my official stance is a pregnancy is whatever the pregnant woman wants it to be. if it’s a 4 week old clump of cells and she wants to call it a baby it’s a baby. if she’s 20 weeks and she wants to call it a parasite it’s a parasite. if she’s 39 weeks and calls it a fetus it’s a fetus. “why are you so sad about miscarrying at 6 weeks it was literally just an embryo” because that was her baby. “how can you get an abortion at three months” because that wasn’t a baby. hope that helps.
This is pretty much the only take that makes any sense to me.
"It's just a lump of cells!" Doesn't matter, so am I and so are you. Abortion is morally acceptable not because of relative lumpiness but because of bodily autonomy.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
breaking news from the AP, our boys on the front have just sacked constantinople. take that, heretics. coming up next are the soothing lute dirges of bing crosby
Ever since Robby had been born he had been the sweetest baby you'd and Simon had ever seen. It actually made Simon doubt he was his son by just how bubbly the boy was, if he wasnt a carbon copy of himself he would have thought someone switched his son at the hospital.
Robby was constantly all smiles and giggles from the very start. Rarely crying and when he did it was for someone to hold him.
He was oddly affectionate also
Those weird open mouth baby kisses had been something Simon had grown used to. The smell of slight baby spit up and slobber always seemed to meet his cheek whenever he had his son in his arms, even when he still had his mask on when he just gets outside of base to meet up with the two of you.
Which most would assume would annoy the stoic LT, having a babbling baby press their drooling self onto him. But it was the opposite.. He adored it even if his son he had to wash his face often.
He loved his son, every weird part of him. He saw his boy as a reflection of what he always wanted to be. What he always wanted to have..
He adored it
But what Simon adored the most was his son laughing at the most random things..
Just how Simon was sitting in the livingroom, lounged back as he sorted through the mail. Grumbling a bit as he saw the stacks of unless things in his name.
Taking another peice of junk mail he ripped it in half.
Before hearing hysterical laughter, turning to his son who was in his bouncer.
"You having fun there lad?" Simon chimed as his son laughed up a storm. Assuming the bouncer was what got him laughing. Before he grabbed another peice of mail and ripped it to be thrown out.
Then Robby began to laugh again.
Simon raised a brow before he ripped up another letter. Robby breaking out in laughter again.
"Is me ripping up trash funny?"
He almost had to suppress his own chuckle before he ripped another letter as his son laughed once more, so hard it made his little face red.
Simon kept this up for a bit, making sure to take breaks so his son could catch his breath.. Even if he didnt realize he had ripped up a few bills in the process..
Warnings: Female reader, death by fire, war, death of close personal friend, mentions of dead family (briefly), and grief induced self harm. (Let me know if I missed anything!
“Micah!” Y/n screamed as she dropped to her knees, watching her lifelong companion fall to the floor; a longsword shoved clean through his abdomen.
She could feel it. He was dead before he even hit the ground. She clambered over to him, clutching her side and resting her hand over his heart. When she felt a still heart beneath her open palm, she let out a wail of despair as she repeatedly slammed her fists against the wet, bloody earth.
She wanted nothing more than to die in that moment, but she had to keep fighting. If not for herself, then for her men, for Micah. Y/n looked up from her position on the ground and surveyed her men. Their numbers were greatly diminished, and the great general knew that this was a losing battle.
With no hope left, she clutched her mother’s necklace and choppily recited the only prayer that she remembered from her early years of life, a prayer she was half sure that she had fabricated in her desperation.
When she finished her mother’s prayer, it felt as though nothing had changed. She could hear nothing but the screaming of the wounded, the clanging of swords, and the whoosh of arrows as they sailed past her and into the backs of good men.
Y/n grabbed Micah and gently lifted him to her lap, she would hold him for just a moment longer. He was her peace, and this would be the last time she’d see him before he became just another corpse in a field of bodies.
She pressed her forehead against his as the enemy surrounded her, and just as she had resigned to her fate, the air shifted and the ground began to shake.
A chasm appeared in the ground, plunging at least half of the enemy’s army into its fiery depths, including the men surrounding her, before swiftly closing.
Y/n stared in shock at the smoking remains of the chasm.
“Child.” A deep voice barked from behind her, sending a small shockwave through the air.
Y/n whipped around in an instant. “Please, please, you have to help me!” Y/n cried. “He’s the only thing I have left, I can’t live without him!”
The general gently set Micah down before she rose on trembling legs and stumbled toward the god, clutching her steadily bleeding side tightly.
The being hovered just above the ground, silently observing Y/n’s struggle before turning his head to look at the vast army standing behind Y/n.
“His soul has already traveled to the Helm-“
“Please!” She screamed, interrupting the fiery god. “I’ll do anything, give you anything, be anything! Just please… help him.”
Y/n didn’t even know who this powerful being was or if he could help, but she knew she had to try.
The god paused for a moment before lowering himself to the ground and walking over to Micah. He waved his hand, removing the sword and healing the wound in one swift motion.
“Anything?” The god asked. 
Y/n nodded her head “Anything.”
At her confirmation, the god snapped his fingers, and Micah sat up with a gasp.
“You have five minutes, Y/n. After that, I’m taking you home.” With that, the god disappeared again, leaving fiery chasms and two astounded armies in his wake.
rookie!reader x ltghost, teasing, fluff, reader has an insane sweet tooth
rookie masterlist
———
You knock thrice on the mahogany door before you, tempted to just turn the door handle before promptly remembering the last time you opened it and met face to face with a soldier getting scolded. Oops.
“Who is it?”
“Your roommate.”
“Come in then.” You push the door open with your elbow— revealing the papers strewn across his desk. They detail the recent progress of the troops overseas on assignments. Not too classified for you to see thankfully. There’s a drink in each of your hands, one protected in his usual navy mug and the other in your transparent resuable cup.
“Thought i’d bring you some tea. Yorkshire.” You hum, placing it down near the edge of the desk. The one time you placed it near him, he had knocked it so easily when he turned, that you had shoved the papers out the way as it tipped. Unfortunately you forgot to move yourself, and so you were left soaked through in warm tea. Not to mention it wasnt even late in the day, so you had to do the walk of shame when his next meeting came two minutes later.
“How are you?” He’d been swamped with work a bit recently, you barely even saw him in the room apart from when you suddenly woke up in the middle of the night.
“It’s moving along now, just had to hold the fort until some of the other CO’s came back from sick leave.” Ghost sighs, pushing his chair back slightly as he takes the mug into his hand and nudges his mask up. He gives you a nod in thanks as you check his calendar for any more meetings before taking a seat opposite him. “And you? All good with training?”
“Yeah, finished up a little while ago. It’s all good.”
He suddenly raises a brow at you, like he knows something you don't, taking a long sip from the mug. “Really?”
“What?” You raise a brow back at him, challenging almost but you drop it almost immediately and stare back at his calendar again.
“You’re saying you’re fine, whilst you’re sipping a drink with that much cream?” He says, making a point to directly glare at the cup in your hands which you slowly lower from his view.
“I wanted a sweet treat.” You huff, spinning the chair to face your back to him as you move the straw around, eating the whipped cream as fast as you can.
He leans over the table, pulling the back of the chair until you’re facing him again before forcing it to roll forward. “No, you wanted enough sugar to drown out your grievances. What even is that monstrosity?”
“It’s a caramel macchiato, that’s all.” But even your efforts to downplay arent enough as he gives you his questioning look for the fifth time. “Fine, I asked for whipped cream.”
He doesn't give up his stare and you look away whilst rolling your eyes, of course he didn't believe you. “Okay, extra caramel in the drink and on top! That’s it though!”
“Don’t you usually get the chocolate one? Pretty sure I saw you with chocolate flakes and sauce drizzled on top last week.”
“No, that’s only on Tuesdays I get the iced mocha.”
This time he rolls his eyes whilst staring directly at you— it was Monday and you were already testing him. “And what? You get an extra three tablespoons of cavities on Fridays?” He takes another long sip of his drink, because as much as he does like poking fun at you, he also notices patterns very well. Your sugar intake may as well be a coping mechanism at this point. “Who was it today, hm? Do I need to intervene?”
You groan at his words because you absolutely can handle it, and he’s saying this just to piss you off now. “Well the girl from my old team got promoted to a sergeant— i mean can you believe that and the fact her ex is literally in my new team means im not doing any better at all and now her old teammate—“
“Enough— stop that.” He pinches his brow through the mask and you suddenly fall silent, because he usually doesn't interrupt you, not unless he’s got something planned in the next thirty seconds or you’ve said something he’s going to make you run laps for.
“Wait, do you know my new teammates’ ex’s old teammate who made me tap out three times in a row?!”
He blinks, and then shakes his head with another sigh. “No, you daft duck. I don't know your new teammates’ ex’s old— whatever. I cant fuckin’ understand what you’re talking about when you keep yapping on about teams. Is this your team that was talkin’ shit about you or the one you were temporarily on?”
Your mouth makes an ‘o’ shape as you sheepishly realise your mistake and how confusing you must’ve been this entire time. Oops.
“Okay.” You nod firmly, hopping off the chair to go rummage around his folders where you know he keeps his spare paper— mostly because you never have any. You reach over him to grab a pen out of his pot, before making your way over to sit opposite him again.
“This is me.” You say, pointing to the stickman you just drew in the centre of the page. He gives you a deadpan look but you ignore it, connecting the stickman to a square along with ‘1’.
“This is my first team, when I signed up to the military. Guess i’ll just call it bootcamp team huh “
“Well, you hardly ever talk about them. I would’ve thought most of them would’ve quit or moved teams, no?” He certainly doesn't remember his team from bootcamp, but he supposes that’s because a lot of them have passed on or left the force entirely.
“I mean, I remember a few. It’s mainly my nurse friend, i met her from bootcamp.”
“Suppose’ your next one is those fucker’s who spread rumours ‘bout you?” He raises a brow, watching you draw out the second box. “Reckon we name them Pricks.”
“Rumour making pricks.” You hum, adding it to your diagram before making the third box. “Okay, now this is my current team! The one that Sergeant Mactavish kind of co-leads sometimes.”
“So Team Scotland eh?”
You end up snorting at his joke, which really is a rare occurrence before quickly hiding it with a cough. “I cant tell if he’d love or hate that. Depends if he knows you probably made it.” You grin, doodling the flag into the third box.
“That bastard would get you a flag for your wall if you told him.” He scoffs but his work phone suddenly buzzes, forcing him to check the notification that has popped up. “Gotta go for a briefing in a few. So, what were you saying about that girl?”
“I.. can’t remember.” Snickering with him over trying to figure out the confusing teams had made you forget altogether why you even came here to rant in the first place. The girl was someone you spoke to only once anyway. Hardly anything important.
Suddenly you stand from your seat, taking a long sip of your sugary drink as you do. “Guess I'll be on my way then, Lt.”
“Not gonna walk me to my briefing?” He stands himself, rummaging in a locked cabinet for the relevant files. He pushes it shut once more, stuffing the key back into his jacket before walking around the desk. “Come on then, y’still gotta give me the rest of the details about your day.”
You grin hard, stepping out of his office door as he locks it behind the two of you. “So do you want to hear about the guy who called Team Scotland’s temporary CO ‘mum’ or my only friend in the Rumour-making pricks who thinks a marine is a good choice?”
“I’ll do you one better, has Garrick told you about the soldier who was messin’ around with the new gym machines?”
“Wait.. is it the one—“
“— pantsed himself. Yep, in front of his sergeant. Witnessed it myself.”
You burst into laughter, bumping into him as you make your way down the corridor. “No way— you gotta walk me through it now. How the hell did he manage that?!”
He ends up having you in a fit of laughter by the time he’s stopped outside the briefing room, even smirking himself as he tries to make you be quiet before they all hear you. “Go back to the barracks, y’can tell me your story tonight.”
“Yeah, right. And you won't be dragged into some crazy op?”
“Just say you cant stay up that late.” He quips at you, making you do an exaggerated gasp loud enough that Captain Price opens the meeting door and gives you both a raised brow. “What is this, a bloody mother’s meeting? Lieutenant, in the room now. Rookie, there’s way too much sugar in your coffee.”
“It’s not even that much!”
———————————
rookie masterlist
gonna edit the other chapters to now include these ‘team names’ because i realised i had confused some readers!! (And even myself sometimes) so ‘military ball’ and also ‘the second lieutenant’ will be adjusted accordingly along with other chapters where i see fit!
just saw a pigeon doing the puffed up courtship dance thing to another pigeon, and as he was strutting around he suddenly stopped for a split second to do a very brief preen-peck at his own side, then returned to the strutting around. and i surprised myself by instantly losing respect for the male pigeon in that moment, like come on man i appreciate you had an itch or whatever but how is she supposed to feel special when you're getting distracted by bullshit like that? which on reflection i don't endorse, i mean those are pretty harsh dating norms i'm imposing on these pigeons, from a total outsider perspective, for no reason. probably not all girl pigeons are as uptight about that sort of thing as i would apparently be if i was a girl pigeon, maybe she even found it endearing who knows, i don't know her. it's none of my business really. sorry pigeons.
partially-managed mental illness is so fucking funny i'll be sitting around doing my job and suddenly think "wow i hate myself" and immediately get confused because, like, that's not TRUE! i love myself so much. who are you to talk to me like that
Omg imagine Klaus Mikaelson being an aggressive Costco sample worker.
“Eat the spinach dip, mate. EAT IT. It was crafted with the finest artichokes, yet you dare walk past my station toward the paper towels without so much as a glance? UNGRATEFUL. I have stood at this outpost for THREE HOURS offering salvation in a paper cup, and you treat me with such disdain? Elijah, compel this man to buy the four-pack of organic hummus!”
(goverment voice) we need to protect the children from pornography so our plan is to remove their eyes so they would never see something so traumatic. if you are against removing children's eyes you are basically a pedophile
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