#aggressive policemen

[laythestar]

You're my sweet sweet flower

Author's Notes: If you guys like it, I can write more of Mafia!Steve being a simp for reader <3

Words: 493.

Many would think that a man like Steve Rogers would be cold with his new girlfriend.

  Mostly because he was the Head of the Mafia, they called him The Captain; the man that no one could defeat. He had connections with doctors, policemen and even people in the media like actors, models and journalists. Everyone feared Steve Rogers, because how could you predict the next step of the man that is always three steps ahead of you.

   So it was a surprise to his men when they saw Steve be so sweet, so gentle and patient with his new girlfriend. Because unlike this relationship, Rogers was always aloof with his partners, always distant and always secretive to them.

“My flower, are you sure you don’t want me to buy these heels for you? You could wear them on our next date? They match that dress that I bought for you.” Steve spoke softly, caressing your arm while the two of you were scrolling through the app where you bought your clothes.

   In the end, Steve managed to make you let him buy not only the heels, but the necklace that matched the heels, the earrings that matched the necklace and the purse that matched with the earrings. He was the leader of a Mafia, he knew how to persuade people.

   His men continued to watch both of your interactions, the only one who was used to this was Bucky, but it was because he was literally the one that brought the two of you together (It were a hard work for him but in the end he succeeded in making his best friend achieve happiness).

   It was a common thing for Steve to call you flower, they didn’t knew why he called you that, but you were called flower. He usually spent his free time on facetime just to know what you were doing, how was your vacation in Italy with your friends. If you were on your period Steve would order Bucky to buy everything you need and only Bucky was allowed to do this because no one else could know where your house was.

   On Fridays Steve always bought flowers; red tulips, because he saw that it meant a declaration of love. And usually, the flowers were accompanied with some expensive chocolate. And if he couldn’t take you on your usual dinners, because of his meeting with his men or potential allies, Steve would be so heartbroken that you shouldn’t be surprised if he cancels all of the meetings he has the next day just to spend the entire day cuddling with you.

    With all that, what the Steve Rogers’ men could see was that he was completely enamored with you, and if the hickeys on his neck could be any indication, you were also very passionate about him.

Well, at least their boss stopped being the aggressive person he was before he met you. So they consider this a win.

#black reader #chubby reader #mafia!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you

[necroromantics]

🪓 — Conversations With A Killer

ticci toby short story.

- your pen will rapidly hit against the cold, metal table as you watch the clock tick on. time had you in a chokehold, squeezing your throat and forcing its way into your chest. you have done this before, countless times. sitting yourself in a small, empty room with nothing but a pen, notebook, and case file.

- early in your life you decided upon a career in forensic psychology. the mind of a criminal captured you as every interaction you had with a patient made you fall into their hands like a new victim. the difference between yourself and the ones 6ft under, is that in these small, empty rooms, you are in control.

- squirming impatiently in your chair, you opened the case file once again and began refreshing yourself on the indictment . goosebumps began tingling their way onto your arms, and you didn’t quite know if it was the cool air breezing in from the ac or the content on the pages that were the cause.

- thoughts swam like great whites hunting for blood in your mind about the kind of person who was capable of doing such things. your eyes glanced at the suspects name. and then his age.

- the repetitive sound of the plastic pen quickly pattering against the table came to a sudden halt as the door opened behind you. turning around to face the noise, you eyed the man wearing an orange jumpsuit being led in by two bulky policemen.

- you were wrong. that was no man, that was only a boy. he was small, and lanky. his poor posture brought his height down to around 5’6, his skin was pale and his hair was a shaggy mess.

- he threw himself into the chair as he sat down, immediately facing his head down to his shoes, eyeing the ground. you looked back at the officers who brought him in and gave them a nod of approval to leave you alone in the room.

- you knew better than to trust him, despite the harmless appearance. but here sitting across from you was a sickly, awkward looking boy who you knew to be only 19 years old. his gaze stayed firm to the floor, you couldn’t catch a good glimpse at his eyes.

- clearing your throat, you ignored the occasional twitch and jerk coming from the brunette who sat unspeaking across from you. you started, “uh- well. im going to need you to state your name for me, can you do that?”

- for a minute, there was no reply. the only sound was the buzzing of the fluorescent light, and the random sporadic whistle or forced cough from him. you repeated once again, “your name?”

- “toby.” his voice was quiet, but rough. a bit raspy. it was spoken so low you could barely make it out. you knew his name though, of course. you knew everything on the books about this boy. your job here today was to see what he knew.

- “okay toby, do you know why you’re here with me?”

- silence again. he didn’t speak this time, he only shook his head. the boy began biting his nails, his head still so far down his chin almost hit his chest. his head was coiled into his shoulders as he hunched over, doing his best to avoid any form of eye contact. his arm was wrapped around, hugging his core as his other one was raised up to his mouth to be chewed on.

- here sat a boy who didn’t look like he belonged in that orange jumpsuit, and across from him was you who didn’t know what to expect. its not to say you were clueless, god knows you’ve been around the block. but you’ve never dealt with someone so weird.

- amongst the twitches, awkward body language, and aggressive lack of eye contact, there was something else about toby you couldn’t quite put your finger on. there was something in the air around him that felt unnatural, and sickening, like the rot that surrounds a corpse in the morgue. you felt as though you were a mortician confronting a dead body.

- “my report is telling me you were arrested due to your involvement with a weapons trafficking bust. you look fairly young to be involved in that kind of business” eyeing the boy in front of you, you continued, “looking deeper into you, though. we found some interesting things.”

- attempts to illicit any sort of response from the seemingly unstable boy were proven to be futile. but your perseverance knew no bounds, and so you pushed further.

- “do you remember a fire that happened in 2011, in denver, colorado? you mustve been 17 at the time.” your hands folded softly over the beige file that held many documents.

- with one quick motion, his whole body jerked and he slammed his hand onto the table. the sudden sound nearly made you jump, and you would’ve been out of your seat if you weren’t as strong-hearted as you were. but resilient you stayed, just as you always have.

- “i dont know nothing about any fire” he spoke a bit louder this time, and raised his head very slightly, showing his eyes but not quite fixing his posture. though his head remained down, his eyes were now up as he stared at you through his thick eyebrows.

- tobys eyes were dark. his face was young and boyish, but you could see it in his eyes that he has witnessed things no 19 year old boy should have. those eyes were ripe with age beyond him. it felt as though you were looking at a veteran returning home from war, near shellshocked.

- as he continued to eat at his one hand, his other drummed rapidly on the tabletop. dirt was stuck under his chewed up nails, and they were stained with violence. you wondered to yourself for a minute what kinds of things those hands have done, what horrors they have committed.

- sliding the file in front of you, your hand rested on top of it. “do you know whats in here?”

- “a bunch of horseshit.” he muttered, glancing away as he cussed, not taking his hand away from his mouth.

- “this is a documentation of what happened the night of that fire. and information on you as well. the police out there have their own story. now i want to hear yours.”

- toby only shook his head quickly in reply, as to brush you off like dirt on his shoulder. “there is no story, there’s nothing.”

- “amuse me a little bit here toby.”

- his brooding gaze hit the floor once again as his arms wrapped around himself as if he were giving himself a hug. closing him off from the world, and you. this proved to be more difficult than you initially expected. usually younger criminals are talkers, they don’t think things through before they start letting their ego run their mouth.

- “do.. do you not know how to fucking listen? i said there is no.. no story. none.” his words were slightly slurred caused by the deteriorating gash on his left cheek. the tone began to grow harsh, but quiet, like a spark building into a flame.

- with only the lights buzzing and the drilling of the ac spewing out cold air to break the tension that slowly rose between you two, you flipped open the folder and pulled out a photograph.

- “this here is a man named frank rogers, he was an unfortunate victim to the house fire. his son was initially believed to be another potential victim of the fire that spread across the neighborhood and forest as well. but no body was ever found.”

- slowly, he raised his head up. when the boy eyed the photograph, for a split second you swore you saw a hint of amusement form in the cracks of his mouth and eyes. regardless, he remained silent. only repeatedly shaking his head at your questions in desperate attempt brush you off.

- a small tickle grew in your throat as so did your frustration, and desperation. determination to get answers bubbled up inside of you like a sisyphus boulder being pushed eternally up hill. or icarus, making his way towards the sun. despite the chilly breeze flowing in the room, you felt yourself nearly breaking a feverous sweat.

- pulling at your shirt collar, you pulled out a written document and held it in your hands. “autopsy of franks body, as far as they could recover from the fire, showed proof of foul play”. you were lying through your teeth, there was no evidence here. you knew his body was burnt to a crisp, beyond what any autopsy could prove. but you did what you must to confirm the occurrences of that night. this was your job.

- “i guess that’s unfortunate for him then. shouldve learned to play nice” was the only reply toby gave you.

- suddenly a harsh cough shot through your lungs as you felt yourself become a bit dizzy. putting a finger up, you signalled for the younger to excuse you for a moment. it took a minute to collect yourself before you continued again. a quick smirk twisted itself onto the boys face as he kept his head down, trying to avoid your gaze.

- next, you pulled out a collection of old medical records. these were reports of hospital visits from toby’s early childhood, he was remarked as a very accident prone boy. many of the reports showed his body littered with bruises, contusions, and occasional sprains. they were described as accident-caused injuries at the hands of his CIPA disorder which prevented him from feeling pain.

- you knew better than anyone what those bruises were from, and you knew better than anyone it wasn’t any accident.

- “when your father hit you, did he-“ your sentence was cut off quickly.

- “you dont know anything about my father. you dont know shit about what he did”

- the conversation cut out for a moment like a box tv turning off, the immediate change of tone in his voice caught you off guard. he went from a stuttering, quiet boy to a firm, violent tone. it was if he was baring his teeth and growling like a feral hound.

- “tell me then. tell me about your father.” and this is where you win. this is where you get toby rogers to talk.

- “my old man was a mean fucker. he would always hurt my mom, and my sister.” now the hostility has slipped away, replaced with a tragic demeanour where he refused to look you in the eye. sorrow sunk deep into his face, his eyes, now visible once again, looked much more sad then they had just moments before.

- the sudden, volatile changes made you feel queasy, or maybe it was something that you ate. the aura of the boy was suffocating, it squeezed your lungs and scratched at them, forcing out another cough from you.

- through your building unease, you spoke still. “and you? was he the cause of all these injuries?”

- “oh, yeah. i guess. i guess thats why i killed him.”

- your heart dropped into your stomach so quickly it was comparable to a fair ride. did you just get a confession? your teeth bit the inside of your cheek to restrain a victorious smile. maybe this was going to be easier than you thought.

- “can you repeat that for me?”

- “i said,” toby crossed his arms atop the table and leaned in, looking you straight in the eye, “thats why i killed that piece of shit.”

- breath escaped you, and the world around you turned to static. this made your job significantly better, when the killer freely admits to the crime. but you wanted more, you wanted to grab a shovel and dig up the grave of the past. and so you threw yourself into the rabbit hole, and let the static consume anything that wasn’t this boy in this moment.

- “and how did you kill him?”

- “knife. good ol’ trusty kitchen knife.” he was talking so casually, as if it was an everyday event for him. office chatter at best.

- “what did you gain out of this? hurting him makes you just as bad, no?”

- no word from toby, there was an image of a blaring red alarm in your head. a line you shouldn’t cross, but you do, because you need more, and more, and more.

- his stare trickled down your face as he began to eye your nose, the boys expression scrunched into one of disgusted amusement, near sadistic. “your nose is bleeding”.

- tapping onto your upper lip, you felt a wet sensation as blood coated your finger. you were too focused on the confession, and there was that static in your head that drowned out the rest of the world. all that surrounded you was this boy, toby rogers.

- quickly, you get up from your seat and excuse yourself outside. the ambience of the exterior hallway in the station was in stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the questioning room. despite the time of day, the hallway was empty and quiet. it seemed much longer than you remembered.

- the hallway was quiet. the white tiled floors complimented the beige painted walls, and occasional grey metal door. the place that should’ve been filled with beeps, chatter, and police radio were now replaced with the soft buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights that seemed too bright. your head pounded, you felt sick and dizzy, like you were losing your mind in this place.

- making your way down in attempt to find a bathroom, you felt your heart beat in your chest, building its way up to your throat. you could start to taste the metallic blood on your lips as it slipped down from your nose. uneasiness choked another rough cough out of you as you stopped in your tracks. you realized you have been walking for a few too many minutes now. the hallway was never this long.

- you must’ve missed an exit, you turned around and tried to make your way back the same way you came. when you turned heel, your body began to weaken and you collapsed to the floor, a wave of disease plagued over you as it consumed your mind and body. you fell weak onto the floor, and when your body collided with the tile, your hands met dirt and grass.

- your head faced down as you violently coughed, a sharp pain filled your head and there was a violently loud ringing in your ears. blood splattered from your mouth as you dry-heaved in attempt to catch your escaping breath. collecting yourself was a cat and mouse chase.

- the world around you now was dark, and cold. fresh air of the outdoors whipped your lungs as your body began to shake. you look up through tears of pain in your eyes as you remain on your hands and knees and look up at the tall, slender trees that now surround you. this wasn’t the hallway you collapsed in. you don’t know how you got outside.

- you were swallowed whole by sickness and disorientation, you barely noticed the figure approaching.

- a man wearing orange goggles and a barred-smile grey mask approached you. you may have not been able to see his face, but you noticed the air that surrounded him immediately. you knew who this boy was.

- now wearing a sweater and jeans instead of the orange jumpsuit, he crouched down in front of you. hatchets sat loyal on the holster connected to his belt, you saw mud and what looked like to be blood coating his shoes.

- his rough hands grabbed a handful of your hair as he violently jerked your head up to meet his gaze. he silently tilted his head as to look at you in a different light.

- “you.. you wanna know something funny?”

- the boys low, taunting voice was familiar, you felt yourself taken over by adrenaline. you didn’t know if you should try to run, or obey. you stayed silent.

- jerking his arm, he slammed your head aggressively into the ground beneath you, and by your hair he lifted your head up again. yelps, whimpers and begging was all that escaped your bloody, trembling lips as your hands now wrapped around his arm in attempts to get him off of you.

- “i said, you wanna know something real fucking funny?” his voice was muffled by the mask, but boomed loudly almost to the point it echoed. you could hear the brutality leak off of his tongue. glancing at the woods that surrounded you two, you tried to think of an escape plan

- “what..?” your once confident voice was beat to only a quiet, desperate whimper. in these woods, he was in control.

- “you were wrong. im not as bad as my father…”

- as he spoke these words in a mumble, he gripped your hair tighter and got up, dragging you to your knees and forcing your head back to reveal your neck. he stood tall on his feet and looked down at you as if you were only scum under his shoe.

- you squirmed and screamed, you didn’t want to die in this place, not today. you couldve swore you saw something behind him, hidden in the trees. you couldnt make out its face. the ringing in your ears got worse.

- with a quick motion, he removed one of his hatchets from his belt and held it back, ready to swing at your exposed neck.

- “oh, im far worse.”

#tombwrites #creepypasta #ticci toby #creepypasta fandom #ticci toby headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta ticci toby #toby rogers

[city-of-ladies]

Edith Garrud - The suffragette that knew martial arts

The first British female teacher of jujutsu, Edith Garrud (1872-1971) taught the suffragettes to protect themselves.

A passion for martial arts 

Edith Margaret Williams was born in Bath in 1872 and started her career as a physical instructor for girls. She shared this passion for physical culture with her husband, William Garrud, a wrestling and boxing instructor.

They came in contact with Edward Barton-Wright who had spent three years in Japan, and studied judo and jujutsu. He elaborated his self-defense techniques known as “bartitsu” and opened his club in London in 1899.

The Bartitsu Club was notably opened to women. Edith was thus able to train alongside her husband. By 1908, Edith and William became jujutsu instructors themselves with William in charge of the men’s class and Edith teaching the women and children. 

Jujutsu specializes in speed, precision and the use of soft, flowing movements to deal with aggression rather than using just brute strength. The couple showcased their skills through demonstrations. In one of them, Edith defeated a male aggressor played by her husband. The sight of this 4ft-11inch (150cm) woman effortlessly throwing a much taller man greatly impressed the audience. 

In 1907, Edith starred in a short film Jujutsu down the footpads in which an innocent lady overpowers two ruffians. 

Vote for women

Edith took an interest in the cause of women’s suffrage. In 1909, she was invited by the Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU) to give a demonstration in the presence of Emeline Pankhurst and other leading figures of the movement. As William was ill, Edith demonstrated alone and invited members of the audience to test her skills. This included subjecting a skeptical police officer to a powerful shoulder throw. 

In 1910, Edith also wrote a series of essays, advocating for the growing community of female martial artists and how self-defense could free women by giving them the means to protect themselves:

“You constantly read in the papers reports of dastardly attacks on helpless women by thieves and ruffians. A woman who knows jujutsu, even though she may not be physically strong, even though she may not have even an umbrella or parasol, is not helpless. I know many women personally who have tried the tricks I shall explain to you and come out on top. They have brought great burly cowards nearly twice their size to their feet and made them howl for mercy.”

The bodyguards

The suffragettes faced dangerous and violent situations. This was especially the case on Friday 18th November 1910. 300 WSPU members marched on the House of Parliament and faced police officers armed with batons. Women were subjected to six hours of beatings and arrests and there were widespread reports of sexual abuses.

Emeline Pankhurst thus asked Edith to train a group of women that would be known within the WSPU as the Bodyguard. Led by Gertrude Harding, they acted as agitators, disruptors and decoys. 

Edith trained them in hand-to-hand combat and the use of homemade concealed weapons such as wooden India clubs and the fashioning of cardboard body armor. The suffragettes took advantage of their opponent's surprise and exploited their weaknesses.

They for instance struck directly at a police officer’s helmet to knock it from his head. Policemen were held accountable for the loss of uniform items and had to pay for their replacement. They cut the suspenders so that the policeman had to hold back his pants, blinded the police with a charge of umbrellas etc.

When told by a policeman that she was making an “obstruction” during a demonstration near the House of Commons, Edith pretended to drop her handkerchief, threw the policeman over her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd. 

In prison, suffragettes went on hunger strikes and were subjected to force-feeding. The “Cat and Mouse Act” of 1913 allowed hunger-striking prisoners to be released and then re-incarcerated as soon as they had recovered their health. The Bodyguard thus protected and hid those women.

Edith for instance hid militant suffragettes in her dojo, telling the police not to disturb her lessons and leave her property. 

A quiet retirement

Edith’s contributions to the suffragist movement ended with the beginning of the First World War. Little is known of her life afterward. 

She and her husband would run the Golden Square dojo until their retirement in 1925 and retired to a quieter life. William passed away in 1960. In an interview in 1965, Edith said that her recipe for a long, happy and healthy life was: 

“Self-discipline. Of course, I had to be extremely disciplined to succeed at jujutsu and hold my own with men […] but it is the mind which really has control, not only of your muscles and your limbs and how you use them, but also your thoughts, your whole attitude to life and other people.”

She died in 1971. A plaque on the building that had been her home can be seen today: “Edith Garrud 1872–1971. The suffragette who knew jiu-jitsu lived here”.

Further reading

Dorlin Elsa, Se défendre : une philosophie de la violence  

Godfrey Emelyne, Femininity, Crime and Self-Defence in Victorian Literature and Society: From Dagger-Fans to Suffragettes

Kelly Simon, "Edith Garrud: The jujutsuffragette". In McMurray, Robert; Pullen, Allison (eds.), Power, Politics and Exclusion in Organization and Management

Ruz Camila, Parkinson Justin, ““'Suffrajitsu': How the suffragettes fought back using martial arts”

#history #women in history #women's history #feminism #suffragettes #20th century #edith garrud #martial arts #jujutsu #jiujitsu #england #english history #herstory #women in martial arts #historical figures

[heckyeahponyscans]

Imagine if the police stormed into southern Los Angeles in militaristic tanks. Bystanders watch in horror and shock as the police blast buildings and throw grenades into them.

"We are liberating this neighborhood from evil gang members," the police explain as children scream and cry. "They are using innocent people as human shields."

A man runs into the street with a bloodied child in his arms and without missing a beat a policeman shoots him.

"I knew he was a gang member because he's a man, and a non-white one to boot." The officer does not pay any mind to the child lying in a pool of blood. "We will keep shooting everything that moves until the gang members march to the police station and turn themselves in. At which point we will kill them. Given that knowledge, I'm sure their surrender is imminent. And if not, it will be their fault when I continue to shoot people. Not mine!"

"The gang members embedded themselves in the civilian population," he continues, "living in civilian houses and selling drugs and guns out of residential buildings, so what option do I have but to destroy everyone and everything here. I am but a helpless pawn. Do not deny it, lest I tell you about all the policemen killed by gang members, which I'm super sad about. We, the police, are the victims. We, and no one else."

Behind him a policewoman rams an apartment building with a bulldozer; it crumples. More screams--some from inside, from from outside as more fleeing people are shot down.

"Ah, how peaceful it will be when all the gang members are dead and no one feels rage or aggression towards our squadron." The police officer turns away as a woman weeps over her husband's body. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must set the corner store alight, shut off the utilities to the neighborhood, and raze the hospital. I have it on good authority that the Crips go there to tend their booboos."

(Free Gaza now.)

#gaza #palestine #satire #I mean it's obvious that Israel just calls everyone they kill 'Hamas' #remember how those elderly women taking shelter in a church #who the IDF sniped when they tried to get to the bathroom to pee #were 'Hamas spotters'?? #journalists are Hamas #doctors are Hamas #children are Hamas #calendars written in Arabic are Hamas #horses? more like HAMORSES better fire shells at them

[teatreeoilll]

Pot Luck (Toji Fushiguro X Reader)

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • .

w/c - 0.6k content warnings - MDNI (for language and mentions of drugs and alcohol). f!reader. A Toji drabble of what I feel the average Toji interaction is like.

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • .

2006

“Blow on it,” the traffic officer holds a breathalyzer an inch from Toji’s face. Your mouth grows dry as you smell the painstakingly obvious tang of Sake circling the car's interior.

"I'll just come out and say it, officer," he hums, flicking his cigarette butt onto the road, "You're not my type." You jab your elbow into his side, hoping that inflicting some pain might instill a bit of sound judgment into him.

"Blow on it son, I don't have all night." The cop taps his leg on the concrete, shoving the breathalyzer further under Toji's self-satisfied smirk.

As he continues to hold the policemen's gaze, the dark haired man puckers his lips and exhales into the device, which in turn promptly squeaks and buzzes.

"Why don't you get out of the car, boy?"

-

Toji drives like a maniac; one of his hands barely clinging to the steering wheel while the other clutches a lit cigarette that suffocates the car with a cloud of smoke. He throws quick glances at the rearview mirror, and each time he does so the car swerves, causing the white markings separating the dark highway ahead to seem like mere suggestions.

"I'm gonna need you to hold on to this for me," he leans close to you, his Sake reeking breath caressing the side of your face. His foot's still pushing the gas pedal as he shoves a large hand up your bra, sticking a tiny crumpled bag of white powder to the padding inside.

"Hey - " you struggle to push his drunken hand aside, an aggressive red hue growing on your face at the warmth of his hand pressing up against your breast, "Focus on the road, asshole."

Red and blue lights emerge on the road behind you, accompanied by ear-splitting sirens and a streak of cusses coming from the driver's seat. "Just for a minute, yeah baby?" He jerks the wheel, causing the car to wobble as it grazes the shoulders, "We'll lose him on the next exit."

-

This is a collect call from Akasaka Police Station; if you would like to accept the call, please say yes. If you would like to -

"Fucking asshole," you breathe.

The system did not recognize your decision; if you would like to accept the call, please say -

"Yes." You huff into the phone as the line plays its connecting melody.

The moment you catch a faint sound of a breath on the other end, the facade of cool composure you've been clinging to shatters; "I'm not bailing you out again, Fushiguro. You can rot in there for all I care."

"Don't worry about that baby; Shiu's got it covered."

A scolding tone creeps into your voice, "You better pay him back this time."

Toji ignores your reproach, letting the words linger before continuing, "Anyway, they revoked my license, so why don't you pick me up and we can - "

"You had a license?"

"Funny, why don't you tell me s'more jokes when you get here, huh?"

"Can't Shiu take you? Or better yet, leave you there?"

"He'll probably leave before he sees me bouncing out of the cell, so fat chance of that happening. You're the only one left, baby."

You weren't sure what kind of supernatural force was steering the wheel while you drove in a daze through the busy streets toward the police station, leaving your mind consumed with organizing the accusations you were itching to hurl at him.

The car dips lightly under his weight as he thumps into the passenger seat, "D'you still have that bag I gave you?"

"Hey to you too, asshole." You sigh, "And no, I didn't keep the cocaine you shoved up my bra."

"Ah, never mind," he lifted an arm to swipe the hair sticking to his forehead, "At least I got to cop a feel."

#toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x you #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji zenin #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk X reader #jujutsu kaisen X reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustu kaisen #toji x y/n #fushiguro x reader #jjk toji x reader

[anjelicawrites]

The lost honor of Badger's crossing

Paring: Abraham x reader

Synopsis: you are adjusting to your life as Abraham’s wife. Everything seems to be perfect, when two strangers come knocking.

Warnings: reader has burn marks, angst, fighting, Abraham’s possessiveness, reference to arson, reference to murder, reference to prejudice against the Romanichal community, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, scratching, overstimulation, conceive kink if you squint your eyes.

A/N 1: I don’t know anyone from the Romanichal community and used Google for my research for this fic. I tried to be as accurate and respectful as possible. Please let me know if I’ve written something wrong so I can make the needed corrections!

A/N 3: Abraham doesn’t have a surname, I had to use Google to look for Romanichal surnames and pick one.

A/N 3: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

Abraham stares at you with a small smile on his face as you put some more wood inside the stove; the vardo is paneled with thick wood, but you like to be warm all the time, for this reason you're wearing one of his oldest cardigans: a ratty thing you had stitched back together with love and patience, that you wouldn't let him wear outside but it's perfect to stay indoors while doing chores. 

NSFW and 18 + only under the cut!

Quickly you finish putting together his lunch and give him the tight knotted cloth, hoping the food will not get too cold by the time he eats it. 

His big hands cover yours and he kisses your forehead gently; Abraham is such a different man in the privacy of your vardo, more affectionate and less aggressive than anyone has the luck to see him.

“Are you staying here today?”

You can see the worry in his eyes, he doesn't like when you wander around on your own, even flanked by the dog he bought for your safety. 

“Yes, I have so much work accumulated I will have my hands full for the whole day.” 

You’ve been elbow deep in your own old book trades, the only thing you bought with you from your old life, that you let the normal chores slip a bit and you don't want anyone to think that you're not taking care of your husband properly. 

“Good.”

His warm lips find yours in a deep kiss and you have to force yourself not to slip out of your clothes: the horses need him, he has his share of work to carry out. 

He's near the door when you stop him hastily. 

“Wait! Put this on, it's awfully chilly already!”

You wrap his long neck in the warm scarf your adopted mother knitted for you when you were a child, using thick, red wool and a simple, yet elegant, pattern. 

“You worry too much.” He jokes, but you can see in his eyes that he appreciates your care. 

“It is my job, you know. Take care of you.”

“My perfect little wife.” He growls, his free hand lands on your hip to grab the soft meat there. 

“Oh no Mr. Heron. Off you go!” You laugh as you walk backwards deeper in the vardo. “I’ll see you later!”

He stares at you with a burning stare that tells you he's not going to let you sleep tonight. 

The commotion happens later in the afternoon. You’ve been a busy bee for the whole day: doing the accumulated washing up, deep cleaning the vardo and cooking yourself a quick lunch. You had just put the heatless curlers in your hair and pulled out your sewing kit to start working on the random array of ruined socks that needed some mending, before the sun sets, that you hear shouting outside and the dog at your feet starts growling.

You step out of the vardo and mingle with the women standing behind the wall of men partially shielding you all; you can still see the two men dressed in cheap suits and the car they drove to the field where you are all currently living.

Between the shouting and the drove of buzzing chatting all around you, you can barely make out what the men are saying and froze when you pick up that they are policemen and they are looking for you; when they shout your maiden name, your instinct is to step up, but Mrs. Lee grabs your arm to stop you from moving and her husband shouts that there’s no one with that name living in the community: it is a technicality, you’re now Mrs. Heron and those men don’t know that, yet, but they will.

Without having spoken to them you know they will come back with questions about Badger’s Crossing.

You scuttle back into the vardo to curl on the bed and cry: for how long will that place hang over your heads? 

You catch a whiff of Abraham’s aftershave and the tears come out harder: you wish he was here to keep you safe in his arms, but you know it’s better that he wasn’t around: he’s so protective of you and aggressive with the outside world, that you fear he would attack those men and put himself in a ocean of troubles just to keep them off your scent. 

He’s not going to like any of this: you know he’s deluded himself into thinking that the matter with Badger’s Crossing had been resolved, but it’s always going to come back and haunt the whole community, even though none of them had anything to do with it.

Your fears have been proven right when he enters the vardo like a storm; likely Mr. Lee has already spoken with him and he’s charged himself up with rage, which explodes in a shouting match between you two.

“You’re not talking to these men!” 

He orders and boy how much that doesn’t sit right with you!

“You don’t tell me what to do Abraham!”

“You are my wife! You will do as I say!”

“I’m not your possession! And I do whatever I feel it’s better!”

“This is not your decision! The community will decide what’s better!”

This is something you still struggle with: you are used to shoulder the consequences on your own, make your bed and lie on it, as your adopted mother used to say, do what you think it’s right regardless of what others think (and if you hadn’t followed this mindset, you would have never met Abraham in the first place), now you have to do the polar opposite. You understand that your circumstances have changed, that gadji see the community, not the person and all excuses are valid to perform violence and persecution, but those policemen came for you and, to protect the community, you should do your part, even though the idea makes you sick.

You go to the assembly still angry at Abraham and stand stiffly by his side, only to slip away as soon as voices are raised: you know where this is going and you know you’re going to say something you’re going to regret.

You walk to the edge of the camp, Cyril the dog flanking you the way Abraham teached him and you scratch his head; the animal is still young but he’s big, a mongrel with some shepherd dog in him, by the way he tries to move you towards the path he thinks it’s the safest for you to walk.

You can hear in the distance the sounds of the assembly and you desperately wish for a pack of smokes.

“Penny for your thoughts’” Mrs. Lee says from behind you and you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Christ!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you child. I didn’t see you back there, I thought you wanted to express your opinion on the matter.”

You try to look into her eyes but darkness has fallen and you can barely make out her form.

“If I were to voice what I think, I would regret the words immediately.”

You can’t see Mrs. Lee, but you can sense her gaze weightining you. She’s an impressive woman who commands respect not because she’s married the head of the community, but because she exudes a charisma you’ve rarely felt from other people. 

You’re not sure she likes you, she’s accepted you and helped you when you had no one else, like everyone else has done, but you wonder if she just did it out of affection for Abraham, or if she saw something in you.

You often ponder about this matter, if Abraham’s extended family simply tolerates you because he’s imposed you to them through marriage; on some levels you know you’ll always be the gadja that’s now living in their community, who tries to adapt but will always be something else, bought up following a different set of rules.

“What would you say that’s so scandalous, child?”

You take a deep breath and try to organize your thoughts.

“There shouldn’t even be a discussion happening at the moment: those people came calling for me, I should address whatever issue they have with me.”

“It became ours when you joined us. And we were at Badger’s Crossing as well.”

“None of us did anything wrong!” “Are you so naive to think that truly matters?”

The ice in her voice stops you: you still forget that the privilege you grew up with has never extended to them.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” You hang your head. “I still don’t think pretending I don’t live here or, God forbid, leave, will solve the problem. Those men will come back time and time again, until they’ve got what they’re after.”

Mrs. Lee hums and you feel her heavy gaze on you again.

“We should have never stopped in Badger’s Crossing, it was never part of our atching tan: we should have known better and now it’s our problem to shoulder, not yours alone, child. You didn’t bring that in our lives, if that’s what you fear, it oozed in our direction the second we stopped.”

You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I don’t trust the police.” You tell Mrs. Lee. “Half of the problems at Badger’s Crossing would have been solved if our constable had done something. I don’t know why they want to talk to me, but they didn’t come guns blazing, perhaps if they get what they’re after, they’ll leave us be.”

Mrs. Lee's hand curls around yours; her palm is dry and work hardened, still is gentle and holds the faint memory of your birth mother’s touch.

“I’ll talk to my husband, just promise me you will not do anything without talking to him. The discussion is still ongoing.” She clutches your hand tightly. “You should do the same with your husband. He means well.”

“I know he does. We’re both stubborn like mules.”

When you get back to the vardo Abraham is nowhere in sight, he is still discussing the matter at hand, probably, and you wish a final word hasn’t been said on the matter.

You enter and go to the stove and put some more wood in there, before you light some candles and start undressing.

The vardo is bigger than the one Abraham used to live as a bachelor and far more decorated than the masculine, but simply furnished old vardo even was: you two want to expand your family and will need the space one day.  

You two had decorated it as newlyweds, you wanted more colors and painted all the wooden paneling with botanical designs and put pretty fabric everywhere, Abraham letting you because he knew he couldn’t stop you and helped you with all the patience he had: it had truly been a work of patience to live in an ongoing project and isn’t that the perfect metaphor for marriage? Still you don’t want to talk to him right now because you’re reeling from the fight and how he addressed you as his property and not his wife, the memory stroking anger and sadness in your chest, so much so that you can feel the tears already forming in your eyes: you need to sleep on this before you can even start to think about addressing the situation with him.

Abraham comes back later to the silent vardo. The fire is dying in the stove and the air is not as chilly as he thought it would be; you’ve left all the stubs of candles you two own to illuminate the vardo for him and he smiles at your thoughtfulness. He undresses as quietly as he can and slips inside the bed, next to your form.

You’re facing the wall and pretend to be asleep, you don’t see the way Abraham’s hand lifts towards your form, before he turns on his side to try and sleep a handful of hours: if he were a more courageous man, he knows he would curl his arm around your sleeping body, making sure that you know he’s still here for you, your fight be damned, but he fears your rage and can’t stand your rejection, not today, not when the world of the gadji came back to hurt you and he’s afraid of not being able to protect you.

So close, he had been so close in Badger’s Crossing to lose you, he feels like the air is escaping his lungs at the mere thought of harm befalling you: he needs to keep you safe, whether you want it or not, he’s too selfish to think of a life without you, why can’t you see it?

You wake up alone and cold, not because the stove isn’t burning, Abraham left it going at full mast and he’s put some more covers over you, but because you haven’t slept in his arms as usual and it feels wrong, as it had been going to sleep still angry at one another. You and Abraham haven’t been married for too long, shy of a year and you don’t want that to happen ever again.

You quickly eat your breakfast, your heart swelling when you see that Abrahams has brewed tea and left the pot on the stove to keep it warm for you: you will talk to him as soon as he gets back, loathing that the fight has lasted this long.

You feel the nervous energy pervading the whole camp and are glad that your chores are outside, for the day, having decided to go look for mushrooms and special herbs for old Mrs. Doe: she’s ancient and her poor knees and ankles don’t work anymore the way they should, you’re happy to help her any way you can. 

You’ve been walking for the good part of three hours, Cyril unleashed but never wandering around and with a big basket at your hip, full of mushrooms and herbs. 

To go back home you have to walk the last leg on the country road and leash Cyril just in case: there aren't many cars around but you don’t want to risk it.

You’ve almost arrived when you see the two policemen, they are smoking next to their car parked on the curb and are eyeing the road.

“Mrs. Heron, it has been difficult finding you.”

As you approach you can observe them: the one addressing you is tall and lanky, with a long, thin face and piercing eyes, his colleague is as tall but bulky, with a fat face and small, dark eyes.

“Who are you?” You stop at a distance and Cyril stands in front of you.

“I’m DCI Anderson and this is DS Thomas. We would like to have a word with you about Badger’s Crossing.”

You stiffen, even though you expected that to happen.

“There’s nothing to talk about. The whole matter was sorted by the coroner.”

“I still would like to talk to you. I’m curious to understand what happened.”

Both men are moving closer to you and your first instinct is to step back, keep the distance between you three.

“I think you can easily access all the documents you need. If you don’t mind, I have some work that needs to be done.”

“Actually, we do mind.” 

As if on a cue from his boss, DS Thomas’s hand curls around your wrist, stopping you from sidestepping them, Cyril growls at him.

“Keep that mongrel at bay!” He barks.

“Then keep your hands off me!”

You try to pull your arm away and his hold only tightens painfully.

“There’s no reason for violence. We’re here to help. We're all friends: let Mrs. Heron go.”

The brute does as he’s told and that’s all you need to know about their dynamic.

“As much as the paperwork was informing, I very much like to know what had happened from one of the survivors, and why you left.”

“I don't wish to revisit that and it's none of your business the reason why I don't live there anymore.”

You don't like this DCI Anderson, the more you look into his eyes, the more the coldness there seeps into your bones. 

“We decide what's our business, not you.”

DS Thomas barks in your face and your mind goes to the small knife in your pocket. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No one is accusing anyone of anything, Mrs. Heron. I'm just curious to know why an Oxford graduate decided to change their life so drastically.”

“Then again, not a crime. We all need a change of scenery.”

DCI Anderson stares at you with unreadable eyes and you know he’s like those dogs who don’t stop chasing their prey until they’ve grabbed it. 

“Take my card, Mrs. Heron, there’s my phone number, if you ever need it. I'm not here to cause you any harm.”

“There’s no need for that:”

You three were so focused  that you didn't see Mr. Lee and some of the other men arrive; you use the sheer number of them to put as much distance between the policemen and yourself: hopefully they’ll let you go.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for our help, Mrs. Heron!” DCI Anderson says with a cold voice. 

Someone takes the basket from you as Mr. Lee asks you if you're alright; you don't truly know what to answer, something in the interaction irks you. 

As soon as you all arrive at the vardo, you can see Abraham pacing in front of the door. 

“What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” You blurt out. 

“Did they hurt you?”

His hands land on your arms and curl there to stop himself from checking all over you in front of the whole camp. 

“How? Abraham? I'm fine.” You half lie to him. 

“I’ve sent Paul’s children to collect him. We need to discuss this.” Mr. Lee interjects. 

“Yes, of course.” You say, opening the door of the vardo.

The two men sit around the table and you wish you were alone with your husband: now, more than ever, you need the comfort of his embrace. 

“Cuppa?” You ask, unable to sit still. 

“Thank you.” Mr. Lee answers

You zone out from the conversation and focus on what you're doing in the vain attempt to understand what irked your brain so much. 

Like an automaton you fill the kettle and put it on the stove, the drone of the men's voice not truly entering your brain as you try to decide which tea to brew and which biscuit to offer to Mr. Lee. 

“They think you stole me.” 

You say, putting the tray with the teas on the table, cutting through the men’s discussion. 

This is an old habit of yours, losing yourself in your thoughts to simply blurt them out, something both your birth and adoptive mothers used to scold you about

“That horrible DCI saying that he wants to help me. Yes, he wants to know about Badger’s Crossing, but he thinks you’ve taken me against my will, even married me into the community in the same fashion.”

The two men stare at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. 

“That's why he was so pushy yesterday and ambushed me today. He believes me captive.”

Abraham stands up abruptly, almost sending the tea set flying around the vardo. 

“I’m going to kill him!”

“You're not going to do such a stupid thing, son!”

Mr Lee is already on his feet, back against the door of the vardo, ready to stop Abraham from doing something stupid. 

“It is not the worst thing gadji accused us of. They have no honor, they can't understand.” Mr. Lee adds. 

“That's why I need to talk to them.” 

You stand in front of your husband with one hand on his beating heart, Mr. Lee stands behind you, forgotten. 

“I'm not letting them steal you away!”

Panic and rage tinge your husband's voice, more than ever you wished you two were alone. 

“I'm not going anywhere but the matter needs to be addressed or it would truly appear as if I am a prisoner here.”

“Do you truly think those men will believe you?” Mr. Lee stares at you dubiously. 

“The only opinion that matters is that horrid DCI’s, the DS is just his guard dog, I don't even think he has a brain.” You pause to let the information sink in. “And me not being a romni could probably help: they’ll never believe any of you, they might me.”

You can feel Abraham's chest vibrate under your palm, his strong muscles shifting. 

“If they put a hand on you!” He growls. 

You hope no one will ever tell him that's already happened. 

“No one shall ever touch your bride, not with all of us ready to protect them.” Mr. Lee says. 

“No, that can't happen or it will truly look like I am not free to talk with them. And I don't want them in our space.”

“I'm not letting you be alone at their mercy. It is not negotiable.”

You recognise the possessive tone in Abraham's voice, understand that's his way to express his concern, and guilt envelops you like a blanket: he shouldn’t be suffering for you. He shouldn’t live in fear for you.

“The clearing is surrounded by trees.” Mr. Lee’s voice is reasonable. “We can easily hide there, they'll never see us.”

Abraham keeps you in his arms, after Mr. Lee leaves, his masculine smell, mixed with the horses’, fills your nostrils and calms you.

“Do you have to go back?” Your question is muffled against the wool of his jacket.

“No, Ben and his children can manage for today.”

Abraham’s arms tighten around your body, his face finds home against the curve of your neck.

“You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I hate it.” It comes out more broken than what you’d like.

“I’ll never let them take you from me. Never!”

“That will never happen. I’m yours Abraham.”

His arms tighten to the point of pain and you wish you’d never have to leave the safety of his hold, of your vardo, to face the past again, after the onslaught that had been the inquest.

You still wish you were in Abraham’s arms, instead of standing in the clearing, having to endure the small talk of DCI Anderson.

“I’m glad you called, Mrs. Heron.” He says with a flat tone: now that you’re here he doesn’t have to pretend.

“I didn’t feel like I had any other choice, DCI.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Heron. My job is asking questions, even when people don’t want to answer them, it is no one’s fault.”

“In this case, your enquiries are about a matter that has been closed and that reopens a wound, DCI Anderson.”

You know all your answers are stiff, but you can’t help but feel the same wave of pain you did when Badger’s Crossing was set ablaze, killing many of the people you used to call friends.

“It wasn’t my goal, Mrs. Heron and I am truly sorry.”

You want to ask him how much truth there is, since his DS snorts at your words, but you don’t want to derail this conversation.

“You should ask your questions, DCI Anderson.” You try to inject as much steel as you can in your words: those men don’t need to know how off putting this whole conversation feels.

DCI Anderson’s cold eyes bore into yours, trying to assess you.

“Badger’s Crossing was an idyllic place to live. Why not go back?”

You bark an unhappy laugh at his face: you can’t help yourself, this man is far more of an imbecile than you thought he was!

“I think you should scrap that ideal country village image from your mind, DCI. Badger’s Crossing has been my home for years, but it wasn’t an idyll. What happened was a long time coming.”

“The arson? The murders? It is hard to believe, Mrs. Heron.”

“To you, maybe, who live in the big city. I have been living there since the war, I knew those people and the violence was simmering.”

“Mr. Simmons was a decorated official…”

“Who used to beat his wife into a bloody pulp.” You don’t let him finish.

“A bit of behavior correction never hurt anyone.” The DC adds, and you know he pulls that at home constantly.

“Truly? She mustn't have gotten the idea when she decided to leave, instead of risking her life every day!”

“You shouldn’t exaggerate, Mrs. Heron.” DCI Anderson intervenes.

“I am not and this is the truth. Take it or leave it, I don’t care if you like it. Mr. Simmons was a cruel man who loved bullying anyone smaller and less strong than he was. From the moment his wife left, he started raining his violence on the whole community; constable Smith knew and did nothing to stop him.”

“I don’t see how scolding two gypsy girls is raining violence.” the DC adds with a scowl. “They were going to steal anyway. He did what any good man should.”

“What happened to be considered innocent until proven guilty? He berated those girls without any reason and didn’t like it when I told him to stop. It happens when you act the asshole in public!”

“I didn’t go to war to hear this disrespect!” DC Thomas advances towards you and you fear the men would do something stupid. “A man has the right to protect his community!”

“Well, both my parents died during an air blitz, this gives me the right to protect anyone, according to your logic.”

“Mrs. Heron, my colleague doesn’t want to offend anyone, but we all know how those people are.”

“Oh, so you know all of them. You probably know the whole of humanity. Did you know that Mr. Simmons attacked and threatened his neighbors for no reason? That Mrs. Ashtown and her son were two blackmailers and that the wife of the vicar had intercourse with half of the men in town? Badger’s Crossing was my home and had many secrets.”

You take a big breath as you let the men absorb the barrage of information.

“We all had secrets, only exacerbated by living in such a small community. Mr. Simmons needed help, he came back from the war a different man, more cruel than he ever was and lived among us, until he did the unthinkable.”

You will never know why he did what he did, what did the Ashcrofts did to deserve to be annihilated and if Mr. Simmons ever wanted to destroy the whole village, or if he couldn't control the fire he set at his neighbor’s home.

No one will ever answer those questions.

“You want to know why I chose this life? Because that place is cursed now and I can’t live in another village without thinking about Badger’s Crossing, without imagining the horrors hiding behind the nice cottages and farms.”

You move the patch of hair you use to hide the burn marks on the side of your head.

“I have to live with this. I have more on my body and I was lucky enough to find a way out of the burning village.”

Abraham saved you. He faced the flames and the smoke to pull you out of the inferno that was your home, when you were too frightened to find a way out yourself; you often wonder if your birth parents felt that way during the air blitz that killed them, if fear petrified them as your home caved on them, or if your dad had tried to save you mum, and failed in the process. 

“Is this enough of a reason?” You ask, removing the fingerless gloves you always wear and roll your sleeves to show the extent of the damage.

Both men are visibly repulsed by the mess that’s your skin and whatever questions they might still have, die on their lips: DCI Anderson’s cold demeanor seems to fall as his eyes land on your body and you know he’s trying to imagine if there’s more scars that you’re not showing, DC Thomas looks haunted and you wonder if he’s seeing someone else, someone who never made it home.

“It was my husband’s people who nursed me into health, as the inquest went on. They went against their own interests to keep me safe and sound, no survivor of Badger’s Crossing ever came forth to ask about me, how I was fairing, and those people knew me ever since I was evacuated there. They saw me grow up and be adopted, they came to me at the library asking for reading suggestions, they bought their antiques at my adopted dad’s shop. I was part of the village life and no one wondered about my health.”

Slowly you cover your scars and adjust your hair.

“And you ask me why I don’t want to go back to that life?”

You don’t know what those men came looking for, or if your answers were what they wanted, the only thing you know is that you feel drained, that your feet barely carry you away from the clearing and that those men let you go with haunted eyes; not that you care.

You seek Abraham’s embrace as soon as you’re away from the clearing, ignoring the men around you: you’re shook and need to be with him, as he does.

Abraham had to be stopped by the other men as soon as he sensed DC Thomas’s animosity towards you, his rage the only way he knew how to express his fear for you, and the pain, when you had to show those men your scars, as if your words weren’t enough to justify your decisions. 

Ever since the fire, he lives with the fear of losing you, of harm befalling you and him not being able to come to your rescue again. In his life before you he had never thought he would care for someone as much as he does for you. He was raised in the knowledge that he needed to be the good man who provides for and  protects his family; the fire had showed him that there’s a limit to what he can do to fulfill this, that anything can happen to you and he would not be able to protect you: how is he supposed to live with this? When the buried past comes haunting you and you have to relive it, and he is powerless against it?

Abraham helps you up enter the vardo and gently removes your thick jacket and boots, he seems to be unable to keep his hands away from your body to show his brain that you’re real and alive, and still with him, that those men hadn’t kidnapped you to bring you back to that accursed place.

You let him remove the pins in your hair and the bandana you always wear and follow him to the sofa in front of the stove, where he makes you sit and covers you with a thick blanket, one of the memories from his own mother and he makes tea for you.

He feels big and clumsy with the dainty tea set in his hands and the biscuit box that you two are supposed to replace, but he needs to move, to do something, anything to ward his fears away.

“Abe?” You raise your hand to grab his trousers. “Abe, come here?”

He falls between your splayed legs to hug you and you hide your face against the side of his neck to muffle your sobs; you can’t control your emotions anymore and simply let go, opening the floodgates as you grab your husband with desperation and he hugs you as tight has he can, crushing you against his body in the vain attempt to absorb you within himself, the only place he knows you’ll ever be safe.

He knows he’s possessive and that it’s hard for you to accept, free as you are, but how is he supposed to show you that he cares? He is a simple man, words don’t come easily for him as they do you, he has to make sure that you know how important you are for him, in any way possible.

His big hands caress your head and back with a gentleness that’s still foreign to him, he murmurs in your ear the same nonsense he does with the horses when they are skittish, until you stop crying and are silently hugging him with all your might.

“Abe?”

Your voice sounds so small it breaks his heart.

“Yes, my love?”

He tries to keep his emotions under control for you, because that’s what you need, but he hears the tremble in his own voice and hates it.

“Will you make love to me? Put your child in my belly? Show anyone who comes knocking that I belong with you?”

You two have been trying since your wedding night, without any luck. You asking him this, now, it’s your way to show him how much you care, your unwillingness to be parted from him, to change your body irreversibly, this time on your own terms.

“Yes, I will.”.

Abraham unfolds his body and stands to his full height, before he lifts you up, bridal style, to carry you to the bed.

With infinite care he sits your there and starts removing your clothes, kissing your scars as they come to light, until you’re naked in front of him, in all your glory.

“I don’t know how you can stand looking at me.”

“I don’t have to stand anything. I chose you for myself and that’s all it matters to me.”.

The certainty of his voice, the blaze in his blue eyes tell you that he is not lying; perhaps another man would wax poetic about your ruined skin, he touches you with reverence and love, calloused hands that become feathers where he knows you still hurt, chapped lips that leave butterfly kisses everywhere as he undresses himself, until he’s naked in front of you, strong muscles born of hard work and his cock, hard and leaking already, just for you.

“I need you Abe, don’t make me wait.” You beg, spreading your legs to show him just how much you need him.

“Never.” He growls from between your thighs.

His hands are strong on your hips when he pulls you towards his mouth, his tongue thirsty for all the sweet nectar you’re about to give him and he feasts on you, his lips everywhere on your cunt, sucking, kissing, nibbling; he moans when your juices hit his tastebuds, making you shiver in his hold and his lips fasten around your clit, sucking harshly, hungrily for more as his fingers explore your depths, looking for that special place that makes you kick against his face and he fucks against it, fast and unforgiving, needing you as wet as possible, mad for him as he is for you.

Your hands grab his hair and pull, desperately, trying to control his movements, how fast he’s throwing you in the throes of your own orgasm, to no avail: you’re at his mercy, your hips are pushing against his face without your control, seeking the pleasure he’s giving you, rubbing against his nose and chin, until he’s drenched and fucking your hole with his tongue becomes a need and you keen, muscles clenching desperately around the intrusion, your own legs manacles around his face and he woudln’t want to die in any other way but drowning in your juices.

He removes his face with a grunt and you cry out, your orgasm so close.

“Ride me. I want you to feel me in your throat. Remind you whom you belong to.” He growls, low and hungry, as he lays on the bed.

His cock is proud and red, small pearls of precum bubble on the tip and you swiftly lick them, not wanting any of his essence to go to waste.

You’re so wet when you straddle him, your hole loose already for him that his broad head breaches you easily as his nails rake down your unburnt skin, his hands explore your body possessively, one finding home around your throat, the other grabbing your hips to help you move with gentle figures if eight that make his cock burrow inside your cunt all the tighter.

You grind against his body, your clit sending shockwaves of pleasure with every pass, his hand curls around your throat when you start begging for his cock, to go faster, please! He intends to savor you properly, suck on your breasts as you move over him and keen and moan when he finds that spot again and bullies it mercilessly.

“Abe please!” You sound so pitiful and lost, luckily he’s here to keep you safe. “You’re spitting me in two! Abe please!”

His hips move faster now, a trot that has your breasts sway over his face and your cunt squelch around his cock, your muscles pulling him in with every pass and his hands are the only thing keeping you up, now that his hips are pistoning inside of you and your vision blurs with tears and pleasure.

“Pleasepleaseplease.” 

You beg and you feel yourself tighten painfully, your cunt barely able now to house his massive erection and he keeps going, fucking you mercilessly, opening you up to his invasion, spurred by your desperate keens of pleasure.

You come with a scream, your body rigid as he keeps fucking you, prolonging the pleasure until he has to slip out: he’s not done with you.

You’re still trembling over him when he rolls you on your back and bends your legs against your chest, before entering you again with a grunt of pleasure.

You choke on your words as he fucks you hard and fast, your legs around his hips, his hands grabbing the mattress to propel himself inside of you and you’re reduced to a puddle of pleasure and tears, your cunt sore and hungry for his cock and seed, his head reaching so deep inside of you it almost hurts with how full you feel.

You can feel another orgasm surging, stronger than the one before, your whole body curls around him and he has to be brutal to keep fucking you, opening you up again and again, deaf to your pathethic sounds of pleasure, spurred on by your nails on his skin and the small pain they’re causing him.

You’re crying now, your whole body arching under him, your cunt strangling him when his thumb brutalizes your poor clit and you beg him, pathetic and desperate for what you don’t know, needing the pleasure and fearing the band tightening in your belly.

You come abruptly, and he follows you with three sharp pushes and stays rooted inside of you, his weight carried by his arms and legs, his face hidden in the curve of your neck.

“I can’t risk having any of it going to waste.” He groans in your ear.

You kiss him, hungry for him as your cunt is for his seed.

“I can’t wait to have your baby.” You pant, body still shaking.

“I can’t wait to see you full with my seed. Time and time again. See your belly swell and your breast fill out. Show everyone that you’re mine.”

“Yes Abraham, yes. Let everyone know I’m yours.”

He kisses you again and you try to push your heel against his lower back when he moves to dismount.

“Don’t go anywhere. I want to feel you grow hard inside of me.”.

He groans, eyes crossing at your words: he’ll do anything for you, anything you ask, as long as you’re happy and safe.

#abraham #abraham x reader #abraham x y/n

[androgynealienfemme]

"If we assume that camp humor is based on juxtaposing incongruous extremes, it should flourish in the lesbian community as well as in the male homosexual community. But talking to these old-time butches, one is not struck by their campy sense of humor as one is when listening to or reading about old-time queens. Rather it seems to us that butches were unquestionably smart and quick, but their strategy for survival was assertion, and sometimes aggression, whereas queens based their strategy on wit, verbal agility, and a sense of theater. Gay men took care of and healed people through their words. Judy Grahn remembers one evening in the late fifties when two policemen came over to the table where she was sitting with a friend. They shone a flashlight in their faces and required them to say their first and last names out loud: Sweat poured down my ribs as I obeyed. After they left, my friend and I sat with our heads lowered, too ashamed of our weakeness to look around or even to look each other in the face. We had no internal defense from the self-loathing our helplessness inspired and no analysis that would help us perceive oppression as oppression and not as a personal taint of character. Only the queens with their raucous sly tongues helped us get over these kinds of incidents. They called the policeman "Alice Blue Gowns," insulting them behind their backs. "Alice Blue Gown tried to sit on my nightstick but I said No. You dirty boy! I know you're menthrating!" one plump faggot in a cashmere sweater would begin and soon we would be laughing and feeling strong again."

-The Persistent Desire, ""They was no one to mess with" The Construction of the butch role in the lesbian community of the 1940s and 1950s", Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy & Madeline Davis (1992)

#history #lgbt #lgbtq+ #lgbt history #lesbians #butch #femme #butch femme #cultures #lesbian history #gay history #writing #recs #gay #the persistent desire

[strawberryforks]

small city, small problems // (eventual) dean winchester x reader

summary: you move to lebanon kansas and have two run-ins eith the winchester boys. in one, you’re awesome, in the other… well…

warnings: violence, blood, swearing

word count: 1343

author’s note: requests/asks open & encouraged!

hunting was your job but it didn’t pay the bills. no, that was taken care of by the numerous scams you ran. monster slayer by day (who would willingly go after those freaks in the dark? thinking about it made you shiver) and door to door salesman, telemarketer, pyramid-schemer by night. credit card scams and fake identities had stopped helping you the minute you decided to settle down. now, going by your actual name for the first time in what felt like forever, you house hunted too.

small city, small problems, you thought, settling on lebanon, kansas. you found a duplex for $700 a month and moved all of your belongings in--it took hardly any time because your entire life could fit in the box of your truck. none of it was damp or damaged thanks to the tonneau cover you splurged on.

neighbors could be difficult to deal with but yours seemed unassuming enough. the landlord had described them as an older couple that kept to themselves and that sounded better than rooming with five college students or staying in a rundown motel. you just hoped they wouldn’t notice the blood caked under your nails when you checked the mailbox, or the various injuries you always had when you walked to and from your truck.

you were sitting on the floor, both legs stuck out in front of you, and dozens of newspaper clippings in between them. you planned on taking a break from hunting but when you were in the life and aware of the creatures that go bump in the night, these things tended to fall right into your lap. missing people--this many--in such a small town was never innocent. nor were the all black eyes you made contact with on your way back from the supermarket. a demon problem you could handle but it didn’t quite explain the missing people. It was fine, you would figure it out.

a fist slams against the door in an aggressive manner, one that far too many policemen used for you to be comfortable with. you lift the corner of your mattress and swipe the information you’d found under it. you hide any evidence of your wrongdoings and stuff your phone into your pants pocket. then you pulled open the door. two men stand, wearing suits and presenting badges. you look at the badges first--agent figsbottom and dave. you snort and your hand moves over your mouth quickly as you try (and fail) to stifle laughter. the taller man frowned and his brother’s eyes narrow. “come on in, boys.”

the winchester brothers are confused. this isn’t the level of respect they were used to receiving when posing as federal agents. the thing is, you knew them. well, knew of them. dean and sam winchester were pretty famous in the hunting community so no, you weren’t about to play concerned citizen even though… well, you were concerned. the hell were they on your doorstep for?

“we have some questions for you miss,” dean says. he flashes you a smile along with his badge and sam shoots him an irritated look, placing a hand on his shoulder and shoving subtly. “have you seen either of these people? samantha and owen have--”

you hadn’t seen them anywhere else but on the newspaper. you lift the corner of your mattress and pull out the papers. “they’ve been missing for just over a week. you should be looking for these two if you want a rescue mission and not a recovery one.” you tap your hand against another couple's photo and sam’s eyebrows raise. “i’m a hunter too. just moved into the area. y/n l/n, nice to meet you.”

dean shakes your hand and you tighten your grip in challenge. the two of you stand, staring at each other and aggressively shaking hands until sam’s laughter interrupts your brief pissing contest.

“i’m sam,”

“and your dean,” you look at the shorter brother, right into his green eyes as he nods. “your reputations precede you.”

“all good things i hope?”

you laugh and give a small shake of your head. “so, the case. what do you guys know that I don’t?”

“no offense sweetheart but we don’t need any extra help. you and your partner can pick another town and another monster.” dean says.

you scoff. “no. first of all, i live here now, and secondly, i’m on my own. no partner needed.”

“you hunt alone? that’s a death sentence.”

“death is the only thing certain in life though you and your brother toe the line often--anyways, i’m not phased by it. hell or heaven, they’ll be lucky to have me.” neither of the boys have anything to say to that. sam keeps trying to angle his head just so, wanting to see all of the pages you’ve compiled and dean is staring straight at you, saying nothing. you clap your hands together, breaking up the silence. “want to compare notes or are you going to get the hell out of my house?”

neither winchester wanted to compare notes and so, you chased them out with various threats of violence. the eldest one had the gall to smirk and shout “goodluck!” before climbing into his beautiful ‘67 chevy impala.

—

the next time you see the brothers you’re in mortal danger. you're tied to a chair and bleeding all over the place--head swimming in regret and your own mistakes. if you were conscious enough to be embarrassed you would be. your neighbors, the sweet and unassuming old couple were actually long gone. dead and rotting. a pair of ghouls were wearing their bodies like meat suits and the gardening the old lady did every day like clockwork was her burying bones. they nabbed you while you were sleeping and you were a good fighter but with your limbs still heavy with exhaustion, were no match.

the rope was tight around you and it was stained crimson. they were taking turns biting off chunks of your flesh when the front door was kicked in and you could barely lift your head to see which brother had managed to break the door in just one go-- “impressive,” you acknowledged weakly. there was a struggle. you heard it but couldn’t track it with your eyes, not as they blurred and unfocused.

then you were being untied. you fell forwards and into strong arms. “hey. sweetheart, going to need you to stay conscious, yeah? not going to let a few ghouls be your end are ya?”

you shake your head ‘no’, and fight to keep your eyes open. “sammy!” dean shouts. “we need to get this bleeding stopped.” you’re passed to the taller winchester who puts pressure on the worst bite. dean starts talking to himself or his imaginary friend, cas. “cas you feathered fuck, hurry up!” he shouts to the sky and a moment later there's a ‘whoosh’ and a new hand is on you--on your forehead. light erupts but you only see white.

when you wake up you’re in a bed that isn’t your own--in a room that isn’t yours but that smells like leather, firewood, and vanilla? your face crinkles in confusion and you haul yourself into a sitting position, groaning. then, you notice the eldest winchester, dean, sitting in a chair across the room. he scoots closer to you looking you over to make sure that you’re alright.

“sorry about that,” you apologize. “can i, uh… is there anything i can do for you, your brother and… the angel?” you’re still unsure about that one, but hate owing people (or magical beings) more than you could ever articulate. “to repay you all for…”

“for saving your ass? yeah. there is.”

“okay…?” you’re hesitant.

“if you insist on hunting, don’t do it alone. not ever again. you can stick with us or go off on your own, but the second you find a case, you call me.” you agree easily. you’re alive and he isn’t making you clean toilets or sell your soul, he’s offering to help you.

you exchange numbers and then you’re off. you’ll keep your promise. probably…

#dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #supernatural #supernatural x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader

[momoliee]

Okay! now that I’m done rereading Mo Du by Priest, time for an overall review on the entire series! WARNING: unlike my previous book by book review, this review WILL contain spoilers, even if theyre not major, cause it’s more of an analysis than a review so beware!!

A piece of work about: a team of investigators, from the special crimes department, whose wildest wishes is not to spend the weekend working overtime; a sociopathic young CEO, who cant put the case behind his mother’s death to rest; five elderly policemen from the previous generation, two of whom have died under suspicious circumstances; and a never ending series of crimes varying from kidnappings to trafficking to murder and maybe even serial killings. If this already sounds complicated, then dont worry, cause it gets even more and more complicated to a point where you find yourself juggling two, maybe even three, cases at a time.

I’ll start with the characters:

Luo Wenzhou: a charismatic, quick tempered captain of the investigation team who’s a lil too full of himself but he still has a heart large enough to embrace everyone he comes across. i absolutely adored his character, his dialogue and quips, his fatherly demeanor in which he lectures his subordinates before proceeding to do exactly what they were doing, then buying them all food so they can overlook his shamelessness. Luo Wenzhou is the sort to overcrowd the room with his boisterous, loud personality; the sort elders lectured all the time for getting in countless troubles, but still openly favored anyway. He is bold, capable, kind, creative with his insults, and even though he’s always threatening to give everyone around him a beating, the most he does is smack them on the back of their head. His character is simple and easy to read, but definitely very lovable and warm.

Now meet Fei Du. Our beloved sociopath. Yes he’s an actual sociopath (he is NOT a psychopath, cause psychopaths are born that way, and sociopaths are MADE that way during their childhoods, which leaves room for them to heal and reverse what they were forced to learn and unlearn it all, a very important point. While we certainly meet a lot of psychopaths in the series, the difference between them and Fei Du is that Fei Du, later on, unlearns everything that was forced down his throat and heals, which is one of the themes in the series). Now what I really love about this novel, is that while in every other danmei, there’s always one shy and and quiet character while their love interest is always the loud and extroverted one, in this web novel, they are both equally flirty, equally shameless, equally extroverted, and equally bold in everything they do. While Luo Wenzhou’s charisma expresses itself in a more cocky, big handsome brave man type of way, Fei Du’s charisma is a lot quieter and more…seductive, sensual and silk-draped. His words are always as sweet as honey, he’s the sort to send flowers and wear expensive strong cologne, drive up to your work place in an expensive chic car, and open the door for you. A true Gentleman, the very opposite of the Hero and Savior, Luo Wenzhou, who’s a lot more aggressive and rough and protective.

But Fei Du’s character goes deeper than that. I absolutely loved how intelligent priest made him out to be, and i always looked forward to his explanations and deductions for every case, his chameleon like mindset and mirroring personality that seems to shift and change and adjust according to whom he’s talking to and what he wants from the person he’s around. His childhood is horrific, truly the most frightening backstory in any novel i’ve read, it exceeded my expectations the first time i read the series and completely took me by surprise, nothing i couldve ever expected. He is extremely manipulative, and up until the last few chapters in the last book, you still cant trust him or deduce his motives or know where he stands. And yet, priest somehow manages to make him no less lovable than Wenzhou, cause even if you dont know whether he’s evil or not, you still cant help but be fond of him.

I absolutely LOVE and ADORE fei du and luo wenzhou’s dynamic, with the way they spent the first novel bickering and fighting back and forth, unable to so much as stand being in the same room as each other, to the way they started shamelessly flirting back and forth and one upping each other in the next book, building up so much tension between them. And even when they got together, they still retained a very interesting dynamic, their relationship never mellowed down, it was still very entertaining through and through. A perfect enemies to lovers. (Also side note, i feel like if you were to take priest’s character Gu Yun from Shapo Lan, and split him in two, you’d actually get fei du and luo wenzhou. I feel like they represent the two different sides of Gu Yun, the flirty and seductive young master everyone wants to sleep with, and the capable and bold leader everyone would follow loyally to any battle.)

The rest of the characters, aka Tao Ran and Lang Qaoi and Xaoi Haiying and Zhou Huajin and basically everyone, are my CHILDREN i will protect them with my BLOOD.

Now for the plot, well, i’ve always been a mystery and thriller girl, so need i say more? All priest had to say was CRIME, and i came running. From the moment the first case presented itself, i knew this series was gonna become one of my all time favorites. I’m talking yellow “KEEP OUT” tapes, i’m talking forensics complications and bloody crime scenes, I’m talking clues and hints and evidence and suspects and a classic ‘who done it’. Every case was different from the last, so the series never felt repetitive or boring. Each time it was a different issue, a different pattern, a different plot twist. Priest definitely kept my nerves wrapped up in a twist throughout all five books, always on a look out for different clues and hints, always trying to put two and two together and figure things out along with the characters. She touched on topics from mass homicide to rape and pedophilia to prostitution and drug addiction to a wealthy family strife over inheritance to cults and the abyss behind victimhood and grief. I absolutely loved the range, how you could go from reading about the silly banter between the characters over what they should eat while they work overtime, to serious and deep discussions over trauma and justice, and what was the correct way to process grief and get over an event that ruined your life and the lives of everyone around you. Another thing that i loved, was how interactive the cases where. It felt like everything clicked, everything made sense, and nothing was overlooked. Every question i asked myself, a character in the book would ask and an answer would be presented, and every minor detail that was mentioned in the very beginning that i quickly forgot, was brought back later on and expanded on in more detail and care. It was an extremely fun read.

Finally, the overarching theme of the story, discussing the processing of trauma, grief, abuse and victimhood, as well as criminal psychology and the line between justice and self righteousness. I love how for every case presented, Priest always showed you the two sides to the same coin, the two paths anyone is presented with in the face of life altering events. Priest gives you the answer to questions like, why did Fei Du choose not to become like his father, an actual psychopath, why was he capable of undoing all the things his father taught him and why did he consciously CHOOSE that path, over simply following his father’s path of psychopathy and greed and apathy and murder. Priest presents you with characters that are born into circumstances similar to Fei Du’s, but with just the tiniest differences and alterations, they ended up on a complete different path, being on the opposite end of the interrogation room table, bearing handcuffs. But priest doesn’t give you all the answers right away cause where’s the fun in that? She leaves you wondering why fei du turned out different, or did he actually turn out different? Why didn’t he end up like all those other psychopaths who followed the lead of their parents? Till at last, she explains everything in the last book, and you put together a similar conclusion yourself just before everything is unraveled (if you guys want, i can do a whole meta analysis on fei du’s character, cause he is one of the most interesting characters that i’ve read about). Another example on the same circumstances but two paths concepts would be, without any major spoilers, the families of the deceased and the victims. Now i wont divulge into details not to insert any major spoilers, but whoever reads book 5, then reads the extras after the epilogue, will definitely understand what i mean. That was a brilliant stroke on Priest’s part, definitely genius.

This whole installment was intriguing, intricately woven, complex and simply mind blowing. You’ll laugh, cry, get anxious, feel relief only to end up anxious again, attempt to solve the cases along with the characters, stay up late while going over the INTENSE interrogation scenes, and meet all sorts of criminals and personas as you dive deep into their psychological thought process and motives. This series is a DEFINITE 1000000/10 to me, my third favorite danmei (right after the dumb husky and his white cat shizun by meatbun and heaven’s official blessing by mxtx). Also, there’s a pet cat :D

#long post but i couldn’t help myself #mo du #mo du zhe #silent reading #priest #danmei #danmei priest #danmei recs

[fanficsforfun]

I’m not gonna hurt you

Pairing: Adam Ruzek x female reader

Word count: 1,2k

Warnings: shooting, fear of cops, mild romantic tension towards the end

Summary: You unwittingly find yourself in the middle of a gang arrest. You run away, but one of the policemen follows you, mistaking you for one of the gang members. He quickly realizes that you are not a member of the gang and wants to ask you a couple of questions as an eyewitness. However, you are afraid of the police and he has to calm you down before you dare to speak

---

It was a cool evening and you were sitting on a swing in a park. You had been jogging, but then decided to take a break. The park looked pleasant and you were in no rush, so you went there. You had been swinging slowly for a while when a gang of young men came on the other side of the park near the benches. They were loud, aggressive and probably drunk.

No more peace and silence here, you thought irritably. You wondered for a moment if you should wait for the gang to leave, but they seemed to have settled down on the benches so you decided to continue on your way. There was no point in letting them ruin your evening.

You got off the swing and at the same moment you heard cars approaching the park. Suddenly the warning lights and sirens went on and a group of police officers surrounded the gang. Flashing lights, wailing sirens and shouted commands from the police hit you like a shock wave. You froze, but hearing the first shots made your body fill with adrenaline. Before you had the time to think, you ran for your life. You rushed towards the trees, wanting something sturdy enough between you and the bullets. You didn’t want to die.

You felt like you’d be moving in slow motion. Even though you ran as fast as you could, it was like trying to run through tar, not moving fast enough. You managed to get behind the trees without getting shot but you still had another problem: how to get out of the park? You couldn't continue further because the next bulletproof barrier after the trees was too far away. The risk of getting hit was too great to take. You had only one option: to lean against the tree and hope no one noticed you.

You hide out behind a tree, your heart pounding. Based on what you heard, you concluded that the gang was getting arrested. If you hadn't been seen, all you had to do was wait for the cops to load the gang into their cars and go away. Just wait, it’s gonna be okay, you told yourself, but seconds felt like hours. Waiting had never felt so agonizing.

Suddenly you heard fast steps approaching you. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, trembling and trying to not cry, at least not out loud. No, don't come here, please, don't come here, you kept repeating in your mind.

“Police! Don’t move!” A firm command made you flinch.

“Don’t shoot me!” You whined and against the command, tried to crawl away from him.

The man approached you with his pistol raised, but lowered it when he had a better look at you. A clearly terrified girl dressed in sports clothes with tears on her cheeks hardly belonged to the criminal gang they had came for. You were just an innocent bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you”, he soothed you while holstering his pistol. “See, I’m unarmed.”

You froze as he approached you. You looked up at him and felt like you were going to pass out. The whole world was spinning and you had nothing to hold on to. The man squatted down next to you with a worried look in his dark eyes.

“Miss?” He tried again as you hadn’t responded to his first attempt. He placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently. The touch made you tense and let out a little whine.

“I’m officer Adam Ruzek”, he introduced himself with the same, soft voice tone. “How about you? What’s your name?”

“Y/n”, you whispered, still not far away from bursting into tears.

“Okay, y/n, would you come with me to the vehicles, I have some questions to ask”, Ruzek said.

Although the way he said it was kind, you knew it wasn't a request but an order. You slowly stood up, careful not to do anything that could be interpreted as hostile, and glanced at him to make sure he wasn't planning to shoot you or something. The gun was still in its holster and the man had nothing in his hands. It calmed you down a bit.

Ruzek guided you to his car with his hand on your back, opened the back door and told you to sit down. You sat on the seat sideways, your legs hanging out of the car. Ruzek leaned against the car and then stooped down towards you. You stared at your shoes and squeezed your hands together in your lap.

“So, what happened here?” He asked.

“Am I under arrest?” You asked with a shaky voice.

“No, you’re not. Right now I’m questioning you as a possible witness. If you haven’t committed any crimes, you have nothing to worry about.”

You nodded, still trembling out of fear. The man squatted in front of you and put his warm hands on yours. The clearly gentle gesture surprised you, making you look at him and your gaze meeting his.

“Just take it easy. If you'd be under arrest I would have told you. I’m not suspecting you for anything.” Ruzek’s voice remained soft although he had to soothe you to get you to speak.

“Just tell me what happened here. That’s all I want to know”, he repeated the question while stroking the back of your hand.

You nodded and took a deep breath before answering.

“I was jogging and I came here to have a break and… this gang of guys showed up on the other side of the park and then the police came… and I heard shots and just ran”, you explained intermittently.

“Okay. What were the guys doing?”

“I don’t know, arguing or something”, you tried to recall what you had seen.

“Arguing? Did you hear what they said?”

“No, I just… it seemd like arguing, like one of the guys didn’t like something the other said or did. I don’t know.”

“Did you see their faces? The ones who were arguing?”

“No, they were too far away. I was sitting on the swing, they were there at the benches the whole time.”

“Alright. Thank you”, Ruzek said. “I have no further questions, meaning you’re free to go now. We’ll contact you if we need you.”

“Okay”, you nodded. You had had time to relax while he was asking questions and you were feeling good, especially considering the circumstances.

The man's hands were still on yours and suddenly you didn’t want to break the contact. You squeezed his hands and he squeezed back but then let go. You stood up, feeling a little disappointed. The conversation was over and he needed to continue working, you understood that. But when you were leaving, Ruzek dodged just enough for you to just pass him, in a way you couldn't avoid contact. The small but not entirely innocent touch made you shiver. It was a promise of the future, if your paths would ever meet again.

#adam ruzek #adam ruzek x reader #adam ruzek imagine #chicago pd #one chicago #chicago pd x reader #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd fanfiction

[bigboipyromaniac]

HI I saw that you had request open so

can you do something with postal dude that involves hand holding?

I'm such a huge simp for postal dude, it's embarrassing

postal dude might be the most insane guy you'll ever meet

but has this weird obsession with your hand 

not Kira obsession

I mean I'm sure he's cut someone's hand 

but not yours

maybe 

jk

whenever your sleep with him, he likes to grab your hand

but don't sleep with him 

*cough* brain damage *cough*

on a road trip to anywhere, mid-trip he would grab your hand 

sometimes he bites your hand or licks it

cute aggression?

or it could be normal postal dude things

who knows

if you do go out with him for maybe his chores

he does hold your hand to resist the urge to kill someone

but he does it anyways

sometimes out of nowhere 

he would grab both your hands and place them on his cheeks

even if you have cold hands

speaking of cold hand

despite living in Arizona

mans got some cold hands

like he lives in the artic, hands

maybe that's why he wears a coat in the heat

wash you hands

I know that might sound mean

but his hands are dirty 

filled with blood and other things you don't want to know

Short story cause I can't think of anything else

living in a trailer park is not how I expected how life would go for me, but hey it's not bad as people say it is. I got to live with a crazy man who for some reason no policemen can arrest. He's always out doing "chores," he says, and always covered in blood when he comes back.

Whenever he's not out in the heat of Arizona, he's on top of me sleeping or watching whatever's on tv, right now he's on top of me, luckily he's not sleeping, meaning I can move a bit without him complaining.

He grabbed my hand that was hanging off the couch and placed it into his cheeks. He placed many kisses on my hand, and then took a bite, it wasn't a hard bite, but it was going to leave a mark on it, and then he wrapped my arm around him. After a while, my hand was on his red hair while he fell asleep on me, I grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around us.

#postal dude x reader #postal dude #postal dude simp #i need to finish postal 4 #would smash tbh

[mchiti]

tw: violence

Five italian policemen were recently arrested for beating and torturing people they would stop in the streets for no reason. Most of them were migrants. One of those people tortured and abused is called Adil and he's Moroccan, he's the one who reported the aggressions. A good man who never had issues with the law and who even ended up on the news a few years ago for finding a bag with a laptop inside and giving it back to its owner. [you might know of that european tendency to treat migrants kindly only when they give wallets and bags back or save lives, right....]

Well, a few months ago Adil was walking in the streets when he suffered an aggression by an italian racist asshole. He called the police up and when they got there, instead of arresting the racist asshole, they arrested him. And while they were taking him away they were screaming "arab piece of sh*t, moroccan piece of sh*t, you need to go back to your country." He was beaten up badly at the police station and left with no water and food. Then he was taken to a repatriation centre where he was stuck for an entire MONTH. They didn't check his documents, they didn't even know he is married with an italian woman who was, in the meantime, looking for him everywhere, and whom he couldn't even contact. So, of course, he was not repatriated.

He came back home and went to report everything. Thanks for him, it was found out those policemen did the same to others. They were arrested. They are, though, only a small fraction of a culture of racism, violence and classism that keep growing. It's around us and in every angle of Europe. If you're from a country like the one I live in, with a very fascist government in power, I'd suggest you to not stay silent.

#daily chronicle from fascist it4ly: done #back to study im sorry for being absolutely inactive etc

[capybaraonabicycle]

Because everyone keeps talking about fairies knocking at their doors, could I interest you in my favourite interpretation of fairy visits as sung by Dota:

English translation under the cut if anyone is interested

I found a fairy in the forest and took her home From far away she looked like a boletus (mushroom) And up close she looked the same But in the evening at home there was a *plop* sound She was standing in the kitchen in fur and powdered face And asked whether I had schnapps at home, sitting down And obviously I drank with her because I am a good host I asked "Can you make a living (being a fairy)?" She said "Well, it works, but - it's complicated."

"How about those three wishes" I demanded to know She was making sandwiches for herself and then lay down on my bed between the pillows She said "Another schnapps and a piece of cake" and "Do you have any music by Miles?" We were obviously on opposite sites of a prejudice I said "I want to wish for something, understood?!" And that I was interested in world peace for example She said "I'll raise my glass to that but you know - it's complicated."

A little later I woke up and at first glance wasn't quite sure where I was The fairy was standing in front of me demanding the pin for my credit card And I shouldn't believe it was all as simple as that First of all she needed money, a private secretary, a staff car and so on And because I was tied to the chair I said "4621. And there is some cash on the table." I wasn't afraid but I was shocked And asked myself how this would turn out - well, it's complicated.

Then I remembered the two remaining wishes So I called "Hey, untie me and get lost!" But she was already gone with my credit card And I could merely hear her laugh on the wind I crawled through the streets with the chair Everyone was laughing at me - it was tough I found the fairy at my favourite pub at the gambling machine I screamed at her but she said she could explain everything She merely wished to gain more money for a charity event here She'd already printed the posters and organised everything And I was allowed to sing at the event And should just have faith in her - *passive - aggressive humming*

She freed me from the chair and we got out of the pub (Several hours later, in the pouring rain The fairy had ordered several more rounds (of liquor) With my money and I had been against it) Outside she asked about my other two wishes I could have two more Suddenly, a car stopped next to us It was the police She said "Please hurry and wish I could turn back." I said "okay" and whoops she was gone I couldn't even argue with her "Why is she talking to the toadstool? I think she is hallucinating." The policemen said. I said: "No, Mr. Constable, it's much more complicated."

#fairy #dota #Youtube

[melancholiania]

Desolate [Part 3]

[Yandere!Ikaris/GN!Reader]

chapters: part one part two part four

Summary: You try to get used to Ikaris’ presence in your life.

[Warning for spoilers. Set after Eternals (2021), although quite a bit of canon is used loosely.]

Warnings: nudity, acts of violence, seizure(?), auditory hallucinations, cops

Do NOT interact if you are a minor.

edited. replaced picture.

Of course the cops would arrive to your house with the way you handled that disastrous emergency call, you summised to yourself, terrified. You immediately slammed the door shut on the officers and put your back against the door to reinforce it, quickly feeling the heavy knocks on the door getting more aggressive by the second. You turned around in panic, trying to think of some answer to bullshit to the police behind the door.

There was no way in fuck that you would be able to explain the busted car in your pathway, the horrendous emergency call, the alleyway, and the fact that you had a blue-clad superhuman who looked completely out of place in your small town.

Speaking of Ikaris, he still stood where he was and looked at you, absolutely dumbfounded. You quickly gestured to him to hide, hands wild as you pressed your back on the door, the heavy slams against the door reminding you that you both didn’t have much time to look less suspicious than you currently were. Thankfully, Ikaris had taken the panicked hints you were giving out and quickly raced to the back door next to the kitchen, behind the flight of stairs.

You breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing your face to relax yourself and smoothing your clothes as you opened the door once more to a very annoyed group of policemen, still waiting at your door.

“I am so sorry about that. Would you all like to come in? I can put on a kettle for tea...”

§

“Thanks for visiting officers! Appreciate the concern!”

Is what you chirp with a fake sweetness as the tea you’ve made sits cold and untouched on the kitchen counter while the policemen leave your house around an hour later. You quickly closed the door on them witha loud slam and cartoonishly slid down the door, screaming into your hands. You never really were overly fond of the authorities, and small town ones were not exempt from your general annoyance.

After a few bits of small talk and beating around the bush, they had started interrogating you while you had begun pulling out the teabags and turning on the electric kettle. They were mostly curious about the suspicious emergency call and the suspicious man who was heard choking you out. You knew that generally telling the police the truth would be helpful, but you were, frankly, absolutely done at 7:30 in the morning and just wanted to be left alone and unbothered. You had answered them with a few placid answers, nothing too noteworthy to arouse suspicion but not empty enough for them to be frustrated with you.

“I was sleep-deprived and probably hit a deer or something...I feel like I probably was trying to process everything that happened? I don’t know...”

“Oh, that was just a weirdo who wanted my cash. You know, with me being an out-of-towner, even though I’ve lived here for most of my life, hah...”

“Trust me, I’ll be fine....I don’t have any injuries besides a sore neck. I’ve already been to the doctor’s and...”

“Blood in the alleyway? Huh...I mean, I don’t have any open wounds...must be unrelated...”

You hoped those would keep them at bay. You did not want to talk to any of them any further.

Picking yourself out of the floor after having a much-too-long screaming session, you picked up the cold cups of tea and dumped them gently into the sink, too tired to bother washing them right at this very moment, despite hating dirty dishes in the sink. As you began walking towards the sooty couch in your living room, your thoughts suddenly shifted to the missing man in blue armour, who you were talking to just before the police had arrived.

“Wait, where was Ik—!?”

The back door slammed open as Ikaris strode into the living room right up to you, looking rather haggard, though you figured that he held up better than most, considering the fact that he literally fell out of the sky and busted your car. He seemed much more fatigued, yet his eyes burned like stars as he stared at you, utterly entranced as his face pulsated with gold wires of energy.

“Are they gone?” He asked, seemingly concerned for you. You shrugged, not particularly pleased that they were here in the first place despite them leaving rather quickly.

You quickly shifted your focus to eye him up and down, quickly realising that, in the last few hours of absolute chaos, you hadn’t realised that he looked absolutely fucking filthy. Soot caked his barely-held-together armour, and it seemed to be in even worse condition than it was an hour ago, cracks permeating the sooty plates of blue, along with a crackle of what seemed to be strange blackish charcoal here and there.

His face and hair also looked absolutely dirty, soot splattered along his face, along with the remnants of dried blood he had thrown up hours earlier. When his mouth opened to speak, you swore you could see reddish-gold stain his perfectly shaped teeth.

"I think my appearance disturbs you." It absolutely did. He looked horrifying.

“Well, yeah, obviously! You’re absolutely caked in dirt and what–why the fuck is your mouth still bleeding!?” You almost yelled, absolutely disturbed by his dirty appearance. The gold shimmering on his face stopped once again as he froze, the colour draining from his face as he stood in silence, unnerving you slightly.

You really needed him to freshen up as soon as possible, you thought to yourself, trying to dust some of the dirt off his chest plate, not noticing Ikaris faltering at your touch.

“Would you mind taking a bath or something? I can get fresh clothes for you. I assume you don’t have anything on you, right...?” You then trailed off, slightly annoyed at the fact that he was tracking dirt into the somewhat clean house.

"...Sure," he said, strangely stuck on the touch of your hand.

He wasn't one for many words, you thought to yourself as you dropped your now sooty hand back to your side, awkwardly standing in front of him.

“I really appreciate it. Now go, oh my god. I do not want to see your nasty ass until after you are squeaky clean,” you say as he’s already off to clean himself. He’s also on the wrong floor.

"Bathroom's on the second floor to the right, and it's UPSTAIRS! UPSTAIRS!

§

Ikaris sat naked on the edge of the bathtub, turning his head to look at the floor-length mirror standing at the edge of the pristine bathtub, his damaged and dirty armour having been immediately willed out of existence with a golden flourish as soon he had entered the bathroom and locked the door. All that was left were the remnants of dried blood scattered around his mouth, throat, and across his face, along with dirt caking his sallow skin.

He eyed the mirror with a hollow glare, eyes focused on the bruises that littered his bulky form. (Despite being an Eternal, those cursed blooms of blue and purple could still spread, although they thankfully didn’t stay for long.) The bath tap was running, being paid no attention as he sat still, thinking about everything and nothing all at once. His entire being felt like a shattered mirror of broken directives and base instincts that couldn’t seem to connect no matter how desperately he longed for it to, while every emotion he felt was wrong in every sort of way.

Yet, the overwhelming emotion he felt devour his entire mind was fear. Fear of what Arishem would do.

Tiamut was dead, that was for sure. He had seen the gargantuan Celestial’s eyes snuff out like a dampened sun on an overcast day, transmuted into crackled chunks of marble, a harrowing signal into the universe announcing that this world was to be disposed of. And worst of all, he had failed to stop the other Eternals from subjecting them to an inevitable fate, for Earth would be forsaken anyway, either by Tiamut rising or Arishem arriving to judge this cursed planet for its serious transgression.

Voices once again laugh at Ikaris, mocking him for even trying to stop the other Eternals from killing Tiamut. He growls to himself, trying to block them out and why are they so loUD WHY STOP LAUGHING STOP PLEASE STO—

“Hey, Ikaris, you alright in there? You were screaming, like, really loudly, and I could hear you from downstairs, you okay?”

Your lilting voice, muffled through the bathroom door, cuts through the cacophony of laughs and mocking like a knife through butter, shaking Ikaris out of what seemed to be an absolutely deafening screaming session. Quickly rubbing his face to regain his bearings, he stands up from the bathtub he was sitting on with a wobble, the water almost filled up to the edge, steam filling the room rapidly. He walks over to the door, answering with an “Aye, I’m alright. Just...going through something.”

He hears you sigh. “Alright, but if anything’s wrong, just let me know,” you say, voice slowly fading away as you walk away from the door.

Ikaris tries to ignore the strange longing stop thinking like this you don’t love them you should love them what is wrong with you you stop thinking about them like this stop stop stop you love them? do you? DO YOU? he has for your voice as he returns to the tub, turning the squeaky tap off. He quickly sinks into the scalding hot water, completely submerging himself as he stops breathing, wishing that he could actually drown or burn like a normal human being would.

The blistering heat of the bathwater is a peculiar yet welcome comfort, and Ikaris sinks once more into the restless black abyss of sleep with an aching heart that strangely hurts for you, the last thought on his mind being your warped voice joining in the twisted choir of his shame, laughing at him for his pathetic existence.

§

Ikaris quickly became a welcome presence in the two weeks you’ve stayed in your hometown so far, settling in pretty quickly despite the unusual circumstances of his arrival. (Your gut instinct yells for you to think of why you decided to bring a superhuman —if he was even human— stranger into your life, especially one you had never heard of, unlike the much-too-famous Avengers. You push it away.)

Throughout the past week or so, he had been helping you with fixing the house whenever you wanted him to, especially with some of the more difficult parts while you were freshening up the more antiquated aspects of your late parent’s house. This had been a pretty difficult process for you, as you loved them with your entire being, but they were...in a better place, and you had to try to move on without them in your life. Freshening up the house was a way for you to at least try to do so.

(Your gut screams at you once more to not let Ikaris be near you or get anywhere close in your personal life, family and all. Irritated, you shove it into inexistence.)

Meanwhile, a concerning amount of Deviants had been popping up around the world once more, some of them appearing near your hometown, which you were oblivious too.

Ikaris, at the vast pine forest behind the town, had noticed a small pack of winged, hound-like Deviants wandering around one day while he had been discreetly flying around, gathering some wood for your fireplace at home. Of course, he couldn't believe it at first, thinking them to be nothing more than his own delusions returning to haunt him.

He was instantly proven wrong when a particularly scrappy Deviant decided to launch itself at Ikaris, wings unfurling as it tackled him, making him drop most of the kindling as it attempted to drag him down to the leafy ground. It was unsuccessful, which was putting it kindly, as Ikaris immediately grabbed the Deviant off him and brutally swung it to the ground with a growl, the gross squelch of black blood and gore splattering the forest floor, instantly killing it.

Ikaris heaved, breaths getting more ragged and frenzied by the second as he eyed the dropped kindling he had been collecting for you, a complete mess on the leafy ground. Usually, something like this shouldn't have induced such a livid reaction, but it did, and he could only see red.

With white-hot, searing wrath THEY RUINED YOUR CHANCE WITH THEM THEY RUINED IT KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL KILL THEM THEM flowing through his blood, the remaining kindling in his hand was brutally crushed into splinters and chips in a fit of rage. At the same time, golden beams were immediately shot by a royally pissed-off Ikaris at the rest of the Deviants as they also launched themselves at him. His core directives were to correct excess deviation, after all. (Ajak’s disembodied voice would cruelly remind him that he was the one who set them free from the ice to kill her, and left Gilgamesh dead in their wake. Ikaris snarls, pushing the voice to the back of his mind as he blasted at another Deviant.)

His shattered, broken beyond repair core directives instructed him to kill any hostile Deviant. And that he did.

What those directives didn’t say though, was to completely brutalize them. And yet, Ikaris was using his brute strength to drag their deaths out, ripping sinew and muscles apart with complete ease, bursts of oily blood showering the Eternal. One particularly unfortunate deviant was cleanly ripped in half from head to toe, screaming in agony as it reached a brutal end in the hands of an angered Eternal.

As he finally descended onto the leafy ground after the fight, heaving breaths were finally starting to slow down. Ikaris felt much less wound up and aggravated, as if he was in a comfortable trance. Deviant blood was generously splattered across his face and clothes as he looked around, sighing quietly at the absolute massacre he caused, corpses of the Deviants quickly disintegrating away, leaving only oily black blood and some gore behind. The sight was strangely cathartic, he thought, quietly soaking in his surroundings.

His foot gently nudged the pile of kindling that had been dropped and it collapsed with a few clunks, snapping him out of his daze, realizing the gravity of the situation.

In all his rage about the kindling and you, He had forgotten about your reaction. He knew you would panic and start asking questions, as any average person would if you saw him covered in dark blood, no matter his explanation. He hadn’t even told you he was a fucking Eternal yet. He had never planned to, either, having not expected to live this long. He had to get rid of the blood before you noticed.

Swiftly grabbing the kindling, and swaddling it in his arms, he launched himself towards your house, flying as fast as could before you arrived home, a strange longing in his heart and soul lingering.

(He wonders why you, a mortal’s opinions mattered so much to him. He never felt this attached to anyone, not even Sersi.)

§

As the sky darkens with grey clouds, Ikaris sneaks into the house through the back door with the kindling, not noticing you watching the television, the channel turned to the afternoon news. As he quietly drops off the kindling on the kitchen counter, his quiet steps going upstairs are interrupted by a squeaaaak of the stairs’ wooden planks. He wonders, annoyed, why he didn’t think to fly up the steps as he hears your voice.

“Ik? Is that you?” You yell out from the living room. You don’t notice him, as the stairs are blocked by the living room wall, which he is silently grateful for.

“Aye, it’s me. I’m just going to take a bath!” He yells out. He prays that you don’t come up the stairs.

“Wait, Ik, don’t start yet! The bathtub’s clogged! I just— gimme a sec! I’ll come up and fix it for you!”

Ikaris blanches at the thought of you seeing him covered in blood, and he quickly tries to fly up the steps and reach the bathroom. He reaches the bathroom door and tries to twist the knob, only to find out that it’s locked. Great, he mentally screams, panicking.

“Ik, you should have seen the news today, like, there’s a huge-ass statue in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and no one knows what caused it, it’s like a total—HOLY FUCK WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!?” You immediately yell, staring right at a blood-covered Ikaris, who is desperately trying to open the door without brutalising it into shards of wood and metal. He looks at you, white-faced and clammy, standing straight up as he walks towards you.

“What did you say?”

“I...Ik, what happened to you?” You’re both terrified and concerned.

“It’s, it’s nothing. What’s this about a statue in the middle of the ocean!? I need to know,” he begs, holding your hands in his bloody ones. His eyes seem glassy with tears, and you feel a primordial fear pool in your gut.

“I...”

You hear the loudest BOOM in your life as you instinctively launch yourself away from any close windows, pulling your hands away from Ikaris, who remains still. You hear a booming voice from the skies above, and you swear it’s a god or the end of the world, and honestly, both were kind of inevitable with how the world was going since the Avengers and the Blip. You look up from the floor you were laying down on and see Ikaris’ face swirl glowing gold, his body stiff and unyielding.

“You have chosen to sacrifice a Celestial for the people of this planet.”

The largest voice you’ve ever heard shakes your entire house, vibrations rocking your body and launching you off the floor. The golden threads swirling across Ikaris’ body glow manically, unstable light pulsing across his skin.

Arishem is here, he realises, the golden swirling quickly starting to hurt.

“I will spare them, but your memories will show if they are worthy to live.”

Ikaris starts to convulse, collapsing to the ground as the house vibrates continuously. You grab onto his convulsing form, looking at his agonised face, as he looks at you for any kind of mercy. You’re panicking as you try to lay him on his side and prevent him from falling down the stairs, while the voice continues to boom across the entire Earth, you realise in a panic.

“And I will return for judgment.”

Ikaris is absolutely screaming in pain at this point and the golden swirls look more like cracks across his body, glowing so brightly you can barely look at his strained form, having to close your eyes, still trying to keep him from falling down the stairs as the light and vibrating reaches its fever pitch.

And suddenly, everything stops. The earthquake, Ikaris convulsing, the voice, the golden light. Everything.

You’re heaving with exhaustion, opening your eyes to see Ikaris passed out, eyes half-lidded and slowly closing.

Fuck. Not again.

A/N: Thank you for reading. Sporadic updates.

Reblogs appreciated.

#yandere marvel #yandere eternals #eternals x reader #ikaris x reader #yandere ikaris #yandere mcu #eternals x y/n #yandere x gn reader

[barbwrites]

By all storytelling standards, it should have been a dark and stormy night. It should have been a terribly loud, sad and angry sky that raged overhead, but it was sunny and it was daytime. No one could have guessed the tragedy that was happening underneath it. It was the most terrible day that Vera had ever had in her life. Her now ex had suddenly left her and moved far away with no warning, her father had died in the hospital shortly after, and in the throes of grief, Vera's mother had blamed her. Earlier, she had forgotten her bag on the bus, containing her wallet, her keys, her computer and her phone. She knew that the first thing to do was probably to phone the bus company in hopes that some kind soul had brought her bag to lost and found… But she didn’t have the strength for that. This awful day had beaten her down, drained her of all energy and strength, and as if that wasn’t enough, she was now being told by some police that she couldn’t remain here slumped on the ground, crushed under the weight of devastating tragedy, because the park was closing. After having physically carried this empty husk of a person to the edge of the park, the policemen locked the park gates and disappeared into the crowd.

The crowd – that heartless amorphous entity that would roam the streets day after day had never seemed so cold before. Vera used to relish in the asocial nature of the city crowds, as it afforded her peace and relative quiet on her daily commutes, but the social system that treated normal people with respectable apathy treated those in need with disgust. It was as if the people of the city blamed her for her moment of weakness, as if the mere act of existing in noticeable distress was an immoral assault of guilt upon the rest of the world.

I guess that’s how it works. She thought, Being noticeable makes you one of two things: a passing novelty or a crime against civilised society, depending entirely on whether or not people like what they see, on whether or not you were too different to be acceptable.

Apparently having a face full of tears mixed with mascara and your very soul quietly wailing in agony was too different for these people.

By the time the sky was starting to darken, Vera had managed to curl up, leaning on the side of a bench, having lacked the strength to actually get up onto the bench. This was better, because being out of the way of everyone and half-behind something kept most people from leering at you as they walked by.

A couple of hours later, the early autumn chill had set in to such a degree that it seemed to flip a switch in Vera, kicking some sort of survival instinct into gear, and she found herself stumbling meekly towards home.

With her keys presumably in some bus depot somewhere, Vera ended up sleeping on her neighbour’s deck furniture, as it gave at least a flimsy roof overhead, some distance between her and the cold ground, as well as some unsatisfying, but still softer-than-the-ground seat cushions.

She woke up the next morning to the sun shining through her eyelids, which were glued shut by dried mascara. After what felt like half an hour of repeatedly picking dark mascara crust from her eyes and blinking profusely because there was still some left, she found a note on the deck table beside her.

Oh, right. she thought, I have yet again been an inconvenience plaguing society, and need to be reprimanded in the most impersonal way possible.

She picked up the note, steeled herself for an onslaught of passive-aggressive abuse, then started to read.

“I saw you out here just before going to bed (about 2 AM). Sorry I couldn’t carry you in, out of the cold. I hope the blankets were enough. 

When you wake up, you can knock on my bedroom window (the one just behind the lattice) and I’ll come let you in. Just in case I’m out cold, there’s warm tea in the thermos that can help warm you up.

Hope you don’t freeze to death.

-Emma”

Looking around her properly, Vera saw that there were indeed three blankets still half draped over her and a thermos on the table. Tears started welling up in her eyes again, but instead of the sadness she had felt the day before, it was confused tears of relief. The tears hurt her eyes, but she didn’t care.

*****

When Emma woke up it was already bright outside, which was nothing new for her, but she had hoped to be woken up by that pretty stranger on her deck, partly because she was worried about her, and partly because she felt there was a story there, and she was curious.

I guess she ran off. she thought, Knowing the people in this town, she probably took what she could sell and disappeared. I’m probably gonna have to get a new thermos, and some new blankets.

To Emma’s surprise, when she looked out on the deck, not only was there still a thermos and some blankets still there, there was also a girl, still there.

-----

To be continued (if I ever find my way back to it)

#Writing #fiction #sad stuff #but with hope on the horizon #fic #OC #just figured I'd start putting stuff out there #angst #light in the darkness

[nation-of-bros]

I linked the vid about France from a German tabloid newspaper, because broadcasters like BBC and The Guardian are too much on the path of pity for the allegedly innocent guy who was shot, and don't dare to show the real pictures of the violent extent, so as not endanger the "We are colorful" mood.

About the Creeping Death of France

In the French suburbs, North African migrants kill themselves every day in gang wars. Because a cop overreacted and shot one of those rebellious ghetto kids, they're freaking out? You have to be pretty idiotic to believe that. In truth, the millions of rioters don't give a damn who got shot. It's just a welcome occasion for completely bored, violent young people who have no higher purpose in life. Western laws and police are simply too weak to deal with these aggressive North African youth

Pictorial: The French welfare state has raised several generations of rabid beasts that now want to get out of their cages to romp around. Their destructive rage proves that they have not learned any appreciation for their surroundings. They seem to have absolutely no relation to their French environment. That's what happens when you keep letting people into the country without assimilating them.

There were similar "protests" in France many years ago, which lasted for several days. This increases with each decade as the white French dwindle while violent North African migrants get multiplied. It just takes one generation until France finally tilts socially. At the latest, when the welfare state collapses and millions of hungry migrants go nuts, France will perish forever and the remnants will give rise to a new North African state or just a warring patchwork of North African tribal areas.

A few comments that I believe contain truth:

» You should not drive without a licence. You should stop when the cops pull you over. The young lady that says she doesn’t feel safe in France doesn’t seem to grasp this simple idea. He was not shot out of nowhere. He broke the law and endangered the lives of other people. This does not mean that he had to die for it. But stupid actions tend to have grave consequences, as we all have seen. «

» Used to live in France and tbh, the majority of the teens living in "quartiers" (neighborhoods) truly deserve to be in jail. Being harassed, having stuff stolen, all the fighting....all of that is mostly generated by these teens who have nothing else do to but be disrespectful and act like the streets\city belongs to them. It's about time the government does something about them...especially since if they have the occasion, they will surely harm policemen and other civilians when they can... it happens on a freaking DAILY basis. I saw it everyday... «

» People are watching their property getting burned or looted, declare state of emergency the first night not the 5th. «

» The mother seems very happy. That says a lot about the shot boy «

#politics #essay