your eyes. "And besides, I'll wager I can beat you at something else."
"Do enlighten me, Miss Nightingale." He returned your smile, fingers trailing up and down your waist and hips, sending a wave of tingles jumping excitedly inside you.
"You'll never forget this loss," you warned. "You sure you want it?"
"I don't mind losing if it's to you."
Your heart jumped. Your lips pressed together, eyes settling on his. Simon looked back at you, expectant, waiting.
You were suddenly aware of how tightly pressed your bodies were, the warmth blazing your thighs, stomach, and chest. How the smell of pine and his unique, masculine scent mingled to form something delightful to your senses. How the scruff of his jaw beckoned you to cup his cheeks, which you did.
You were close enough to hear the very soft rumble in the back of his throat, an impatient sound.
You kissed him. Quick and urgent like this was what you had been waiting for all your life: To kiss someone who just felt right. Who wasn't intimidated by your strength and boldness. Hell, who loved you for exactly that.
Simon's arms tightened around your waist, traveling up your back gently, almost as if saying, take it easy. He kissed you back slowly, lips parting to welcome yours, feeling a ball of heat drop in his stomach.
All senses were heightened and dulled. Neither of you heard Riley huffing and sighing in her sleep. Nor felt anything but for the hand sliding down his chest, the fingertips grazing the back of your neck, and the lips refusing to part.
But air was wanting. And so you pulled away, feeling hot puffs of his breath against your flushed cheeks. Simon sighed, a sound full and content like he ate a full meal after four years of starvation. His head fell back against the rest, a giddy smile lifting his cheeks. You looked back at him, your chest and stomach in a flurry of tingles and butterflies as you returned his grin.
Unfortunately, a lot of people's idea of feminism does not hinge on women are autonomous beings who deserve equal rights and opportunities, but instead on women are beautiful and precious objects that should be treated well which is not actually the same thing. At all.
The same thing goes for people's idea of protecting children, where instead of viewing children as autonomous beings who deserve equal rights, respect, and opportunities, they view them as property to protect from outside damage or influence so they will grow up to be the perfect version their parents wants them to be. Which is also very much not the same thing. Every time someone cries protect the children, it's about protecting the parents property from outside harm, not protecting the child's emotions and wellbeing.
1) Vaping is confirmed to cause cancer. Vaping coats the lungs with toxic substances, such as heavy metals and benzene, which are known to cause cancer
2) Many vapes contain diacetyl, which, when inhaled causes popcorn lung, or scarring of the lung
3) Ultrafine particles, when being inhaled, can be lodged in the trachea (not good!)
4) Ultrafine particles can also constrict the arteries in the lungs potentially causing A HEART ATTACK
5) Vaping is relatively new. Not much studies have been done in comparison to tobacco. Plus, the vaping companies are powerful people. There is a large chance that they are purposely downplaying and even burying any evidence that vaping is harmful - just like the tobacco companies before them. They do not care about you, or your health, or the truth. They only care for money
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Tags: @moonymoo1 @mysticmaidenxoxo @dottedsugarkiss @anotherrickinthewall @art2emily @vessels-missus
Note: My health is a lot better now!! Sorry this took a while. ENJOY! And sorry for the gym inaccuracies if any. Also, most likely, next chapter will be the last :( I'm sad because I enjoyed writing this
It wasn't a pity you had to stop talking to Hastings.
You thought that accusing Ghost for an accident was deplorable, and holding on to it for years and weaponizing it even more so. Her diligence and good-nature had to be marred by this unfortunate reality, which was the only pitiful thing.
Hastings noticed you weren't talking to her as much. She began to tail you, making small talk about everything except Ghost and pretending to observe as you tended to patients. She definitely knew you confronted Ghost and heard the truth. Now all that was left was to confront her-- which she diligently tried to distract you from by talking.
"Hastings, do you mind? I'm trying to work here," you finally snapped one day, looking up from your desk of papers.
She quieted, putting her hands behind her back. You stared at her, heaving a sigh.
"Your mouth's been awfy bloody busy lately," you commented, adding special emphasis.
Hastings pressed her lips together. "I know I've been talking to you a lot lately. I just thought you were cool and I wanted to get to know you better--"
"Not just that," you cut in. "About Lieutenant Ghost."
The look in Hastings eyes turned hateful and bold. "What about the Lieutenant?"
"It wasn't right that you accused him of murdering his wife when it was clearly an accident."
"I'm sure you weren't there when it happened, ma'am," rejoined Hastings with forced politeness.
You exhaled slowly. "No. But someone has to be believed. And I believe the Lieutenant." You now sat back, folding your arms across your chest. "Besides, you never told me how your sister died. Or rather, how the Lieutenant killed her."
Hastings' lightly tan skin flushed red. Anger or humiliation, you couldn't tell.
"He left her to die," she seethed, voice trembling. "When I came to save her, I found her on the floor. Simon was leaning over her. He did nothing to save her. He didn't even look remorseful! His face was just... blank!"
You pinched the bridge of your nose. The guilt and grief in Ghost's voice when he confessed the tragedy to you was not something easily forged. You knew he was sincere. He always was where deepest feelings were concerned. You didn't need to see his face to know.
"That's not what Ghost told me. He did the Heimlich maneuver and she died the moment the pill dislodged. And he was distraught," you argued.
"Simon is a liar. He told that to everyone and they all believed him. I always knew he wasn't any good for my sister." And on went Hastings about Ghost's misdeeds, hopefully imagined.
You stared at Hastings, your brow tightening, not hearing a single word she said. This sort of deeply rooted belief couldn't be argued away. If Hastings held it for over seven years, then there was possibly no changing it.
Hastings stopped talking when she saw you weren't paying any attention. You gazed obstinately at your papers, pen scratching away on them.
"I've been telling you all this because I'm scared for you, Sarge." Her voice softened to a trembling whisper. "What if he hurts you?"
Another sharp exhale from you, a disbelieving, sarcastic one. But a tiny part of you was moved by the sincerity in her voice. She probably meant well and seriously tried to protect you, but it meant nothing if she was disillusioned by grief to the point of making enemies of others.
"I appreciate your concern, Corporal. But I don't need it," You said. "If he tries to hurt me, I can defend myself. I've taken on lads his size before." Even though you weren't really sure how you would take on a Special Forces soldier when it came down to it.
"But, Sarge..."
You met her eyes, giving her a firm look. "Camilla, from now on, what Simon and I do with each other is none of your business. Please shut up and leave us alone."
Hastings breathed in sharply, her hands clenched behind her back. Her lips quivered as though she wanted to argue, but your stern look made her reconsider.
"Yes, ma'am," she instead said.
You dismissed her, and she flew out of your office. Sighing, you slumped in your seat.
That's one problem taken care of.
You looked at the papers.
There's ninety nine more.
Ninety nine.
One hund--
Your arms staggered.
You growled. Just one more. Just one more.
A pair of hands appeared under the barbell rod, lightly hovering. And then a skull-masked face above you.
"Go on. I got you," he encouraged.
Your throat convulsed and you drew in a greedy gulp of air. Straining and pushing against your protesting, burning muscles, you heaved the barbell up.
One hundred.
The barbell rattled as you dropped it in the rack, and your arms dropped to your stomach just as quickly. Your aching, burning chest heaved a sigh of relief. Only momentary, though.
"I wanted to hit a hundred and twenty," you said raspily, meeting his dark, chocolatey eyes.
You were actually working out alone tonight and didn't expect to see Ghost at this late hour. Normally, he hit the gym right after work, while you did much later.
"Not in this state, you won't." Ghost's hands held the bar, leaning back as he looked down, gazing into your eyes. "Don't push yourself. I'm not sure medics can treat themselves."
You huffed out a short, breathless laugh. How on earth could Hastings ever accuse him? If he really wanted you dead, he wouldn't spot you.
"How come you're working out right now? It's not your usual time," you said, wiping the sweat off your brow.
"I'm stalking you," he said dryly.
"You're brave to admit that. I could beat you up, you know." You smirked.
Ghost smiled under his mask, shaking his head. He loved the gleam in your eyes. "I was just joking. I got held up with some work and had to stay late. Also, are you going to lay there all night? Some of us have bench presses to do too, you know."
You could see his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth lift even under the mask. You frowned at him, more because you wanted that mask off. "Can't a girl catch a breath around here?" you complained, ducking under the barbell as you sat up.
You grabbed your spray bottle and towel from your bag and started cleaning the sweat off the bench. Ghost patiently waited aside, watching you.
"Don't you ever get hot in that mask?" you asked, rubbing the bench in circular motions.
He shrugged. "Sometimes. But it's bearable."
An uncontrollable smirk twitched the corner of your lips upwards.
You spritzed him in the face, water splattering all over his mask.
Ghost winced, shutting his eyes. "What the fuck--" he cursed, arms shooting up to his face, hands wiping at his eyes.
You howled with laughter. "There, you won't feel hot anymore."
Something like half a snort and half a groan burst out of him. "Oh, fuck off," he said, trying and failing to keep the chuckles out of his stern voice.
You dug into your bag and tossed him a clean towel. "I didn't realize I pranked Gordon Ramsey. My sincerest apologies," you said, barely sounding sorry.
"Apology accepted." His eyes glittered as he wiped his face and then set the towel on your quivering shoulder. He gave it a firm pat. Something warm swished in your stomach, just like whenever you drank tea.
As you stepped aside and sipped your water, you watched him add some more weights to the barbell rod, totaling to one hundred and thirty kilograms. Your eyes narrowed. That was just over twice your normal sixty kilograms.
It wasn't fair that he got to bench more. It wasn't fair that he got to be bigger, stronger...
Hotter.
"You're drooling," came Ghost's voice, unusually teasing, just as his fingers curled around the barbell rod.
You blinked, passing the back of your hand over your mouth. It was open, and water had dribbled down your chin to your sports bra.
"I'm just sweating," you said, vainly rubbing off the splotch of water off your chest.
Ghost began his reps. He only did a few-- he said he had some ache in his shoulder and didn't want to overdo it.
You watched him lift the barbell and lower it repeatedly, saw how his stomach tightened, his chest breathed in and out, his heels lifted, his fingers squeezed the rod, the muscles in his arms lift just slightly and the etched ink ripple with every movement.
He was hot.
Your jaw clenched. You never thought that about him before. In fact, since he challenged you, you never even thought about him that much.
It was starting to pile up-- all those little starts you heart gave whenever he stepped into the General Medicine department, all those little sarcastic, flirty quips both of you exchanged, all those little touches on your arm.
A warmth curled in your chest like a kindling fire.
You liked him.
The rattle of the barbell hitting the rack jolted you out of your reverie. Ghost sat up, sighing. His eyes immediately darted to you, assessing, searching for approval on your face.
Now that you realized how conscious you were of him, your cheeks flushed under his gaze. You gave him a slight nod and smile, hoping your cheeks didn't give you away.
Ghost stood up with a grunt. "What do you say we hit the salad bar-- I mean, pub, after this?" He'd been thinking too much about salad lately, thanks to a certain someone.
Your eyes lit up. "Wait, what did you say?"
"Let's hit the pub."
"No, before that."
"I didn't say anything."
Your smile widened, eyes gleaming and eager. "You said salad bar."
Ghost huffed. He knew how much you liked salad that the mere mention of it lit up your face. And he didn't like salad very much.
"Nothing like healthy food after a big workout," you exclaimed in almost girlish delight.
"I was actually in the mood for some McDonalds."
You frowned. "And regain all the lost calories?"
"No, to nourish my body, that's what," he argued, the teasing tone returning to his voice. Like every other guy, he liked to annoy you a little.
You were aghast. Your medical side kicked in, and you expounded on the ill effects of fast food in great length and detail. Ghost listened to your rant, half amused, half serious.
"Right, right," he interrupted, brushing off an eyelash that settled on your cheek. "For our next date, you go to a salad bar and I'll go to McDonalds. Both of us will be happy."
The ridiculousness of that proposition paired with the tender action nearly made you malfunction. You didn't know whether you wanted to blush or laugh. However, the words "next date" woke you up like a sleeper agent.
"We haven't had a rematch, by the way," you reminded him. "Let's have one right now."
"No, let's do it tomorrow. I'll be fresher and I'll win over you by a mile."
Watched Bocchi The Rock for the first time today and boy, I love it.
Only problem though, why does she have a Les Paul?? No hate to the iconic Les Paul, even I love it. But this is the second time I'm seeing a music anime MC using that guitar (the other is Yui from K-On!).
Pretty unrealistic for teen girls to be using the horribly expensive and heavy LP. Where's the Yamaha? Fender Strat?
Hell, if you wanna get a little pricey, what about a Gibson SG-- like the one used by Angus Young? Damn I'd even love to see a Flying V or a Telecaster lol
No hate or nothing. But it would be so nice to see a guitar other than LP used by the MC.
Don't mind me, I'm just a little salty because I have a Fender Squier Strat (which I absolutely adore, don't get me wrong. It's my baby.)
