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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
taylor price
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
oozey mess
izzy's playlists!
almost home
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@mooncherrv
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**This is an 18+ blog. Minors DNI or you will be blocked.**
About the Author
Request Rules -Only fictional characters. I do not feel comfortable writing for real people. -Nothing too weird. If you won't write it yourself why do you want me to write it? -Preferably write for any fandoms listed on the masterlist as that ensures I know who the character(s) is. If you are unsure if I know about them just send an ask! I watch a lot of stuff and am part of many fandoms.
girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'
if rick flag jr was a drag queen his name would be rick gag jr
Packed with love.
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Simon Riley was a terrifying man to most people.
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
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A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
“nice blog”
thank you im really good at clicking reblog
Reblog if you are really good at clicking reblog
Your evil cat is quite smart, and figured out that she and Simon had a lot more in common than what was initially thought.
The lads were over for post-debrief game night. A little slice of normalcy among the men. An opportunity for them to acclimate to humanity after being super soldiers for a time. Miss Ganondorf was not having it. Neither was Simon Riley. Sure, he agreed, he even helped plan the thing, but that didn't mean the voices knew that. And they decided now was the perfect time to be unprecedently loud.
He was exhausted by pulling out the board games. The dice clattering was nails on a chalkboard. He hated his brothers-in-arms voices. Men he'd take bullets for. So here he is, per your suggestion, laying down in an off room, the sounds of his task force and you muffled. Something about fetching Simon a drink...? He'd kill for one now. "Meow." Surely, he couldn't have heard that right. "Meow." A black, feline-shaped blob and two glowing dots glared right at him. "The fuck do you want, y' little bastard?"
"Meow." Right. His your four-legged child didn't like strangers. Whenever guests came by, she always ran and hid. She must've chosen this room as her hiding spot.
"I know. People in the house. How dare." "Meow." A smirk dances on his lips. "How dare, huh?" She's not acting annoyed at him, to his surprise. She also seems to pick up on that Simon won't move, for a very long time. He has to bite his tongue when she springs into his lap. Voluntarily.
"Now you wanna hang out with me?"
"Meow."
Like she's replying. "I hate people, too." He does eventually want to get back to the lads. "Can I get up?" "Meow." "Please?"
You have so many pictures of this exact moment, Simon as miserable as can be, and Ganondorf loafing on his stomach, rather proud of herself.
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesn’t work. it’s never worked. it’s notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it people’s works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.
the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.
lovers rock – leon kennedy
pairing: leon kennedy x reader (ft other re characters) summary: 4 times the team notices something's up with leon and the 1 time they figure it out (spoiler: he's married) genre: fluff
Claire notices the ring by accident.
They’re in the middle of a debrief. Multiple papers are spread across the table, coffee’s gone cold, and Leon is leaning back in his chair with one arm slung over the backrest, listening quietly and absorbing the information seamlessly. He isn’t speaking much, nodding occasionally, eyes flicking between whoever’s speaking.
It’s when he reaches forward to slide a document closer that the light catches on his hand.
Claire raises an eyebrow in curiosity.
A ring.
It’s a casual band, not decorated with gems. It sits on his ring finger on his left hand. The hand.
She blinks, certain she’s mistaken. Leon doesn’t wear jewelry. He never has, especially with the type of work they do.
The conversation flows around her, but she’s no longer following along. Her eyes drift back to his hand, specifically the finger, tracking the movement as he flips a page, as he gestures to a chart as he makes a point. She feels like if she rubs her eyes or looks away for too long, it’ll vanish.
It doesn’t.
By the time the meeting finishes, Claire convinced herself that she needs confirmation.
Everyone rushes out of the conference room, ready to start working. Sherry’s halfway out the door when Claire catches her wrist, tugging her back into the conference room.
“Did you see that?” Claire asks, lowering her voice. Leon’s hearing is freakishly good.
Sherry frowns. “See what?”
Claire tilts her head toward the conference room, where Leon is still inside gathering his things. “His hand.”
Sherry squints, trying to follow. “What about it?”
“There’s a ring,” Claire deadpans. “On his left hand.”
Sherry’s expression sparks with curiosity immediately. “No way.”
“I’m serious.”
They both glance back to the man in question. Leon slips his jacket on, rolling his shoulders slightly, trying to ease the tension out of them, completely unaware of the scrutiny.
Sherry leans closer to her, whispering. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“On that finger?” Claire raises an eyebrow. “That’s not nothing.”
Sherry purses her lips together. “Okay, but if he was married, we’d know, right?”
Claire scoffs. “Would we?”
Sherry frowns a bit at that. Leon’s always been private, sure. It’s a known fact that he likes to keep things to himself. Almost to his detriment.
Still.
“Maybe the ring only fits on that finger,” Sherry suggests. “Or he doesn’t know the meaning of the finger. Or-”
“Sherry, Leon’s not that stupid.”
They look at each other, then watch as Leon finally walks up to them near the door. He gives them a nod and a small smile only reserved for those closest to him.
“Everything good?” he asks.
Claire nods automatically. “Yeah. Just… talking.”
He raises a brow. He can tell there’s something more, but he doesn’t press. He never does. Instead, he lifts a hand in a casual wave and heads down the hall, footsteps steady as they echo.
The ring glints once more before he disappears around the corner.
Claire exhales slowly, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sherry turns to her, eyes wide. “Okay, that’s weird.”
Claire crosses her arms, still staring at the empty space where he stood. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s really weird.”
–
Sherry doesn’t mean to see it either.
She’s leaving a lot later than usual, caught up in paperwork that refused to end, and by the time she finally makes her way out to the parking lot, the sky has already started to darken.
She’s halfway to her car when the low hum of an engine draws her attention.
The Porsche is hard to miss.
Leon’s leaning casually against it, one hand resting on the roof, the other tucked into his pocket. He checks his watch, then glances toward the entrance.
Sherry slows her steps without thinking, curiosity pulling her attention in that direction.
A few seconds later, someone steps out.
It’s a woman.
Sherry frowns slightly, instinctively trying to put a name to her. She doesn’t recognize her from the office, and she’s certain she would remember if she had. The woman moves towards the black car, spotting Leon immediately.
He straightens as she approaches. Sherry notes that his shoulders relax, his lips curve upward, and his attention narrows entirely onto her.
They exchange a few words that Sherry can’t hear from where she stands, but the woman smiles, bright and wide, and Leon mirrors it. Sherry hasn’t seen him smile like that in a while. Then, without hesitation, he opens the passenger door for her.
Sherry’s eyes widen even more.
She watches as the woman slips into the seat, as Leon closes the door behind her and circles around to the driver’s side, as he glances at his passenger one more time before getting in.
The engine hums again, and the Porsche pulls away with the rev of the engine.
Sherry stands there, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. She blinks, shaking herself out of it, and hurries the rest of the way to her car.
–
Chris figures out something’s off when Leon turns him down.
It isn’t the first time they’ve gone for drinks after a long day, and it certainly isn’t the first time Chris has been the one to suggest it. It’s a routine that the two found themselves performing regularly, a way to digest everything they… deal with. Plus, Chris likes that Leon and him have similar tastes in drinks and bar establishments.
So, when Chris finds himself itching for a glass of whiskey, he doesn’t think twice.
They’re walking out of the building together, the afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement. Chris wraps up his story of the most recent mission he went on.
“Hey,” Chris asks, glancing over. “I’m probably gonna head over to the bar and drink a glass or two. You in?”
Leon looks at him, but pauses for a second before responding. Chris has never seen him hesitate like this.
Then, Leon shakes his head. “Can’t tonight.”
Chris slows to a stop, circling around to stand in front of Leon. “You’ve got something going on?”
Leon nods, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Already made plans.”
Chris just stands there and stares. Leon’s response is… unusual.
“Alright,” he says, shrugging it off. “Rain check.”
“Definitely,” Leon replies. “Next round’s on me.”
They reach the parking lot, and Chris watches as Leon veers slightly, heading toward his sleek, black Porsche parked a little further down.
Chris leans against his own car for a moment, arms crossed, as Leon unlocks the door. There’s a brief pause before Leon gets in and he’s checking something, looks like his phone at a message. Chris swears he sees a glimpse of a smile as Leon slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away.
Chris watches until the car disappears from view.
Plans, he thinks. Leon has plans.
He huffs out a small breath, shaking his head as he pushes himself off the car and reaches for his keys.
“Since when?”
–
Jill would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been paying attention.
Her and Leon stop for a coffee break in between briefings, a rare, small pocket of time. The place is small, a few blocks away from the usual rush of the main streets, and they wait silently in line, comfortable. Whenever it’s just them two, there’s not much chatter.
It’s their turn to order, and Leon, the gentleman that he is, offers to pay for her drink. When the cashier echoes their total, Leon reaches into his leather jacket for his wallet.
This catches her attention as her eyes focus on his expensive leather black wallet. Jill remembers when Sherry bought him that for his birthday. It’s worn, slightly shedding at one corner, but it’s just proof that it’s well loved. She sees his hand flip open the wallet, reaching for a couple of bills in the pocket.
That’s when she notices. There’s a photograph tucked into the clear sleeve.
It catches her attention before she can stop herself.
Leon doesn’t seem to notice. Like it’s always been there. He pulls out the cash, hands it over, thanks the barista, all with the politeness he always has. The wallet stays open long enough for Jill to see the photo.
A woman.
She’s close to him in the picture, leaning into his side. Leon’s arm is around her shoulders, a curve of his smile. The photo is domestic and warm, she feels like she’s intruding an intimate moment by just looking at it.
Jill looks away before he can catch her staring, but the warm feeling from the photo stays.
The baristas call their names and hand over their cups. The warmth radiates through the cardboard sleeve. As they step outside, a breeze goes by, making her shiver at the difference in temperature.
“Since when do you carry photos?” she asks.
Leon pauses mid-step, glancing at her. They both know what she’s referring to. “Since a while ago.”
Jill tilts her head slightly. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “It’s nothing like that.”
Jill puts her arms up in fake surrender. She doesn’t push further even though curiosity pulls at her. She knows that in this line of work, there are just some things you want to protect. Keep to yourself.
As they part ways, she finds herself glancing back at him.
Leon slips his wallet back into his jacket, the photograph hidden once more.
–
Grace decides she’s had enough.
By the time everyone’s all in the same room again, the pieces started to come together. Claire and Sherry are big gossips, talking about Leon’s mysterious woman, and Grace, being the FBI agent she is, needs to come to a conclusion. Now.
Leon, for his part, is completely at ease.
He’s seated at the table, flipping through a file, either unaware or unconcerned with the glances everyone’s been giving him.
Grace leans back in her chair, arms crossed, studying him.
“So,” she coughs, cutting through the low hum of conversation. “Leon, are you seeing anyone?”
The room hushes immediately. Claire and Sherry’s mouths open wide in shock, Chris hides a smirk under his hand, and Jill simply looks up from the paper in her hand.
Leon looks up, blinking once, caught off guard by the directness. He closes the file, setting it aside on the table.
“Yeah,” he admits.
Claire leans forward. “Yeah?”
Sherry’s eyes are practically sparkling with anticipation. Chris watches with an even bigger smirk, and Jill remains still, observant.
Grace raises an eyebrow. “You want to elaborate on that?”
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he shrugs.
“It’s a huge deal,” Claire argues. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”
“Weeks?” Chris repeats. “Try months.”
Sherry points at him. “You have a ring.”
Jill adds, “And a photo.”
Grace nods. “And apparently a whole secret life that we don’t know about.”
Leon glances between all of them, realizing very quickly that there’s no easy way out of this.
“…I’m married.”
For a second, no one reacts. Leon sees all of the wheels in their heads turning, digesting what he just said. He can physically see the lightbulbs in their heads go off.
“You’re what?” Claire blurts out.
“Since when?” Chris demands.
“Married?” Sherry echoes, incredulous.
Jill just shakes her head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.
Grace leans forward. “You’re telling me you got married and didn’t tell anyone?”
Leon raises his hands slightly, as if to calm the sudden wave of reactions. “It wasn’t exactly planned.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Claire says. “It actually kinda makes it worse.”
“We would have come,” Sherry trails off, sounding a little offended. “You didn’t even give us the chance.”
Chris crosses his arms. “You kept this from all of us?”
Leon hesitates, searching for the right words. Everyone in this very room is the closest thing he has to a family.
“We… were in a rush.” he finally answers. “It happened before I left for Wrenwood. There wasn’t time for anything big, and we probably didn’t want anything big anyway.”
Grace studies him. “So you just decided to get married in secret.”
“I thought I was dying, okay?” Leon defends himself. “I just wanted to marry her.”
Claire exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Unbelievable.”
Sherry shakes her head, though there’s a small smile starting to form. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.”
Chris lets out a low sigh. “You owe us a long explanation.”
“And an introduction.” Jill leans back slightly, arms crossing.
“Of course,” Leon shrugs. “I figured that was coming.”
Grace smiles widely. “So when do we meet her?”
“Soon.” His expression turns soft, thinking about his wife at that very moment. Everyone in the room can’t help but smile at the sight.
And this time, no one misses the way his hand lays on top of the table, the ring catching the light, shining bright.
like this is my FAMILIA yall i love them so bad i kinda had a hard time deciding the title of this actually... may change at some point iDK
writing is so fun
writing is impossible why does anyone do this
i assume you are kind of a loser
Well man this is tumblr
rest assured every fic prefaced "english is not my first language" will be the juiciest, most poetic, life altering piece of fanfiction you will ever read. you know who you are. and we thank you for your service.
Israel is bombing Iranian civilians and gleefully put out press release calling it a 'pre-emptive' attack while Iran has been negotiating for weeks. 'Pre-emptive' strikes don't exist in International law. International law doesn't exist either it seems. What exists is Israel, a made up terrorist limb of the cancerous American state and it feeds the capitalist appetite for blood and oil.
Rare Goncharov poster from Czechoslovakia by Luboš Frištenský, a less known but still prolific movie poster artist that disappeared in 1975 under mysterious circumstances.
Probably THE most notorious piece of Goncharov art to this day, less because of the art itself and more due to Luboš Frištenský’s extremely eerie disappearance
We’ll probably never know what really happened to Frištenský, but this haunting poster is testament to the genius of his work
KKK said the same thing about the hoods.
