#committee against child murder

[purpleisnotacolor]

Henry diffidently watched Sound of music with Charlie, and now she's been singing the songs for a month. 

#fnaf memes #five nights at freddy's #ennard #fnaf marionette #fnaf puppet #charlie emily #my posts #my art #committee against child murder

[grneyedmonster15]

The circumstances surrounding Nex Benedict’s death are so frightening to me. Little kids getting bullied and murdered just for existing as their authentic selves is horrific on its own, but it’s even worse that this murder was instigated by that fascist terrorist Chaya Raichik and that this same fascist terrorist was appointed to an Oklahoma Board of Education library media advisory committee by an apparently equally fascist superintendent. On top of that, I heard that the school punished Nex, the *victim* of this vicious attack, rather than the perpetrators.

Now law enforcement is claiming Nex didn’t die of trauma from the assault, which is absolute horseshit because even if it turns out their head injury wasn’t the immediate cause of death, their death was still a direct and foreseeable result of being terrorized and assaulted by other kids and then being punished by the school for being victimized.

Nex’s death was especially jarring to me because they looked a lot like my youngest child, who is pansexual. My heart lurched when I saw their picture. I was already worried about my child’s safety at school because we live in a red area, because my child has been bullied before over being autistic, and because of our country’s absolute failure to address gun violence, but now that the fascists are ramping up their terrorism against LGBTQIA children, I’m absolutely terrified for my child.

#Nex Benedict #bullying #stochastic terrorism #lgbtqia #school sanctioned murder

[republicansaredomesticterrorists]

This inbred motherf—ker is the ass clown that assaulted a kid in front of Congress that was trying to ask BOBO a question. He’s also said during the 2020 election that his wife was a witch who could see the future and predicted Biden would unleash the military against MAGAts if Trump didn’t win.

He’s a “celebrity” cop who came to local prominence after doing a few off script racist PSA’s that got him fired. He was actually dismissed from several local police departments for being a racist who beat up alleged perps that already were in handcuffs. He’s also bragged about being an active duty soldier who fought in the Middle East. In fact he was only in the reserves and was never deployed. He also lied about being an officer when he was never promoted beyond sergeant.

This fine Christian is currently on his 4th wife (the witch). He has cheated on all four of them. His 1st wife went missing after he divorced her and was later found dead. He was widely believed to have murdered her but it couldn’t be proved. He owes over $140,000 in child support which he refuses to pay and was caught on tape joking about it after he was elected to Congress. He’s been taken to court over it but has not been forced to pay up by local Republican judges and has openly threatened violence on his exes.

Although dumb as a bag of rocks he is on the powerful Homeland Security and Oversight and Reform Committees. He hasn’t passed any legislation and spends all his time ranting about the deep state, election denial, and various Qanon conspiracies. He also says all Federal law enforcement will be fired and executed for “staging” the Jan 6th Insurrection and blaming innocent Trump supporters.

#republican hypocrisy #republican assholes #Clay Higgins #Clay Higgins is a dumb cousin fucking redneck asshole

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Another independent Palestinian terrorist attack happened today, wounding two Palestinians who happened to drive by the terrorists, who intended to shoot at Israeli soldiers. The IDF neutralized them, while one soldier's life was saved thanks to his gear (I found the report on the shooting terrorist attack in both Hebrew and English, I only found the info on the two wounded Palestinians in Hebrew).

During the International Court of Justice's decision regarding provisional measures against Israel, only the majority opinion was read out loud. The minority opinion was published separately. The short of it is that the judge from Uganda found that South Africa didn't have a right to make this case at all, and therefore decided against every single provisional measure SA asked for, while the Israeli judge had the same conclusion, and a few words to add, as a child survivor of the Holocaust. He wrote, among other things, "Genocide is not just a word to me" (a sentiment that should be shared by everyone, not just survivors of genocide, IMO) and that essentially, the ICJ became a stage to put Able on trial for having been murdered by Cain, or in Barak's words, by focusing on Israel instead of on Hamas, South Africa "wrongly sought to impute the crime of Cain to Abel."

This footage aired a few days ago, but since I couldn't find it anywhere in English, I ended up editing it out of an article in Hebrew. What you can see here are two things... First, you'll see the Israeli Air Force following a Hamas squad, where the terrorists are carrying RPGs and going into a building. The IAF then strikes from the air that building, and what really stands out is the secondary explosions after the initial hit, indicating that the building was full of explosives. Second, you'll see Gazans evacuating to safety. As they do, they chant against Hamas. But what really got to me is how they're moving slowly next to Israeli tanks. If they were scared that the Israeli army would shoot at them indiscrimintaely as part of some attempted genocide, they would be rushing it out of there, and likely they wouldn't have even stepped anywhere near the tanks. They can walk slowly next to the IDF, because they're sure that the Israeli soldiers are NOT going to fire at them.

In the last couple of days, we've had repeated reports of Israelis being injured by Hezbollah fire into northern Israel (after civilian communities were continuously targeted, and people got killed by this Iran-funded terrorist group), and that IDF units which have concluded their fighting in Gaza, are now starting to train for a possible war in the north. Let's hope it won't come to that, but the only thing that might stop that option is a diplomatic agreement leading to Hezbollah leaving Israel's border, and there are no signs of those efforts succeeding for the time being.

The final warning before a subponea that the House committee investigating antisemitism had to issue Harvard, because the university hasn't produced the documents it was asked to, sure does make it sound like Haravard has nothing to hide...

Today, 4 months and a day after the Hamas massacre, they started removing the ruins of houses in kibbutz Be'eri, where over 100 members of the small, agricultural community had been slaughtered on Oct 7. This is a first step in re-building the kibbutz.

And this is one of the kibbutz members, Meni Goddard.

In continuation of yesterday's info on the number of Israelis already murdered by Hamas, and their bodies held hostage, today it was confirmed that Meni was murdered on Oct 7, and his body was kidnapped to Gaza. It was already known that his wife Ayelet was also murdered during the massacre. Kibbutz Be'eri currently has 11 members who are known to have been kidnapped to Gaza, of which 6 are bodies held hostage, depriving the dead of their right for decent burial, and their families and community of closure. May his memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

[morally-grey-girlbosses]

Propaganda under the cut.

Edelgard:

we love an axe user 🙏 she has a whole alter ego/persona just for conspiracy against the church. yeahhh she does a little murder but like, she’s kinda right

Caused insane discourse over whether she was right or wrong that has been going on for four years and will never stop.

She declared a war against the church and the class system of the continent, because she wants a better world, and that's nice she looked hot while doing it too, but her methods are questionable.

She started a war to get rid of the monarchy system in her continent since she believed the system rewarded only those with luck to be born with magic crests rather than those who worked hard. Said system combined with an underground organization that wanted to exploit said crests, allowed for her and her siblings to be experimented on and for most of them to die. Edelgard is desperate to get rid of the crest system fast, since the experimentation on her while it made her more powerful it also shortened her lifespan, war was the fastest way to get rid of it. In any other route of the games that isn't hers, it's heavily implied she sacrificed some of her allies to have an advantage on the battlefield. In the route "Azure Moon" where you support her childhood friend and enemy, Dimitri, in the war, Edelgard will sacrifice her body to become a monster and finally be able to kill you both. Even after Dimitri forgives her, Edelgard will try to kill him. I love her Qwq In her route you can help her become better, and see her hopeful rather than sunk in her obsession for her goal.

Edelgard is a total badass, kind of a fascist, and head of the war crimes committee. She partnered up with a group of comically evil mages in order to destroy the Central Church and overthrow the Archbishop/dragon that had controlled the country for over a millennia, declared war before the school year ended, roping all of her classmates into the conflict, and is even the first protagonist and first female character to fall into the evil emperor archetype. But with all her war crimes, she had a reason for everything, as she was trying to free the continent from the oppressive Crest system that determined people's value by their blood and caused her to be horrifically tortured as a child.

Almalexia:

Killed her husband in order to become a god-queen (based), tried to kill everyone else when her powers started waning (cringe).

#poll #tournament poll #round 2 #edelgard von hresvelg #fe3h edelgard #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #almalexia #the elder scrolls #tes

[zatdummesmadchen]

I completely support Israel being held accountable for its crimes against humanity, but we also can’t ignore that Indonesia has been violently occupying West Papua - a region more than twice the size of occupied Palestine - for the past 55 years, and has murdered 500,000 indigenous West Papuans in the process. Indonesian soldiers routinely burn indigenous villages to the ground, pose with the bodies of murdered Papuan civilians, and actively prevent journalists from reporting on the genocide. West Papuans often refer to their homeland as “Indonesia’s Palestine.”

There's nothing to add. I agree. I am not trying to imply that all of the countries supporting Palestine don't have their own interests or agendas or that they are perfect in any way. Such as China or, say, Iran. Not everything is black and white, and there are definitely multiple geopolitical reasons for their actions or stand.

There are definitely many biases when it comes to geopolitical situations and blatant hypocrisy.

I completely understand and do sympathise with the West Papuans.

Undoubtedly, the situation is awful and has been going on for years. Basic research shows plenty of results of the brutal Indonesian occupation and brutality against the people.

《 Here is this website I found which might be helpful to gain some insight, feel free to drop more and I will add it to the post. 》

The West Papua Genocide Monitor

Welcome to the Awareness Campaign page for West Papua genocide. You have come to the right place if you are looking for information about West Papua genocide. - the introduction. Very good information.

The situation is indeed very similar to Palestine, with some mentions of settler colonialism in some of the articles. Hence the name is fitting I suppose. Hypocrisy runs high in politics and history, no doubt.

Countries such as Turkey and Egypt come to mind, its very telling. They probably put out statements to pacify the outrage and the anger of their own citizens since it would and should threaten their power otherwise.

This includes several Arab governments such as Jordan (there are huge protests daily)

The information about it is easy to find although I think a much more educated blog would do well in explaining the situation.

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #current events #jerusalem #yemen #palestinian genocide #indonesia #settler colonialism #genocide #west papua #zdm talks #zdm speaks

[mitigatedchaos]

Re: The 'Chillers' Discourse

(~1,200 words)

I've been asked to comment on the recent increase in the practice of parents placing their children into cryonic stasis in territories where this is legally allowed, which this emerging subculture are referring to as "pausing" the child.

The public-facing justification given is that this is essential when parents are suffering from severe physical or mental illness.

First, I'd like to address the health concerns. Cryonics as a field has advanced tremendously since the early 21st century. While opponents of this practice are horrified for moral reasons, they are blowing the potential health effects out of proportion. Several freeze-thaw cycles before age 18 is well within the acceptable limits laid out by most health authorities. Typical post-thawing symptoms are mostly nausea, dizziness, fatigue, and frequent urination, and clear within about two weeks. (This is assuming that it's a good-quality facility with competent staff. There are rumors of fly-by-night cryostorage facilities not rated for medical use engaged in the practice, but those are outside our jurisdiction.)

Second, I'm going to discuss why Orbital Operations & Planetary Security (OOPS!) are divesting our holdings of conventional murderers that were sent to lunar cryoprison by the pre-War government and shifting our focus primarily to a combination of wealthy patients and individuals convicted of crimes against humanity.

Placing someone in cryogenic suspension and then reviving them can cause acute and chronic psychological distress, as the period of time appears to pass 'instantly,' and while obviously they lose connection with current events, media, fashion trends, etc (and thus lose the context of society), they also lose connection with social contacts (who could help recontextualize). This condition, which we refer to informally as 'time shock,' is something we treat with an expensive reacclimatization period which covers the contents of the 'missing' time period and rebuilds social contacts with a pool of volunteers.

Without this therapy program, which is quite costly, a significant minority of subjects will request to go back into cryostasis, commit self-injury, or enter a prolonged period of depression. (It also accompanies a worsening of other mental health stats, including a risk of delusion. This is the 'cryo-psychosis' you've probably heard about.)

For children, this could seriously interfere with proper development. We therefore recommend that children are generally not placed into cryostasis, unless this is necessary for medical reasons, or the parent is also placed into cryostasis for some reason. (This is the official position of the OOPS cryonics branch.)

During the final phases of the war, our faction came into the possession of the previous government's unfilled mass cryoincarceration facilities. As part of strategic planning it was considered whether to use this capability to take a very large number of prisoners of war, and thus gain additional leverage during an ensuing occupation.

Due to both the practical and ethical ramifications, this decision was put to the central committee (composed of representatives of the biomechanoid officer corps) and guidance council (composed of representatives of the elders).

The real problem with cryoincarceration - and this also applies to 'chilling' children - is that it's cheap to keep prisoners on ice, but expensive to take them back out. This means that every year, the government (or parent) has the incentive to keep the prisoner on ice, and make paying to remove the prisoners the problem of the next government.

This was not a hypothetical at the time. This is how we came into the possession of so many conventional murderers and other prisoners to begin with. It was resolved to begin a 20-year drawdown, set to start at the end of the war.

Third, regarding the prisoners themselves...

There are a lot of theories on Earth about why we are getting rid of the prisoners. To go over some of these...

This is not a 'new form of warfare'. The prisoners are being delivered to prisons on Earth, not released into the general population.

If prisoners are being delivered to prisons in your territory, your government has agreed to take them. (Usually this means they were originally from your territory, unless they were previously from territory currently controlled by the World Union.)

In some cases, we may be paying your government to take the prisoners. In other cases, your government may be paying us.

None of the prisoners are from space. There is very little crime in space. (Due to the extremely contingent nature of life support, there is very little tolerance for crime in space.)

No prisoner released by this program has been deemed an "extreme escape risk."

Now, regarding the criminals we're either keeping or gathering (much smaller in number)...

Many of my colleagues have been happy to hint to outsiders that we are holding frozen criminals only until we can devise suitably awful punishments for their crimes. Many on Earth accept this without thinking about it due to our behavior during the war. While this might have some deterrent effect, this is not the reason.

Some on Earth believe we are keeping these prisoners to study them. They're apparently split on whether this is research to prevent future crimes, or to build even more terrifying human weapons. Some research is occurring, but I'm going to be honest with you - it's not very much. Most of these people are either so mundane that there's not much to learn, or so unique that nothing we learn about them usefully generalizes.

In this era, it's essentially impossible to entirely prevent a few people from going insane from ideology, or developing an ideological or psychological feedback loop with somatic capital, and exiting the normal human range of behavior (in a bad way).

However, having "defeated aging" (through somatic capital technology, even if deep rejuvenation inherently causes some pretty serious memory loss), people prefer the illusion of immortality.

When someone mounts their brain to a robotic scorpion and kills every woman in a sorority after dosing themselves with illegal neuroplasticity enhancers for over a decade, society demands that 'someone' "do something." (Even the biosocialists have this problem.)

So whenever the authorities manage to capture the perpetrator alive, they stick his brain in a rocket and blast it into outer space. "We're sending this terror to OOPS," they say, "the only group to ever successfully prosecute a sixth-generation war. Who knows what horrifying and incomprehensible things they will do to this horrible individual?"

It's about the best the non-religious ones can do.

The primary purpose of the cryoincarceration program is to preserve enough functional tissue samples of the cryoincarcerated for Earth-side governments to maintain their genomic ban on individuals convicted of crimes against humanity.

That's it. We don't plan on waking any of these people up.

Fourth, to bring it back to the 'chillers,' as their opponents have been calling them, I recently read a study out of Shanghai.

About 1,400 individuals with a child in cryonic storage for non-medical reasons were studied, and compared with 1,400 parents without children on ice as a comparison group. Hardship was only part of the study, but the researchers estimate that only about 20% of the individuals studied were experiencing hardships greater than the those typical in the comparison group.

I expect that over the next 10-20 years, laws will be changed to add more legal limits to the procedure in most (though not all) jurisdictions where it is currently legal.

#augmented reality break #discourse preview

[mariacallous]

WASHINGTON (JTA) — In the wake of the murder of a 6-year-old Palestinian-American boy in a Chicago suburb, Jewish groups across the religious spectrum are pleading with Americans to not allow anti-Muslim hate to spread because of Israel’s war with Hamas.

Reform, Conservative and Reconstructionist umbrella bodies have joined a statement spearheaded by the Jewish Council for Public Affairs, a national public policy group, and two Orthodox groups have released their own statements.

“This is a moment of deep Jewish pain, mourning the lives taken and praying for the safe release of the hostages in Gaza – and this pain and fear is compounded by a horrific rise in antisemitism here in the United States and around the globe,” said the JCPA statement, which in addition to the religious movements was also signed by the American Jewish Committee, J Street, Hadassah and the National Council of Jewish Women, among other groups.

“We also know that we are not the only ones being targeted in this moment,” it said. “Our Muslim, Arab, and Palestinian American neighbors are facing bigotry, threats, and violence – including the despicable murder of a six-year-old child this weekend outside Chicago, by a man who reportedly espoused anti-Muslim hate.”

The Anti-Defamation League separately condemned the attack and two Orthodox groups, Agudath Israel of America and the Orthodox Union, put out statements expressing horror at the crime.

“Agudath Israel condemns this heinous crime and sends its sincere condolences to the bereaved family members and their entire community,” it said in a statement.

The Orthodox Union said in a statement that “we reject anti-Muslim bigotry along with all forms of hate against individuals based on their faith and absolutely reject revenge attacks against innocent Muslims and Arab Americans in this country or anywhere.”

Police on Saturday charged Joseph Czuba, 71, with stabbing the boy, Wadea Al-Fayoum, to death, and seriously injuring the boy’s mother, in Plainfield, Illinois. Police said Czuba was motivated by anti-Muslim and anti-Palestinian bias. Reports quoted Czuba’s wife as saying he was moved to rage by conservative media coverage of Israel’s war with Hamas.

The killing has spurred fears of an increase in anti-Arab and anti-Muslim violence, including expressions of concern by President Joe Biden and J.B. Pritzker, Illinois’s Jewish governor. A group of Chicago area rabbis attended Al-Fayoum’s funeral.

Also signing the JCPA statement were an array of local Jewish Community Relations Councils, which often work with local Muslim and Arab groups.

[daughter-of-melpomene]

𝐑𝐄-𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐈

❝ Every high school has one. A rich, popular, bitchy girl who seems to have it all. Usually an only child (unless her daddy remarries a blonde bimbo barely over the legal age and finally gets the son he’s always wanted), this girl was born to parents with bank accounts loaded like baked potatoes and will never have to worry about money in her life. Maybe she makes good grades and does extracurriculars, maybe not, but you can bet your ass she’s on the yearbook committee, will be able to get into a good college without even trying, and doesn’t really give a shit about anyone besides herself, not even her so-called “friends”. She’s cold, sarcastic and an absolute bitch, and will never be afraid to destroy anyone who gets in her way.

At Woodsboro High, that bitch was Molly Perbesi.

Aside from her strange obsession with tales of ghosts and murder, Molly was the teenage girl most other teenage girls dreamed of being. Captain of the cheerleading squad, head of Woodsboro’s yearbook committee, a bank account that was loaded like a baked potato, and always clad in the newest fashions, Molly was the type of high school senior all the nerdy freshman girls wanted to be friends with, if only because her very aura would give them a protective shield against bullies.

But if any of those freshman had actually managed to find their way into Molly’s inner circle, they would quickly regret ever wanting to be her friend in the first place. Molly was never sincere, full of backhanded compliments, never hesitated to tear someone down if they said something she didn’t like, and talked about murder way too much. It was a miracle Sidney Prescott and Tatum Riley had managed to stay friends with her for so long, given all the many aspects of her personality that worked so hard to push people away.

(Especially considering the fact that Molly frequently made out with Sidney’s boyfriend, Billy, in various storage closets and empty classrooms all around the school. Not that Sidney knew about that. But still.)

And then Casey Becker, Molly’s childhood best friend until the two girls had a falling-out sophomore year, turns up murdered along with her boyfriend (who, admittedly, was an idiotic douchebag, but Molly doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead), and Molly, whose passion for true crime stories is well-known at Woodsboro High, becomes a suspect for the killings. And then more people get attacked and killed by some freak in a weird mask, and Molly continues to be a suspect, despite the fact that she would never wear anything as unflattering as that long black cape thing.

Her father’s money and expensive heels aren’t going to be enough to get Molly out of this scrape. But her secret inner strength, cheerleading muscles, and Sidney’s utter badassness might be enough to survive this ordeal and finally unmask the Ghostface killer. ❞

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginnystilinski-reblogs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag. (Also tagging @manyfandomocs.)

#my ocs #reintroducing my ocs #ch: molly perbesi #oc: molly perbesi #fic: twisted #queerocs #fyeahocsofcolor #ocapp #ocappreciation #ochub #allaboutocs #fyeahscreamocs #scream oc

[eretzyisrael]

Due to the war, Gerda Cole was forced to give up her daughter. The 98-year-old was reunited for the first time with her 80-year-old daughter.

Gerda Cole left her family and world behind when she was just 15 years old. The year was 1939, and Gerda’s native city of Vienna had become a hell for Jews.

Germany had absorbed the Austrian Republic the year before in the Anschluss (German for “union”) and Vienna was now part of the Nazi Reich. Home to nearly 200,000 Jews, Viennese Jews were being stripped of their rights and dignity. One of the Nazis’ first actions in Vienna was to outlaw Jewish communal organizations and send their leaders to the Dachau concentration camp. Jews were forbidden from many professions and hundreds of businesses were forcibly seized from Jewish owners. If any Jews in Vienna doubted the brutal hatred that was directed against them, the night of November 9, 1938 dispelled any lingering hope that there was a future for them.

Throughout Germany and Austria, mobs attacked Jews and their homes, synagogues, and businesses. Known as Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, the mobs were particularly virulent in Vienna. Nearly all of the city’s synagogues were burned to the ground. Twenty-seven Jews were murdered and 6,000 Jews were arrested and sent to Dachau.

In the midst of this horror, a group of Jewish and non-Jewish activists offered a lifeline to some Jewish children in Austria and Germany. Britain had agreed to accept refugees from Nazi Germany (including Austria) who were aged 16 or younger. Parents would not be allowed to accompany their children. Despite the trauma of sending away young children into the unknown, thousands of Jewish families leapt at the chance to send their precious children to safety. Between 1938 and roughly 1940, about 10,000 children escaped Austria and Germany, nearly all finding safe refuge in Britain on what became known as the Kindertransport. Gerda Cole was one of those unaccompanied children.

Life in Britain was hard. Gerda wed very young and the marriage was an unhappy one. Gerda became pregnant with a daughter, but by the time her baby was born in 1942 when Gerda was 18 years old, her marriage was already ending.

“I had very limited personal education,” Gerda recently explained. She was destitute. “This, combined with wartime, left me no recourse but to have the baby adopted under the advice of the refugee committee,” Gerda explained. (The Refugee Committee was part of the Central British Fund for German Jewry, one of the major groups working to bring Jewish refugees to Britain and to look after them once they arrived.) “It was hard,” Gerda told The Washington Post. If she had been in a better position, she would have tried to keep her daughter.

Gerda agreed to give her baby up for adoption to a German couple who was living in the United Kingdom. The terms of the adoption agreement were clear: Gerda could have no contact with her child after the adoption. There was only one act that Gerda was allowed to perform for her new baby, giving her a name. Gerda named her daughter Sonya, though she had no way of knowing if her baby’s new parents would keep the moniker.

Gerda went on to wed four more times. While her romantic life seems to have been tumultuous, she developed a deep passion for education and archeology. She worked as an accountant and took on a part time job at a Burger King to help fund her global travels. A keen archeologist, Gerda has spent much time volunteering on digs in Israel. In 1965, she moved to Canada where she began to study. She eventually earned three degrees, including an honors BA in Jewish Studies from the University of Toronto.

Though she has stepchildren and step grandchildren, Gerda never had another biological child after Sonya. She often thought of the daughter she’d given up for adoption, but had no way to contact her.

Then, in recent weeks, something miraculous occurred.

Sonya Grist (she did keep the name) is now a retired tour guide living in England. She grew up curious about her biological parents, married and had three children. One of her sons, Stephen, has been curious about his heritage and even considered applying for Austrian citizenship, based on his mother’s Austrian heritage. Through the years, Stephen turned to online research to learn more about his family. “I would spend an hour a night going down these rabbit holes and finding out remarkable information along the way,” he explained. He knew the names of his mother’s biological parents and was trying to find information about them.

Recently, Stephen tracked down somebody he thought might be related to his grandmother and contacted him through Facebook. It turns out he was Gerda’s step grandson. Stephen explained that he was researching his family heritage and asked the man if he could provide him with Gerda’s death certificate. “You won’t find her death certificate,” the man replied, “because she’s still alive.”

Stephen was shocked. His biological grandmother is now 98 years old. Sonya is 80 and had long wanted to know about her birth parents. She’d tried to locate them through the years but with no success. Stephen waited for two weeks, mulling how to break the news to his mother, then eventually told her what he’d found. “My first reaction was, I want to go and see her,” Sonya explained.

Last month, she and Stephen decided to fly to Toronto, where Gerda lives in a retirement home. The day after they arrived - May 7, 2022 - was Gerda’s 98th birthday and also Canada’s Mother’s Day. The moment could not have been more fortuitous. Staff at Gerda’s home decorated their party room for the big event in blue, Gerda’s favorite color. Gerda donned a crown and sash, and entered the room, ready to meet her long lost daughter at last.

When Sonya and Gerda embraced, they dissolved into tears. They discovered they have many similar traits, including their love of travel and adventure and of learning new languages. Sonya is “a little bit of me,” Gerda explained at the party. “I made so many mistakes, and yet she went looking for me and found me,” Gerda said.

Sonya told reporters at the party that she understood the pressures her mother had been under when she gave her up for adoption: “I bear no malice, no grudges, no nothing.”

For Gerda, the meeting felt like a gift. “It was incredible. When I heard, I just couldn’t believe it. This must be a miracle. It means so much to me… was definitely the best thing that has happened to me.”

Now that she’s been reunited with Sonya and her grandchildren, Gerda has one final wish: “I would love to join their family. At this point, there is nothing more I would like than to be together.”

#Israel #Shoah #Reunion

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Michael de Adder

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

February 23, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

FEB 24, 2024

Two years ago today, Ukraine president Volodymyr Zelensky made a passionate plea to the people of Russia, begging them to avoid war. He gave the speech in Russian, his own primary language, and, reminding Russians of their shared border and history, told them to “listen to the voice of reason”: Ukrainians want peace.  

“You’ve been told I'm going to bomb Donbass,” he said. “Bomb what? The Donetsk stadium where the locals and I cheered for our team at Euro 2012? The bar where we drank when they lost? Luhansk, where my best friend's mom lives?” Zelensky tried to make the human cost of this conflict clear. Observers lauded the speech and contrasted its statesmanship with the ramblings in which Putin had recently engaged.

And yet Zelensky’s speech stood only as a marker. Early the next day, Russian president Vladimir Putin launched a “special military operation” involving dozens of missile strikes on Ukrainian cities before dawn. He claimed in a statement that was transparently false that he needed to defend the people in the “new republics” within Ukraine that he had recognized two days before from “persecution and genocide by the Kyiv regime.” He called for “demilitarization” of Ukraine, demanding that soldiers lay down their weapons and saying that any bloodshed would be on their hands. 

Putin called for the murder of Ukrainian leaders in the executive branch and parliament and intended to seize or kill those involved in the 2014 Maidan Revolution, which sought to turn the country away from Russia and toward a democratic government within Europe, and which itself prompted a Russian invasion. He planned for his troops to seize Ukraine’s electric, heating, and financial systems so the people would have to do as he wished. The operation was intended to be lightning fast.

But rather than collapsing, Ukrainians held firm. The day after Russia invaded, Zelensky and his cabinet recorded a video in Kyiv. “We are all here,” he said. “Our  soldiers are here. The citizens are here, and we are here. We will defend our independence…. Glory to Ukraine!” When the United States offered the next day to transport Zelensky outside the country, where he could lead a government in exile, he responded:

“The fight is here; I need ammunition, not a ride.”

That statement echoes powerfully two years later as Ukraine continues to stand against Russia’s invasion but now quite literally needs ammunition, as MAGA Republicans in Congress are refusing to take up a $95 billion national security supplemental measure that would provide aid to Ukraine. 

Instead, Republicans spent the day insisting that they do not oppose in vitro fertilization, the popular reproductive healthcare measure that the Alabama Supreme Court last Friday endangered by deciding that a fertilized human egg was a child—what they called an “extrauterine” child—and that people can be held legally responsible for destroying them. Since the decision, Alabama healthcare centers have halted their IVF programs out of fear of prosecution for their handling of embryos. 

Republicans who oppose abortion have embraced the idea that life begins at conception, an argument that leads naturally to the definition of IVF embryos as children. But this presents an enormous problem for Republicans, whose antiabortion stance is already creating warning signs for 2024. Today a memo from the National Republican Senatorial Committee (NRSC) noted that 86% of the people they polled support increased, not reduced, access to IVF procedures.

The good news for the Republicans is that their frantic defense of IVF means that the media has largely stopped talking about the news of just two days ago, the fact that the man whose testimony congressional Republicans relied on to launch an impeachment process against President Joe Biden turned out to be working with Russian operatives. House leaders have quietly deleted from their House Impeachment website the Russian disinformation that previously was central to their case against Biden. 

But today, as Republican House members remain on vacation, President Biden announced new sanctions against Russia, and Senate majority leader Chuck Schumer (D-NY) was in Ukraine, where he challenged House speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) to pass the national security supplemental bill. “The weight of history is on his shoulders,” Schumer told reporters in Lviv. “If he turns his back on history, he will regret it in future years.”

“Two years,” Ukraine president Zelensky wrote today. “We are all here…. Together with representatives of Algeria, Argentina, Armenia, Australia, Austria, Azerbaijan, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, Canada, Chile, China, Colombia, Croatia, Cyprus, Czechia, Egypt, Estonia, the EU, Finland, France, Georgia, Germany, Greece, Guatemala, the Holy See, Hungary, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Kazakhstan, the Republic of Korea, Kuwait, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Malta, Moldova, Montenegro, the Netherlands, New Zealand, North Macedonia, Norway, Pakistan, Peru, the Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Qatar, Romania, Saudi Arabia, Slovakia, Slovenia, South Africa, Spain, Sudan, Sweden, Switzerland, Tajikistan, Thailand, Türkiye, the UAE, the United Kingdom, the USA, Viet Nam, as well as international organisations….”

Slava Ukraini.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#history #war in Ukraine #useful idiots #Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #Zelensky #IVF #US House of Representative Theocrats #Putin's war

[purpleisnotacolor]

Micheal: I've been alive for far too long ,I should have died decades ago, but I've been trapped on earth to suffer for all eternity and I've fulfilled all the purpose I could have. I'm too broken and wounded to pass on on my own, the only thing I can do now is let the flames take me.

Henry: I've been living alone for so long. My wife's gone, my daughter was murdered by my best friend and all that's left of her now is a wondering spirit. All I could have to live for has been taken from me. But I think there may be some peace for us after death, it's the only way I can save myself and my daughter now.

Charlie:

#committee against child murder #five nights at freddy's #fnaf 6 #henry emily #charlie emily #micheal afton #fnaf puppet #fnaf marionette #my posts #sad boy hours

[callsignspark]

anything for you | part two

pairing: Jake Hangman Seresin x Rebecca Hermann (fem!OC)

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, implied violence against women/children, discussions of murder (nothing explicit/gory), inaccuracies about hotel ownership, implied child neglect, descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks, discussion of insecurities, eventual smut, warnings to be added as needed 

word count: 5.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist

note: here's part two, thank you to everyone who read the first part and left such kind comments - you're all so lovely!

Thursday, June 22, 2023 | San Diego, CA | 1332 PST

“When you asked if I was free for lunch, I thought this was going to be a fun, sexy thing.”

“And you thought garlic-and-onion-filled gyros were the appropriate pairing for a sexy lunch?” She snorts, rolling her eyes when he keeps talking, ignoring her teasing.

“I wouldn’t have said yes and ordered your favorite-” Jake pauses to shove a huge bite into his mouth “-if I knew you were just going to torture me with this stuff.”

“That’s disgusting, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Rebecca looks at him with disdain when he opens his mouth to show off his half-chewed food. “How you were voted California’s most eligible bachelor eight years in a row is a complete mystery to me.”

“I never had lunch with the selection committee.”

She smiles at his joke, then straightens up, getting down to the matter at hand. “So, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I don’t care what color our napkins are.” He groans, flopping back into the loveseat where they’re sharing lunch.

“Well, neither do I!” She huffs, flapping the fabric samples toward his face. “Pick one: pearl white or ivory cream.”

“Those look fucking identical.”

“They basically are.”

“So why does it matter?”

“Because Michelle needs an answer today on what we want for the reception, so please pick one.”

“I want whatever you want, darling.” Her blood heats up; the combination of the condescending pet name and how attractive he manages to be while lounging on the uncomfortable corporate-chic cushions is practically lethal.

She practically whines his name, tired of the back and forth on a conversation they’d already had three times. “Stop being a patronizing dickhead and just pick one of the nearly identical napkin options.”

“The right one.”

“Perfect, a fantastic choice.” She tosses the samples on the table and pulls out her phone to text the decision to their wedding planner. “You know, it would be nice if you would help make some of the real decisions for this wedding, too.”

“But you’re doing such a great job! And besides, I’m giving valu-”

“If you say, “valuable input on the honeymoon” one more time, I will sit on you and shove that salad down your throat, I swear to god, Jacob.”

“You say that like I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“Keep it up, and I’ll shove more than just the salad.”

He sits up, a huge grin lighting up his face. “Wow! You are so feisty today, Mrs. Seresin!”

“I’m not Mrs. Seresin yet; you pompous, jacka-” Her joking tirade is cut off by his desk phone.

“Honey, as much as I love it when you’re mean to me, gonna need you to hold onto that thought. I told Ginger to hold all calls while you were here unless it was an emergency.” He hustles to his desk, brushing his fingers against her cheek as he passes. “This is Jake Ser- okay. Okay, hold on, sweetheart, she’s right here. Just a second.”

He waves her over as he holds the receiver away from his mouth, “It’s your sister, and she’s crying.”

“What?!” She trips getting up, her mind immediately going to the worst-case scenario. “Delilah? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Th-they-they aren’t-t-t…”

“Try to breathe, honey. Are you okay? Can you tell me if you’re hurt?”

“N-not hurt.” It’s a relief to hear, but Delilah’s breathing is too unstable to be comfortable.

“Alright, okay. It’s okay. I’m right here. Don’t want to trigger an asthma attack, so we’re gonna take deep breaths together, okay? Just like we used to when you were little.” The sisters breathe together, the older one making sure her inhales and exhales are loud enough for the younger one to hear over the phone.

It takes a few minutes, but Delilah’s breathing starts to level out. “Thanks, Becca.”

“Of course, kiddo. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“My academic awards ceremony is tonight, and I’m probably getting a big math award, but Dad just called me to tell me that they’re not gonna make it because it’s Mom’s birthday! They’re going to dinner and then to the bars with the guys from Dad’s crew! Can you believe it?” Her voice is weak but borderline shrill. “It’s my senior year – the last big thing besides graduation – and they’re not coming!”

The last three words send Rebecca’s mind into a spiral. All the times she had heard that exact phrase and then been the one to care for her sister flashing through her mind. At seventeen, being forced to be a primary caretaker to an infant Delilah during the limited free time she had in between school and work. At twenty-eight, and parenting her preteen sister because her biological parents decided to go on a month-long trip to the Caribbean. Every time they had deemed something else more important than their child. The countless volleyball and softball games missed, cash wasted on tickets for the school musical, parent-teacher conferences that were straight-up ignored half the time. When Rebecca was younger, she would mourn the gas money burned and the free time stolen as she acted as a personal assistant and valet to her sister, driving back and forth to practices, dentist appointments, dance classes, play rehearsals, haircuts, anything that Delilah needed. Looking back now, she was grateful they had gotten to spend that time together.

“We’ll be there.” She interrupts without thinking.

“You will?” Delilah’s voice is soft but pleased. The intention of her call was just to vent to her big sister, let out the frustration of being ignored again by her parents. “You don’t have to. I know you’re both busy.”

“Never too busy for you, babe. What time does it start? Do you want a ride?” She sinks into the desk chair, crossing her legs and leaning back, hoping the pressure building behind her eyes doesn’t turn into a full-blown migraine.

Rebecca can feel Jake hovering before he squats next to the chair. She ignores him in favor of letting the now happy voice of her sister wash over her. It’s a solid plan until a large hand lands on her thigh. His palm is warm where it lays against her skin, and his fingers gently rub the material of her skirt, letting her know he’s there. She turns her head to the right and peeks an eye open, watching him watch her.

“Is she hurt?” He mouths the question, looking relieved after she shakes her head.

She hesitates for a second before putting her hand on his, rubbing her thumb along the back of his hand in thanks. Jake takes the opportunity to hold her hand, playfully squeezing her fingers a few times, a ghost of a smile on his face. The sisters talk a bit more, confirming plans for the evening and saying “I love you” before hanging up. Rebecca drops the receiver into its cradle and leans back, looking at the ceiling. The office is quiet, the clock on the wall making the only noise in the otherwise silent room.

“Since we’re not preparing to storm Normandy, I take it everything is okay now?” She hums in confirmation, still staring at the ceiling. “What happened?”

“They’re not coming.”

There’s something about the way she says it – voice hollow, emotionless – that sets warning bells off in his head, but he still asks, “Who?”

“Fucking Seymour and Brittany.” She starts pacing. “It’s Brittany’s birthday, so they’ve decided that it’s not necessary to attend Delilah’s academic awards ceremony. Her senior year academic awards ceremony. Her last one. Where – because of her intelligence, hard work, and high academic ranking – it’s extremely likely that she’ll be receiving a boatload of awards. My father called her and told her they weren’t going to make it because they’re going out to dinner and then drinking with those idiots that hang around him! As if they couldn’t do that after the awards are over! It starts at six, and it’ll be like, at a maximum, an hour and a half!”

Jake stares in shock at the woman trying to wear a hole into his carpet. It wasn’t uncommon for her to curse or to be louder than usual when joking around, but the last time, the only time, he had seen Rebecca raise her voice in anger was that fateful night in February when she reamed him out after breaking into her house. Since then, her demeanor has matched the woman she had always been known to be. A kind and thoughtful person with a quieter disposition, one that hid a tough side she brought out only when needed, and a wit sharp enough to cut glass. Her voice is scathing, decades' worth of built-up frustration and resentment being released, and it freezes him in place.

“It’s just so unfair! I know they don’t like me, that I’m the “black sheep” of the family, or whatever the latest lame-ass attempt at an insult my father has taken to calling me. I don’t care about that. I worked my ass off junior and senior year to get a good scholarship, and I did. I practically put in full-time hours to save up enough to get out of that fucking house, and I did! The day after my eighteenth birthday, I packed up that crappy Camry – that I bought with my own money! – and moved into that sketchy apartment with five roommates. I worked hard to be the “outcast” of that family! I escaped, and they don’t like that, and that’s fine. I don’t need them to like me!”

Her voice was getting louder, the pacing and hand gestures more frenzied. She could feel her blood pressure rising, but she couldn’t stop. She hadn’t been this mad in years. She actually couldn’t remember the last time she was this angry.

“But it’s not fair that Delilah is treated like that! Like some show pony they can trot out when it pleases them. I know she’s the kid that was created on purpose, and I was the mistake no one wanted, but they just show her off like she’s some shiny object! Bragging about how smart she is and her amazing grades, her talent and how she gets cast in lead roles in the school plays and musicals, her athletic prowess, and how she definitely could have gone D1 if she wanted. But she doesn’t want to because she’s going to dedicate herself to helping others – something they know nothing about – but, of course, none of that actually matters to them! I can count on two hands the number of things they’ve actually showed up in the last eighteen years and still have fingers left over! And the worst part is she still believes they’re going to show up! That they’re suddenly going to give a damn about anything she does. That they’re going to treat her as more than a way for them to make themselves look better. And she doesn’t have anyone else because the only other family left is our grandfather, and it would take a fucking miracle for him to show up to an event where there’s even the slightest possibility that his son might be there. There’s no one else, so I said we’d g- oh my god.”

She stops on a dime, turning on her heel to Jake, who was shaken out of his stupor after the third curse word and now is staring in disbelief at his fiancé. “I said we’d go. You don’t have to go. I’m sorry I said you were coming without checking first-”

“I want to go.”

“-I just got caught up in the moment and didn’t think about it. You don’t have to-” His words register. “What?”

“I said it’s okay that you RSVP’d yes for me; I want to go.”

“You don’t have to. It’s not your sister.”

He chuckles, “Yeah, I’m aware of that. Otherwise, this engagement would be kinda awkward. And illegal.”

“What?” The joke goes over her head; she’s only half paying attention, her body still on a high from anger and the adrenaline rush that hit when she heard her sister crying.

“Because if she was my sister, then we’d be related, which is illegal or at the very least frowned upon…” He trails off, realizing he’s not getting through. “Wow, that really got to you, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m used to their bullshit; I usually don’t get so mad. But hearing her cry on the phone like that, she was practically hyperventilating when you answe- wait. How did Delilah even get through?”

“I put her on the allowed caller list.”

“You did?” She’s surprised.

She probably shouldn’t be anymore. Except for the rough start to their engagement in February, Jake had a perfect gentleman.

His generosity is unfamiliar to her, unexpected from a man of the Dagger organization. And she hadn’t been expecting the same care to be so easily extended to her sister. She assumed she would have to make more demands to ensure Delilah was taken care of properly. But he’s done everything she was planning to ask of him, and more, before she even had the chance to bring it up. A college fund set up with safeguards in place so only a select few have access, protecting the money from her greedy father. A brand-new car: one that’s cute and practical, with a top safety rating, in her sister’s preferred color. A week-long trip over Delilah’s spring break to the three schools she was considering so she could make what Jake called “the most educated decision possible.” He even almost bought a house that neighbored the campus of her final choice, a decision that Rebecca had to talk him down from. She’s still suspicious that he secretly bought it, despite a lengthy lecture on why that was a dumb idea.

Despite his kindness, it was hard for them to interact with each other at the start of their engagement. The first month was awkward, filled with distrusting glances and silted conversations as she settled into the guest room of his ocean-view property. Their proposal announcement was spent answering questions about the financial impact of Rebecca joining Eagle Hotels as the head of the newly reformed community and charity outreach division instead of their whirlwind romance. The press conference was supposed to be the way to launch the couple to the public, grabbing attention and headlines at the fact that California’s eternal bachelor was taking a wife who was going to use the profits of his multi-million company to pour money into cancer research and other worthy causes. Instead, the next day, the media was speculating about the financial future of Eagle and the validity of their relationship, not believing they were in love – or even liked each other – due to the lack of chemistry and the visible discomfort radiating from them both.

After reading that even reputable publications questioned the engagement, Rebecca realized they needed to become friends. Being comfortable with each other would allow them to sell the relationship to the public and investors while having the bonus side effect of convincing the older members of the Dagger organization that were still doubtful. Getting to know each other on a surface level and becoming friends would allow that to happen without having to get too close. Her plan had worked. They became comfortable with each other, the speculation stopped, and the gushing over their relationship started.

It also had the unintended effect of him becoming even more thoughtful, taking her into consideration and asking her opinion, even when it wasn’t necessary. He makes her laugh, a perfectly timed terrible pun lifting her spirits on tough days. He gives affection freely. Keep gestures subtle in public, a hand on her lower back or whispering in her ear just to follow it up with a kiss to her temple, all done to get perfect paparazzi shots of the couple. In private, around friends and family, his hands are bolder but never disrespectful. A strong arm around her waist, a gentle kiss on her neck, a warm hand on her thigh.

It's not what she’s used to from men, and it flusters her, even knowing it’s an act.

Then, the reminder that it’s an act puts her guard back up. Reverting to constantly reminding herself that this is a business agreement, a marriage of convenience.

Nothing more.

It’s hard, though. He makes her feel safe. Something a man hadn’t done in a decade.

Even when something happens that rips her back to reality and she’s reminded that this isn’t a real relationship, she feels safe. She knew what she was signing up for when she agreed to the marriage. What it would mean to be the wife of The Hangman. That he was a dangerous man who had done horrible things. There’s been several nights when he comes home late, knuckles intact to ensure plausible deniability of the Dagger leader, but with dark red flecks on an otherwise pristine white shirt that betray his innocence. It’s clear from the fact that Jake lets her see him on nights like that, nights when business had to be taken care of, that he trusts her. She trusts him, not fully, but enough to know that with him, she’s safe. She knows that as long as it’s not his blood that he comes home covered in. But another night, another ruined shirt, and the reminder runs through her head on eternal rotation.

This isn’t real. It’s to protect your sister, your family. This isn’t real. It’s to protect your sister, your family.

“Of course I did. She’s family. Oh honey, come here.” He pulls her close after catching sight of her lower lip wobbling and hugs her soft body into his harder one. Mentally admonishing himself after the moment he takes to appreciate her curves when she’s practically crying. “It’ll be okay. She’s going to school; it’s paid for, and she can stay with us during her breaks. Or we’ll get her a good internship, so she doesn’t have to come back at all. And after we get married, she doesn’t ever have to see them again if she doesn’t want to.”

“I know.” She rests her forehead against his collarbones, breathing to try and stop the tears threatening to escape. “I’m just worried.”

“About what?” One of his hands starts rubbing her back, the other drifting down to his favorite spot on her hip. “We can fix it, just gotta tell me.”

“Everything? I don’t know; I just feel so guilty. For the longest time, I was resentful that I had to take care of her so much, and of course, it was them I was mad at, but I’m afraid it seemed like I was upset with her. And then there were so many years where I was more distant than I wanted to be because dealing with them was just so awful. And I couldn’t get her out of there, and I’m worried that those two have hurt her in ways that I’ll never be able to understand or fix.” Her voice gets tighter as she speaks, cracking on the last word.

“Hey, breathe. It’s okay. I know you feel bad, but you did everything you could for her. You did what you had to do to protect yourself. And even though you were kinda distant, you still spent so much time with her. She loves you so much; she wants to be just like you. And let’s face it – with both parents alive, no documented history of abuse, and your father being who he is, no judge in the county would have dared to give you custody. You did the best you could do, and it was enough. She’s kind, smart, and funny, and I’m 110% certain that is all of you.” He wipes a tear that falls. “And I’m here now. Together we’ll keep her as safe as we possibly can. I will do everything in my power to protect you both. Okay?”

She sniffles, “Okay. Thank you, Jake.”

“Of course, anything for you, you know that. Now let’s see a smile!” Her weak attempt at a smile is met with his wide grin. “There’s my girl!”

His smile turns confused when she bites back a laugh. “What?”

“You have lettuce in your teeth.”

How the fuck did I get here?

Rebecca has had that exact thought countless times since February. If someone had told her five months earlier that she would be sitting in the back of her high school’s auditorium next to Jacob “The Hangman” Seresin, and not only would he be her fiancé, but he would be willingly and eagerly attending her sister’s academic awards ceremony, and that it was his idea to buy a bouquet of daisies and make a reservation at the nicest steakhouse in the city to celebrate afterward, she would have taken that person to the emergency room for fear of horrific brain damage.

After the call with her sister Jake had cleared the rest of his schedule, insisting they spend the rest of the afternoon together. He spent the next few hours driving them around town, completing a to-do list that existed in his head. The first stop was a jewelry store to pick up two necklaces. One he immediately put around Rebecca’s neck. A beautiful white gold pendant with a teardrop-shaped peridot gemstone that rested perfectly on her decolletage. August’s birthstone for her and her sister’s birthday. The second box had an identical necklace, a graduation gift for Delilah, he explained. She didn’t have a chance to protest the much too expensive gifts before he was dragging her down the street to a bookstore where they argued over the best author of the twentieth century for almost an hour. Leaving with multiple books by Ian Fleming and Sue Grafton for comparison purposes and a promise to the owner to return. They popped into Rebecca’s favorite bakery for a snack and left with a baker’s dozen of treats and two iced teas. Splitting a chocolate donut, they dropped the rest of the pastries at the Machado household for Javy and Julianna to enjoy on their anniversary weekend. The last stop was a florist on Main Street to grab a bouquet before they picked Delilah up and headed to the school.

It had been a perfect afternoon.

The more she thinks about how smoothly everything went, how natural it felt, the more stressed she becomes. It shouldn’t have been easy. It shouldn’t have happened at all! He had more important things to do than spend the afternoon together. Why would he do that? She’s attempting to distract herself from the overwhelming feelings threatening to send her into a panic attack by flipping through the awards ceremony program when she sees it.

Her brain disconnects from her body; she can feel it happen. She knows the room is loud; it had been loud when they sat down, but now everything is muffled, and the only thing she can hear is blood rushing in her ears. Her body suddenly feels like concrete, heavy in a way it isn’t usually; an invisible pressure pushing especially hard on her sternum, making her breathing staccato and shallow. The folded booklet in her hands is now blurry, her eyes so unfocused she’s seeing multiple of the program swirling in front of her. Her hands start to shake in a way they haven’t done in a long time.

It’s the goddamn program. A voice in her head tells her. How are you supposed to deal with this? Seeing her name out of nowhere!

Another voice interrupts. No! It’s his fault. He’s being too nice; it wasn’t supposed to be like this! He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She distantly thinks both of the voices are probably right. Because for the second time today, she can feel Jake’s concern from where he’s seated next to her – the auditorium is old, and the seats are packed together, reminiscent of a time with laxer safety regulations – and Rebecca knows that his eyebrows are scrunched together. They do that when he’s confused or worried; she noticed a few weeks after she moved into his place. She can feel his hand land on hers, and his breath is warm against her cheek where he’s leaned in close to check on her. He’s probably asking if she’s okay, asking what’s wrong, asking if she needs anything, shockingly sweet for a man suspected to be the cause of twenty-two deaths, but she can’t focus on him because right there, printed in black and white, is her mother’s name.

Monroe Mathematics Scholarship - $5,000 Given to the graduating senior who completed all the advanced mathematics courses with the highest overall four-year average and is pursuing higher education in medicine, engineering, or education. Established in 2009, this scholarship was created in loving memory of Laura Monroe and is generously donated by an anonymous alumnus. 2023 Winner: Delilah Hermann

“-ecca? Honey?” Her ears come back into play as a hand turns her face to the left. Dazed brown eyes meet worried green ones. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Liar.

The green eyes narrow. “You’re lying. What’s wrong?”

“I- just… flipping through the program and seeing her name sprinkled throughout it right next to the words “graduating senior” got to me. She’s not a baby anymore. She’s going away to school, at a school that’s far away from me. And I’m going to miss her.”

Not a lie. Not the truth either.

“Oh, honey.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder, right hand absentmindedly playing with her hair. “I know, it sucks. It was hard to send all three of my sisters off to school, especially Kayla, and we’re not nearly as close as you two are. I don’t have any words to make it better, but I get it if that helps?”

“Yeah, it helps a little bit.”

“Good. Now!” He pulls her in close, pressing their cheeks together as he dramatically gestures toward the front of the auditorium. “Who exactly is that punk sitting next to my sister-in-law?”

“You don’t recognize him? That’s Travis.”

“Travis Kazansky?” She nods as she settles back into her own seat and firmly closes the program, she still felt dazed, but the weight of his arm was grounding. “Actually, where are the Kazanskys?”

“Sarah mentioned that Tom’s treatment was harder than usual the other day. I think they were planning to stay home so he can rest. Poor Travis. His senior year has been pretty rough.”

“God, he got big. What happened? Why are they sitting together?”

“Well, he went through puberty; that tends to happen to children, especially those that are 18 years old.”

He lets out a sarcastic chuckle, “You’re so funny I almost forgot how to laugh. Why are they sitting together?”

“Probably because they’re friends, Jake.”

“Friends?! How did those two become friends?”

“Delilah was his trig tutor, and they became friends… how ever kids become friends these days. TikTok or whatever. I don’t know anymore.”

“I thought she was taking calculus?”

“She did take calc, but she was a tutor for lower-level math classes this year.” A small smile forms on her face, watching the two teenagers shyly flirt with each other, surrounded by their friends.

“Jesus, you two are smart. I don’t know where you got- Look!” Jake interrupts his own muttering to aggressively point down front again. “Look at that! He put his arm around her!”

“I see that. It’s very sweet.”

He looks incredulous. “Sweet?! That’s not sweet! He’s taking advantage of her!”

“You’re being ridiculous! He puts his arm around her, that is not taking advantage of her. He is a perfectly nice boy!”

“No, he is not “a nice boy” – he’s a teenage boy! He's the starting quarterback and captain of the lacrosse team!”

“Hmm, wow, sounds familiar.”

“Exactly! I know what he’s like because that’s who I was!”

She rolls her eyes at the overprotective brother routine. “And you turned out fairly decent. I think we’ll be okay.”

“No! He’s not good enough for-”

“Jake. What he’s doing is totally harmless. He’s a good kid, and we know his parents very well. I’m not worried about it. And I’m actually glad a cute boy is flirting with Delilah. I didn’t get that, so I’m happy she’s getting to experience it.”

He freezes, looking sideways at her, noting her wistful expression as she watches the younger blonde boy play with her sister’s perfectly curled hair. “No one flirted with you in high school?”

“No, which isn’t surprising. I was a dork and so painfully shy. Besides, no one wanted to be known for being the guy that flirted with the too-smart-for-her-own-good, fat girl.” She shifts in her chair, dislodging his arm from her shoulders, uncomfortable with the vulnerability she had accidentally shown. His response is interrupted by Principal Scott attempting to start the evening, the entire audience cringing at the feedback that reverberates through the hall.

“Well, it’s nice to know some things around here never changed.”

Jake is worried about the woman in his passenger seat; she hasn’t once made fun of his music choice or criticized his bad blinker habits. She’s been staring out the window since they left the restaurant, just watching the bright lights of downtown. “You didn’t cry as much as I thought you would.”

His bad joke works, as it so frequently does with her. “Oh, like you’re so tough! I heard you sniffle when Delilah got the math scholarship.”

“How could I not be proud of her? She won seven awards, and that was the biggest one I saw listed in the program, and she won it!” His eyes go big as he defends himself.

She leans back into her seat, crossing her arms across her chest. “It is a big award, must be a pretty successful alumnus who donated it. Wonder who it is…”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool of them, whoever they are.”

She goes to question him – fairly certain the anonymous alumni donor is him – when he makes an unexpected turn. “What are you doing?”

“Ice cream.”

Her eyes narrow, “I thought you didn’t want dessert?”

“Maybe I just wanted to have some alone time and get a lil something sweet with my something sweet.”

“You said no at the restaurant, that you were “too full” for dessert.” She points out.

“Well, I’ve since changed my mind.” He sniffs. “A man is allowed to do that.”

“Mmmhm. You’ve done that a few times tonight.”

He plays dumb. “What do you mean?”

“When Delilah mentioned that we were going to Morton’s for a celebration dinner in front of Travis, I thought you would blow a gasket. But instead, you invited him to join us; I didn’t even have to nudge you. And you didn’t complain once when you called the restaurant to adjust our reservation.”

“Anything for you, my dear.”

She starts chuckling at him. “Stop it! You are so full of shit. There was nothing! No complaining, no protesting the, the- oh, what did you call him when he put his hand on her back? Oh! No protesting the “devil child” joining our dinner? And by the way, I can’t believe you suggested that Travis drive Delilah home and then stuffed fifty bucks in his hand so they could stop and get ice cream!”

“He’s not a bad kid.”

“Oh, and what pray tell has caused this sudden change of heart, Mr. Seresin?”

“He was very polite and respectful.”

“And?” She pokes his arm, poking him harder when he mumbles something. “I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“…and he called me sir without any prompting.” He backs into a spot, completely avoiding eye contact once in park.

“Oh my god.” Her chuckles turn into full-blown laughter. “You are so ridiculous.”

“You’re so mean to me.” He looks genuinely sad, pouting in the driver’s seat.

She unbuckles and leans across the console, getting in his personal space with a smile bigger than he had ever seen from her. “I thought you liked it when I’m mean to you?”

Her voice is low, sexy, even as she’s mocking him with his own words from earlier in the day. Suddenly his whole body feels hot, and he laughs to deflect, praying to any available deities that his neck isn’t turning red. “You know what?”

“What?”

“Just for that, you can pay for ice cream.” He climbs out of the car, smile growing as he listens to her protests about how she wasn’t even the one that wanted ice cream, so he should be the one to pay. She’s still making her case when they meet at the bumper, but he doesn’t respond, distracted by how she hooked her hand through his elbow without thinking. He stares at the ring adorning her fourth finger, and his heart thumps.

This is what the rest of our lives are going to be like.

She gently pinches the inside of his bicep as she presses into his side to give more room to a young family juggling a stroller and three young kids on a sugar high, wiggling her fingers at the baby propped on his mom’s hip. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Always, my dear.”

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credit for dividers here

#top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick AU #top gun fic #top gun AU #jake hangman seresin fic #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x oc #jake seresin x oc #hangman x oc #jake seresin imagine #hangman imagine #anything for you #anything for you fic #AFY fic #elle writes

[imasimpforstevengrant]

THRICE

Summary: Layla needs Marc to tell her the truth about the months he went missing. Steven convinces Marc that this will heal their relationship but the ghosts of unworthiness and guilt still haunt his mind.

Warnings: (past) trauma, (past) abusive parenting/child abuse, death, mentions of death, loss, mental illness, violent behaviour, sensitive topics, angst and comfort, swearing, protectiveness, DID, fluff, sexual tension, sexual themes, unsafe sex, absolute, self indulgent smut with feelings.

WC: 8.929

Note¹: I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE. I hope this makes up for the time I didn't post anything. Some of the lines and scenes, much like in previous and future chapters, are taken from:

• Moon Knight vol 1, issues #1, #3, #5, #7, #10, #35

Note²: I had to rewrite, correct and post this three times, since I didn't like the first draft. I read a theory that states Layla didn't know Steven because she was the only person who made Marc happy, so I wrote this to explore the idea. I love the idea of Layla knowing (and eventually falling in love with) Steven, as a healthy way to love Marc in his wholeness.

Note³: This chapter is absolute self indulgent, filth... but I couldn't help it. Marc/Steven deserve so much after all they went through. I hope you enjoy this just as I did writing it. Sorry for any typos. English is not my native language. Thank you for the kudos!

---

SECOND PART

A Beacon of Hope (Steven)

For most people, the sun would be a solace against the coldness of rain. For Marc Spector, however, the cold means freshness after the searing heat of Egypt. But everything seems perfect when he's not conscious. Marc would think about it as another little tragedy in the long list of misfortunes in his life. It's something Steven Grant would agree with him without a doubt.

The alarm clock has been turned off. The calming sound of rain pouring engulfed him in a profound state of relaxation. This is the best part of redemption. And freedom too. A slight frown forms when a soft, humming sound vibrates through his skin. It's impactful enough for Marc to open his eyes to see the origin of this rare moment of poise and comfort. Thick, curly locks tickled his face-

The sweat gluing their skins together was arousing enough to set his heart on a crazed gallop, shortening his breath. Layla lies in front of him, sleeping with a serenity that Marc loved to watch during sleepless nights. Though he longed for  warmth, he resists the impulse to claim her body again, but he's too afraid to disturb her sleep. Layla understood the need to remind himself that he wasn't a tool, but a human. 

That was the only good part after bathing himself in blood. He could remember the first time they made love. It wasn't too long after Layla had offered herself to go undercover as am exotic dancer in a secret group of dangerous assassins. She played her part perfectly, even letting herself touch by an old creep that happened to be the leader of the murderous committee. 

Marc was watching them from afar, furiously. They weren't even a thing at that point, though he could see her shy smiles whenever he flirted with her as much as she tried to hide it.  Having known isolation and lovelessness so close, the moment when that man dared to lay his hands on her, awoke in his chest a burning jealousy. He would never let anyone take her away from him, but he needed to think coldly now. 

To earn the trust of the leader, Layla performs a sensual, elegant dance before him and the results are splendid. The leader reveals all the info they needed to get rid of every member of the criminal committee. But it has its costs, as Layla had become the object of his impudent manners. He tries to lay her down the blue, opulent couch to quench his desires as she stares at him from the window, claiming for help. 

The man catches a glimpse of her looking outside, and lands a painful, loud slap on her face at her betrayal. But his harsh, tough manners crumble when an inhuman, ghastly howl that appalled not only him, but her too. Marc doesn't think twice to attack him with enraged fists, which soon became reddish, gushing with blood. Layla stays away, observing with amazement how that man, that presence, who seemed so cold and inhuman, protects her with such choleric fury. 

Suddenly a feeling of desire fires up her chest, unleashing a wild gallop in her heart. Marc just attacks, roaring like a beast… until Layla begs him to stop, that he's not a murderer. Marc suddenly comes back to his senses, with a blooded moon dart still in hand. Layla gathered enough information to keep assisting Marc, who took her away from the place, securing her in a room where she could change her clothes. The committee had been responsible for many crimes in Egypt, one of them being stealing relics in the black market after raiding tombs. All of them were American, though that was the least of his concerns. 

They had a reunion with the other members in an abandoned warehouse. Many noticed the leader's absence, which immediately set suspicion. That was the best part of it. 

With the rest of the committee on guard, Marc emerged from the dark. Everyone thought it was a madman in a disguise… until they realized bullets didn't stop him. Convinced they were before the presence of a ghost, many of them give in to panic. Marc was grateful that Layla wasn't there to behold the bloodshed. For his part, Khonshu was delighted. The deity praises Marc, who does not feel proud at all. There's one agonizing bastard staring up to him, with his face contorted by the most tenebrous expression of horror Marc had seen in his whole life.

As he reaches the place where Layla was hiding, he takes her and flies with her to a quieter place: her home. 

The armor soon vanishes, leaving him with his usual outfit: a brown jacket, gray pants and a blue sweatshirt. Only the blood serves as a vestige of his deed, making Layla worried about him. She takes a few rags, cleaning the blood, though Marc reassures her that he's fine. A cold shower would do. Once in the bath, Marc takes off his clothes. The sound of water falling suddenly triggers the memory of that fatal day. Spector shuts his eyelids, stopping the flow of water. The shower is short, and trying to forget the faces of those he murdered, Spector looks for slumber. 

"Marc?" 

Before he finds the bed, he finds something more alluring. Once he turns around, his eyes behold a seductive, sultry Layla from the door sill. Marc is bewitched by her nakedness, those curves, that expression in her face. Awestruck, Marc feels incapable of speaking. Layla giggles. She steps forward but the vigilante is faster: the sexual act demanded for no other clothes except their bare skins. In seconds, both become a mess of entangled limbs on the wall. Layla whispers her gratitude for saving her, while Marc quickly works his way to pleasure her. 

How he wished to freeze that moment, specially when her gentle arms cradle his figure as both drift to slumber after their act. The sweet memory of their first night together blurs with the present, as he feels her soft breathing against his face. Fascinated by the fact he was being desired and loved even in the quietest silence, Marc caressed her face. He marvels at her freckles, that flawless skin under his fingers, mouth agape and disheveled hair falling down her face… he had to repress the impulse to wake her up, seduce her, making her come over and over with his mouth just to make her full of himself again. 

The stillness is no impediment to feel her naked form lost in his limbs. Her arms latch to his neck, as if her life depends on it. The same occurs with one leg tangling on his thigh. In a passionate outburst, the former mercenary takes Layla much closer to him, lustfully smelling her neck. It made him forget the horrors of the world, finally tasting how a normal life with Layla would be if he wasn't under the servitude of an obscure deity. 

“Marc.” Spector opens his eyes, frowning. 

“Steven?” he croaks with a thick voice, trying not to wake Layla up. By mere instinct, he looks for a reflection to glare at. But the room lacks any nearby mirrors.

"What… What happened last night?" Steven asked with a shaky voice, seemingly more fearful to wake her up than Spector himself, "why did you…"

"Not now, Steven," Marc tried to dissuade his alter, "we will discuss this later." His dry order just causes a low whine from the mild mannered man.

"Why?" Steven insists, irritating the former mercenary even more. He just sighed, undoing the embrace with Layla to get up off the bed. He put his navy blue boxers on and went to the three mirrored-dresser, facing his alter. He supports in his arms, closing his eyes before facing his reflection.

"Ease down, Steven. You're not gonna make the anxiety easier if you keep losing it," Marc finally said. The British man just let out a scoff. 

"You always said that there was a wall between us… that it takes all your willpower to be a fly on the wall… but you… you blacked out." A castdown Marc listens to what Steven has to say about the incident.  

"Why did you let me touch her? Why did you let me front when for less you threw me off a hole?" Marc can't help but let a soft chuckle out. 

"Things are different now," the former mercenary replied. Steven frowns, his glare reveals a great confusion. Marc scoffs, "you saved my marriage, Steven. With your insufferable need to tell the truth,” he finally replied. The alter waved his hands, for his tone to lower. 

"I felt she deserved to know it," Steven muttered, "she's just… she's just an awesome woman to be around…" Marc giggles, raising an eyebrow. 

"Is she?" His cheeky expression makes Steven realize the double entendre of it. 

"Hey!" He shrieks, blistering.

"Come on, Steven. Don't play innocent. I know the way you look at her, I know you couldn’t stop ogling her since you kissed her."

Steven felt like a depraved creep. 

"I don't ogle her, Marc!" He replied from the mirror, outrageous, "I never intended to be a creep around her. She wanted to kiss me because I have the face of her husband… you, but she made the first move and I wasn't going to deny her just because she's your wife."

Marc raised an eyebrow.

"If the Gods gave you a blessing, you don't reject it. Leaving Layla there, after you blacked out, would have been rude to… you know… leave the job unfinished, yeah?" 

Marc chuckles after staring at the mirror, surprising Steven with a calmness so atypical from his usual ways. Grant was smart, but he failed to notice that Spector laughed at his own, surprising sassiness. 

"It would have been a crime to leave Layla alone at that moment," Steven whispered, more to avoid those long, awkward seconds of silence between them, "I never thought that Layla… would feel like that about me, to let me touch her. I still don't believe it–" 

"Well, you better start believing it." Steven widened his eyes, mouth agape. 

"What–?"

"You wanna know something, Steven?" Marc muttered, leaning his weight on his arm, supporting himself against the door, "The walls between us have crumbled, and I didn't want to accept that." Marc took a deep breath, as Steven encouraged him to go on.  

"At first, I refused to see it but now I know that it was that same wall that prevented me from quieting the chaos in my mind." Steven nodded.

"I was jealous of her looking at you with that tenderness so typical of her, when all I got was hostility and anger from her."

"I can't blame her, mate. You lied to her and went missing. I still think you're a twit for that." Steven commented. 

"You know my reasons on why I did that and as for us, that matter is solved" Marc replied. The British nerd sighed.

"All right, go on." 

"Well, it happens that… I hadn't seen that look in her eyes since we…"

"Yes?" Steven inquires, eager to know. 

"Since she shared a poem before we became a thing."

"Wow!" Steven Grant is genuinely impressed, and comments on how he never expected Marc to be a man of poetry. Both were in the library in her home, checking a few archeological objects. Marc saw she diverted her attention to a book by a French author. His mind couldn't keep fantasizing with her lips when she was so close to him, speaking about two lovers forced to be apart. 

"She read me that poem, from Desbordes-Valmore," Steven can notice that this is something very important for Marc, as he turns to stare at a serene, sleeping Layla.

"We had our first kiss after she patiently explained to me what it was about. And I started panicking because of the way she looked at me then." Marc feels his eyes tearing up. 

"Why?" 

"I was afraid of her going to smack my face when she got up from the chair," his voice broke, "stepped closer to me and… held my head to put it on her chest.

Marc stood silent for nearly a minute, the vivid memory kept him too thoughtful in a sepulchral muteness. By instinct, he had prepared himself for what he thought was another unsparing punch, but all he does is to succumb to her gentleness. Layla is patient, and so she awaits for this breathing to ease down, softly cooing in his ear. Marc likes to hear her heartbeat, and shamelessly nuzzles her breast when Layla asks him what's going on. He doesn't say anything, delighted to glide his hands over her hips, and waist. 

"I want the same for you, Steven," Marc whispered, "Why should I keep fighting you when both of us feel the same way about Layla? The key to solving the chaos is that we coexist, Steven." The mild mannered man was flabbergasted.

"What?" He could barely manage to croak. Marc crossed his arms, to emphasize the seriousness. 

"Oy, mate…" Steven made a gesture to the former fortune soldier to go easier on him with this new idea of living in a shared marriage, "I think we need some time to think about this before taking it further."

"I made up my mind not too long ago and yet you fail to see it. My wife won't love me fully if she doesn't get to know you better, Steven!"

"Mate, mate, quiet. You'll wake her –!" Spector rolls his eyes, groaning at his stubbornness. 

"We were dead in the Duat, and the first thing you asked me was if she was going to be okay."

"But mate, you were the one who took the shot."

"And even in death, you didn't stop loving her, Steven! That proves you deserve her more than I would ever do! That's why you exist!"

Grant remembers the moment where their lives bled together. He lowered his head, saddened. Marc got away from the mirror, ashamed to reduce his alter to a mere tool to cope with his feelings. He covered his face, incapable of looking Steven in the eyes when passing by the aquarium. Spector took a bottle of whiskey and a small glass, just a few feet away from the door. 

"I'm sorry, Steven" Marc muttered, shaking his head while holding the drink, "I didn't mean–"

"Alright," Steven interrupts him, "Alright. You want me to be with Layla? Fine, I will if she also wants me… but I have one condition." Marc awaits as the reflection leans half body. 

"Tell. Her. The truth."

Marc frowned, confused. 

"What truth?" 

"About us. About me. Tell Layla about our trauma, our mother–" The last word makes Spector jump like a feline taken by surprise, glass fell, drink all poured on the wooden floor. 

"What?!" 

"The truth, Marc. I know it's hurtful for both of us, but Layla must know it," the panic starts taking over his composure, "She deserves to know it! You should be the one telling her the truth, more than me! She met you first, she loved you first–" the situation worsens when a feminine voice ceases their conversation. 

"Marc?" From his seat, he can see Layla getting up, "is everything okay?" She puts on one of Steven's sweaters, her expression is nothing but worry as she leads her steps to her troubled husband.

"No, no, baby, don't – please!" he begged, moving his hands so she could stay away from him, as if he was a leper, "I'm sorry- I don't want you to see me like this." 

"What–? 

He got up, turning to the door, though with no intentions of leaving. But Layla takes it all the wrong way. 

"I didn't want to do this in front of you," he finally says something after the tense lack of words between them. But it only creates more confusion. 

"It's okay, Marc… you can tell me." 

His eyes are stuck on the door, futilely sealed with blue adhesive tape. The excessive protection made it look cartoonish, but even like that, Layla attempts to calm him down. 

"You can trust me! Just please stop running away from me!" Her voice broke down in sobs. Marc hated that sound so much. The guilt of seeing those red, watery eyes was almost as if had made her bleed when all she did was offer compassion, patience and love to him. He gripped his hair, tightening his eyelids. Marc would never forgive himself for her deeply hurt expression in her face. How different their situation was just a few hours ago: drowning in ecstasy, screaming each other's names. Why was it that Spector never had long moments of stability or happiness? 

"Mate, I swear…" Steven hissed, furious at his passiveness, "if you run now, we lose her! Do you understand that?!" 

Marc takes a deep breath. 

"Layla isn't like our mother!" Steven screamed inside his skull, "tell her the truth and she will understand."

"Marc, please tell me something! You don't get to fuck me and leave as if nothing happened!" Layla yelled, unaware of Grant's own feud with Spector. 

"She's gonna run, Steven. She's gonna realize she married an insane, murderous bastard who can barely keep it together!" He shrieked, violently palming his head. 

Layla gasps, stepping back.

"Honey, you're scaring me…" Layla sobs, horrified. She tries again to connect, but the former mercenary refuses to give in to any display of affection, trying the best to smother the pain, leaving him unable to enjoy her adorable habit of extending her hands to hold his face or arms, whenever he felt he lost control of his emotions.

"Don't leave me…" he pleaded, voice barely audible, looking at the aquarium for Steven to help him contain him. 

"Why are you saying all those horrible things to yourself?" Layla touched his face and the result frightened her: She couldn't distinguish between her husband and her newfound British nerd, which made her hand recoil. Layla couldn't believe that this soulless, broken man was the same ghastly apparition which had inspired so much horror in criminals.

Whoever is in the body, doesn't make a move. There's no mercenary, no vigilante, not even a sad, meek loner. Just a disheveled, disoriented individual who can't stop staring at the beautiful woman, as if refusing to believe she's real. Layla extends her hand and caresses his cheek once again. 

The helplessness in Spector's face manages to be so moving, so devastating for her kind heart, that Layla cannot help but to plant a kiss in his mouth. He does consent to the caress, though he doesn't kiss her back. 

She tasted the flavor of early whiskey on him and Marc finally seemed to snap out of his trance. His lips trembled while a few shaky words left his mouth. Layla waits for it, with bated breath. As much as he hated Arthur Harrow, he can't help but agree with him about comprehension: there can't be no progress without it. 

"Please… please say something…" Layla begged, after breaking the kiss. 

"Steven…" he whispered, with eyes closed. Before Marc could say anything else in response, Layla remembers what happened between the British nerd and her in bed. 

"Oh my God, are you upset because… because I slept with him?" but Marc frowned, waving his hands.

"No, no–" he whispered.

"I didn't mean to betray you or make you feel jealous… I'm sorry… I should have stopped when he fronted," Layla covered her face, regretful. 

"I'm not upset about that," Marc held her hands with his to calm her down.  Layla sobbed, drying her tears with the back of her hand. Knowing him, it was hard to believe he wasn't jealous of his alter's affections for her, as absurd as it sounded. 

"We need to talk about… Steven," Marc muttered, "He has been nagging me to…" he cleared his throat, nervousness taking over his mind, "Steven, for fuck's sake, say something! Help me!" He hissed with a low voice. 

"I'm with you, mate…"

Layla feels her heart soar as she hears Marc mentioning his alter. 

"Nagging you to do what?"

Marc looked back at her.

"To tell you… the truth."

"What truth, Marc?" He inhaled deeply. 

"About myself… my disorder… and what caused it." The last sentence sounded ominous, but it didn't stop her compassive ways to keep flourishing. Layla sits down with him at the table. Marc slides his hands down his face in despair, just after following Layla. He grabbed the whiskey and drank the remaining liquid, placing the empty bottle at his side. Alcohol helped to disconnect the physical and mental pain. 

"He chose me because he knew I have a weak mind. That's why I hated Khonshu. I hated him with every fiber of my body, because that vulture ripped my corpse to hold me under his servitude!" 

Layla nodded, remembering how Khonshu had pointed her as the responsible for Marc's crisis. The former mercenary lowers his head. The feeling of vulnerability becomes unbearable. It had been easier to reveal the truth to Steven while in the Duat. He wishes to have the door, and show her everything, with no need of speaking. 

Marc cannot help but feel that there's something inexplicably evil with words. Words hold an unspoken, powerful effect on one's soul, and no amount of love could erase the scars left by a mother's hatred and a father's indifference. Broken bones could heal, bruises could fade away but the livid memory of Wendy Spector striking him and blaming him for her dead son would haunt him until the day he'd die. 

"Dissociative Identity Disorder," Marc finally spoke. Layla stares at him but her husband just adds:

"I was twelve when I was diagnosed," the expressions on his face were shaded by a profound sadness. His mirthless eyes cause an immense sorrow on her. Marc covered his face, as if trying to peel off the shame. Layla intertwined her fingers with his, nodding so he would continue.

"Dissociative Identity?" She asked, tilting her head. 

"The doctor said it is a psychological response to trauma. It involves an identity disturbance, where two or more identities can control your behavior," Marc explained, monotonously, "It feels like being a ghost of your own body." Layla covered her mouth, dimensioning the bodeful definition. 

A psychological response to trauma.

"I had a family once," Marc suddenly added, "when… When I was a boy, my brother Randall and I loved to enact an adventure film we were fans of, so we crossed a forest and went to a cave on a rainy day–" he interrupted himself, gulping and gathering strength to keep opening up. Layla takes his hands and brushes distractingly her thumbs on them, giving him the confidence he needed. Marc squeezed his eyelids, holding back the tears. 

"We got into the cave… and he drowned when the rain flooded it," he breathed, as if saying it louder would conjure another tragedy. His words reconstruct the fatidical day and its consequences. Layla listens carefully, granting him space. But once Marc broke down in rattling sobs, she immediately got up from the chair to wrap his trembling form in her arms. 

Layla didn't oppose when Marc trapped her form in his arms with heartbreaking despair, sitting her on his lap. It helped to maintain their stillness, which contrasted so much with the torment in their minds. 

The chaos within prevented him from deciding where to start. Where pain and death caused suffering, lies began to sprout and so does the desire to become someone else. Someone whose life was better.

Marc leaned his forehead to her shoulder.

"It's just a memory..." he repeated himself constantly, like a mantra. Suddenly he remembered those birthdays on company of his father. The absence of his mother only poisoned Marc's mind with delusional notions, which bordered on jealousy and his premeditation for what happened. Locking himself in the room was always the solution to run away from Wendy Spector's anger, but Steven…

(When the danger is near, Steven Grant has no fear)

Layla stared at him, trying to understand what was going on in her head. But Spector suddenly understands something greater: Mother is the danger. 

"She never forgave me for that, beating the fuck out of me whenever she had the chance. I lied to Steven, so he could have the life I always wanted," Marc hides his face in her chest, "I survived because I knew I wasn't alone. Steven was there, always so full of life, hope… things that Marc Spector isn't."

The former mercenary ached for tenderness, understanding, to be loved. To be protected and not the protector, for once. To let his defenses fall, to breathe, just for once. Layla feels his fingers clutching at her back, and hears him sobbing.

"I wanted to put Spector to sleep! I was just a boy!" Marc exclaimed. More than ever, he wishes to throw into oblivion those horrifying epithets his mother yelled at him, accusing him of deliberately leading his brother to his demise out of jealousy.  

"Of course you were!" Layla tries to heal this regretful war criminal whose soul had been rebuilt through suffering and selflessness. As much as Layla gave him peace, her love is powerless against the painful words still echoing in his head. 

"She… she died more than two months ago," Marc whispered, once he overcame his sobs, "my father called me after so long, for her Shiva and I just… I just couldn't do it."

"It's all right, you don't have to forgive her either," Layla held his face in her hands, peppering his forehead with kisses. There's so much love in her tone of voice, and the former mercenary can be happier to hear it again. 

"I'm so, so sorry…" she gently rocked him, trying to repress the image of Marc as a child being brutally beaten by the one person who was supposed to protect him when he needed her the most. 

The inevitable contrast between her loving father and his hateful mother worsened her dismay. Abdallah El-Faouly had been such an attentive, indulgent parent with her, that she couldn't bring herself that a mother could abhor and resent her own child for such an unfortunate accident. 

Marc has tightened his grip on her waist, hiding his face and whispering something unintelligible. Layla feels a strong uneasiness when his breath shortens. He had always dwelled in thoughts on how his life would be without Khonshu, without the violence, without waking up covered in someone else's blood, without the worry of Khonshu's clutches trying to reach his wife. 

"You alright, Marc?" Steven asks at his sudden silence, not knowing his internal feud. A fiery, deathly glare is all he can threaten Khonshu with as he catches a glimpse of him, partially merged with the darkness of the right corner near the aquarium, holding his typical moon staff.  Layla keeps still, cradling his form, ignoring the danger. Marc shakes his head, squeezing his eyelids shut. 

(Organizing principle) 

He pictures himself inside a psych ward. As if the asylum was the physical manifestation of an evil entity, Marc feels that wearing clothes of the same, unpleasant whitish served as an extension of it. All he now sees is a calm Khonshu sitting in a red chair, hands crossed in a polite, almost welcoming manner. He remembers his words before becoming his legionary. But the vulture speaks. 

"Do you want death or do you want life?"

He opened his eyes, slowly lifting his head. His reality is another: Her face is all he sees when the last words ring in his ear. Layla under those purple lights, with that playful smile she gave him, is the first thing he can envision after returning among the living. He then sees Khonshu placidly sitting just a few inches away from her.  

"Life."

Layla tilted her head, trying to understand what he just said. Marc was looking at her as if he had realized something of great importance. A chance to spend his years with a loving wife. A hope to start all over again. That was the promise of that one, precious word. Hope. Understanding. Love. 

Three things he hadn't experienced. 

"Honey?" She caressed his hair. 

"I said…" Spector croaked, "I. Want. Life!" Marc's breath shortened. 

The panic doesn't take long to return, but Marc frantically latches at her neck, whispering things that she couldn't comprehend at first. The vehement display of (tormented) love causes Layla to grasp on his shoulders, instead of running away after the startling fear. 

"Marc, chill the fuck down, you're scaring her!" Steven yelled but it fell on deaf ears. It wasn't a hug. It was as if Marc was snatching her from something, protecting Layla with a possessive, vice-like grip. His raspy voice vibrates through her skin. 

"I anxiously awaited every bloodshed to end to engulf myself in you so I could forget just for a brief moment that my life wasn't a nightmare, that not everything could be against me!" Marc spat, confessing from his guts, looking up to her. 

Layla was so moved, realizing she meant more for him than she initially thought. She had always taken his rampant sexual desire as a way to relieve the fervour of violence when executing his sacred duty. The heartbreaking truth demolished the façade of invincibility. Now she could fully see that there was always more than just mere lust or physical need.

She remembers the countless times she had been with him, coming to realize that what he couldn't express in words, his body could. Sex served as a way to protect Marc. Hearing the words that bared his soul, his innate humanity demanded vulnerability, beyond his condition as the Knight and High Priest of Khonshu.  

"I never told you about Steven because being with you made me happy!" Marc suddenly continued, "I didn't need Steven to absorb any pain! There wasn't anything painful or something to shield me from whenever I was with you."

He had never been the weak one. His tenderness, his clumsy, sweet ways were the shield that saved Marc from a greater insanity. The beautiful, everyday things, the wonderful family he had, all of it had died with RoRo that dreadful day. Being aware of the wrong, evil things happening around him was already hard but being the one who failed his promise to his mother to watch over his brother made it harder and worse to tolerate.

At that moment he cursed everything. He cursed Harrow for the two bullets that ended his life, thus obliging him to face his traumas, for abandoning Layla when she needed him the most, for lying to her and for not saving Steven from the dead, claiming him to doom his eternity in the dunes. The golden sun that shone in an eternal dusk wasn't too different from being locked up in an asylum. There was nothing calm without him and Layla understands it perfectly, since Steven is a fraction of the same man. 

Marc then mentions his time as a teenager. After being locked up in an asylum for three years, Spector decides to leave. Tired of the abuse, the indifference and seeing love as something he was unworthy of, Marc chooses violence. It has its roots in boxing, much to Elias' chagrin. If his mother largely ignored him during his teen years, his father smothered him with the idea to become a rabbi. 

How could he? At this point, he was convinced that he was good at one thing: hurting people. Because the people dear to him, those who loved him suffered or died. Love had never done good for him, reaffirming his (wrong) choice to never want to be loved. For many years, Marc thought that's why he always won. His harsh ways were just a façade to hide the immense pain he carried. 

"I went AWOL and got discharged. They discovered that I falsified my documents, finding out I was interned in a psych ward. I didn't have too many options. Clandestine fights helped me to live decently for a while, before Bushman hired me as his second in command. The rest is history. I became a war criminal. A fucked up, soldier of fortune capable of inhumane acts for money. Until the raid in Egypt." 

Layla nodded, though not agreeing with the self deprecating epithet. 

"Whenever I think about all the things I did, I always wondered what made you fall in love with me. I always felt I was nothing but an innate, demented killer, a failure, a lie–" he cut himself, since being aware that Layla deserved better was the most painful part. 

"Because you're no longer that person. You don't live in the past anymore," She immediately refused to hear any other negative word. Marc felt one hand gently scratching his nape, while the other held his back. He was totally ecstatic at the gesture, treating him with such care, immersing himself in the warmth he had yearned so much since his innocence was mauled, "please believe me when I tell you that no disorder will prevent me from loving you!"

She now holds his face, kissing him. But Layla doesn't move an inch away after ceasing the caress. 

"You're exactly what you've chosen to be– a strong man determined to make up for the evil you once did, a believer and a fighter who has put himself on the good side– a new man that emerged from the ruins of what you were before."

Layla whispers so many beautiful things about why she is so in love with him. Marc is delighted to hear her: It was so haunting to think that this mysterious, yet immensely alluring crusader was lovesick for her. 

There was something so wonderful and thrilling to experience the softer side of this force of nature, intrigued to see his face while making love, to see him subdued by the promise of love, of moments without violence. She understands the tremendous pressure Marc has put on his mind, trying to live the lives of two different men during a critical moment in his life. 

"I know who and what you are, Marc! You are the strongest human I ever met! You're not mad! You're the man I love! Do you understand that?!" Layla brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, "Your own suffering diminished other's misery, you protected me, you died for me and you still think you're unworthy of love?" 

Marc doesn't answer. For a moment, the sweet sound of her voice made him forget to talk. Now, Spector only has strength to listen to these beautiful words and comprehend their effect on his psyche. 

"I'm proud of you, mate. You're so brave!" Steven's voice cheered from within, soothing his heart. Marc smiles, as Layla softly and patently caresses his hair, "You're so lucky to have her, Marc. She's so kind, so loving…" 

"She is, she is," Marc hums, pressing his forehead on her shoulder.

"Huh?" She asked. 

"Oh, I'm sorry– It's… it's Steven," he whispered, then he softly adds, "he's saying wonderful things about you." 

"Can he see us? Can he feel me when I touch you?" Layla hummed, pressing her lips on Marc's. The caresses now go up and down his face, neck, his broad shoulders.

"He can see, yes" The former mercenary says with a faint voice, too focused on kissing her breast, even with the sweater on. He remembers how beautiful she looked as Taweret's avatar. Those golden wings made her look like a celestial being. 

Marc remembered what Steven had said about the goddess in the Duat. The goddess of women and children… and also childbirth. 

It unchained a memory from many years ago. It was in a market, days before the raid that changed his life. He was having a drink, when he heard a couple of archeologists talking about local mythology and temples. Marc found the conversation quite interesting. They talked about one deity in particular, associated with the moon and protection of night travelers. It was said that whenever Khonshu caused the crescent moon to shine, fertility blessed the cattle, nostrils became full of pure air… and women conceived. 

The last sentence caused a dull, yet significant shiver between his legs. Marc leads his hands underneath the sweater, slowly kneading her way up to her waist.  

"What is it?" Layla asked, eyeing the curious and aching hands fondling her sinuosities.

"I want to sleep with you," Marc hummed against her skin. Layla rolled her eyes, giggling. 

"So what's new?"

"It just so happens that we don't have to prevent a global catastrophe nor I don't have to punish evildoers anymore," Marc chuckled but his smile soon morphed into a pleased grimace when he lifted the cloth, making Layla gasp when he drools at the sight of her bare breasts, carefully fondling them after tossing the sweater aside. He's about to say something to praise her splendid nudity but a long, loud -and straight-out hilarious- gasp is everything he can hear for now. 

"Oh my God– Marc, she– she looks gorgeous! " Steven is breathless. Spector can't help but laugh at his fascination, though he totally understood it. He had seen her body in the dark, but having the privilege to behold her body in broad daylight made his brain lose the capacity to think clearly. Layla looks down but Marc rushes to clarify things.  

"It's… it's Steven," his name suddenly draws a happy expression on her face, "he really likes what he's seeing…" 

"Well, he can see us before we get to fuck again" Layla states, rubbing his shoulders and arms, "so he knows what's gonna be like from here."

"He is the kind of man that can make you happy." Steven can love you in ways I can't…" he whispered but Layla cut his doubts with a kiss.

"Both of you make me happy, I'll have you both. He's a part of you that you can't ignore. I can't ignore him."

Marc brushes her nipple with his fingers distractingly before kissing it. Layla's breathy moan is instantaneous. He smirks. He adores her reactions, just as if it was the first time they had been together. 

"You are the reason why I'm still sane, why I'm still alive…" he breathed against the orbed part, making Layla shudder… To then give a quick lick to the areola. All he obtains is a soft, pitiful whine which doesn't take too long to make him hard. Without neglecting the part, he looked down at their privates so closely pressed. 

Marc is drooling over the sight. A thin, black thong is the only thing preventing her full nudity but an atypical, impatient echo from Steven startles the calm silence. 

"Bloody hell, Marc–! Do something!" 

Layla feels a ferrous grip on her hips and she realizes his intentions: Marc tugs the thong with urgency, tossing it to the floor to make his wife rub herself on his covered length. 

"I can't stand being without you," Spector pronounced, unconscious. He only has energy to focus on the beautiful image of Layla straddling him but a sharp scratch on his shoulders manages him to regain his strength. The interruption was followed by an awkward silence that Layla soon avoids, despite how weak his touches left her. 

"Honey?"

He suddenly remembers why he loves when Layla goes rough on him: This is the only pain he loves, for it is through that same pain that Marc knows he's alive. Their bodies wouldn't stop lusting for each other and Marc Spector's unbridled desire longs for something serving as a reminder of this rare moment of euphoria. He loves to see the scars left all over his back, and he's dying to feel that pleasurable pain all over again. 

"Again," Spector orders. 

Layla bites her lip and looks down impishly. Marc chuckles when he senses her hand pressing his nape, so his face was buried between her breasts.

"Be gentle," she asks in return and greatly rejoices when Spector puts his tongue to work on her nipple. Layla smiles when Marc cannot take it anymore, holding her while getting up. Both bodies slammed against the wall once Marc cornered Layla. 

"What do you want your good girl to do, husband?" She whispered sensually.

The small furniture helped his eager hands to spread her legs, so he could see the effect he had on her body. Layla feels so vulnerable by offering her drenched sex so openly, with an starving husband impeding any escape. His hands caressed the inner thighs, lining softly her folds and her wet, warm intimacy. 

Marc got rid of his boxers, hypnotized by her pink, glistening intimacy he so eagerly wanted to invade. He leads his hands to his mouth, oiling his fingers just before he teased her femininity, right on her fleshy bud. Layla jolted violently, everything is becoming blurry and all Marc can do is to gather enough strength to insert himself inside her.

"I want you to come around me, baby," he muttered against Layla's mouth. She holds his face with avid tenderness, loving those rebellious curls falling on his forehead. His exhausted yet completely ecstatic expression ignited her to taste his lips, setting aside a few locks. 

"Fuck- I only–" Layla doesn't allow him to talk with her voracious kisses, "wanna–wanna feel you on me," Marc circles perfectly her swollen bud and Layla just ceases the passionate kisses to writhe and moan for him, crying his name when she feels her moistened depths fluttering, yearning to be invaded, to receive Marc in the ways he deserved, so he can feel the exquisite captivity imprisoning his flesh even more. 

Marc needs more of her sounds, smiling at her urged, needful calling ring in his ears. He knows his life is made of contradictions, as being a war criminal while being the only living son of a rabbi. He was joyful and exultant to be a fearful force of nature and a touch starved man subdued by love. She calls him, wishing her man to claim her body and soul. Just then, Marc howls, desperate for humanity:

"JUST FUCK ME UNTIL I LOVE MYSELF!" he exclaims, out of his mind. 

Marc holds her closer to him, to bind her very soul with his. He slowly opened his eyes, staring at her blurred face but her voice echoes in his mind: 

"Habibi…" she lovingly lulled into his ear, knowing the effect the endearing name had on him. Once his vision is clear, he becomes lost in her loving glare, far from those harsh looks he had received during his whole fucking life. How can he not love her, if Layla is the living opposite to every abusive person that had crossed paths with him? As with Steven, Marc is maddened by the fact that someone tried to understand him from a loving perspective, instead of being examined and observed as a mentally ill lunatic.

"Habibi…" she murmured again, shuddering at the touch of his fingers down her body, tangling some curls from the abundant mane that barely managed to cover that lovely bosom of hers. His hand sneaks between her legs and he smiles when he hears Layla claiming his name, begging for more. Though he intends a more profound exploration of her body, his long, lost gaze suggests confusion as to where to start touching. 

Fascination takes over Layla when she feels an atypical gentleness in his touches, as if she was made of glass. Layla perceived that this kindness was not like him, but rather from…

"We both need you," Marc said as he slid his fingertips over her chest before pouncing like a hungry animal, sliding his tongue to reach the part previously pampered, tasting it more hungrily now. His hand drew impatient circles all over the swollen bud, making her lose the little composure she had left. 

His mouth gently nibbled at the hardened nipple and then looked up at her mischievously. Layla never felt so aroused in her life by just a gaze. Although Marc didn't believe it when she mentioned it, Layla just melted before the manly beauty of her husband. His eyes, his black hair, his intense gaze… soon Layla feels Marc is everything she needs now. 

Marc is still doing his wonders with his hands, but they cease once he decides to close the wounds of both of them, left behind by so many lies and so much foolishness when answering the call of his flesh, which ardently cries out to abandon the solitude that individuality meant.

Layla sobs and whimpers as she is invaded, relieved to receive him inside her. Marc wasted no time in thrusting into her desperately, panting heavily as pleasure made him lose his mind.

"You like that, don't you?" and Layla nods with a cute, playful expression in her face, prompting Marc to continue. He was blissfully overwhelmed by the warm, living constriction that adjusted to his length each time he slammed inside.   

Layla arched her back several times against the wall, fighting against the pleasurable pain cramps spread all over her thighs, her belly. Her labored breathing turns into scandalous moans. 

"That's it... Moan, moan for me" Marc pays more attention to her heated intimacy, getting exactly what he wanted. These were whispered words, sometimes incoherent, but beautiful. Her moans are interspersed with her native Arabic, whose sound helps to heal his heart. Marc played with the fleshy pearl hidden in his privacy, causing his wife to stir with pleasure.

The former mercenary feels the rapture reaching unimaginable dimensions when her twitching depths brutally contract around him. His voice rumbles with ecstatic moans as he pours himself inside her. Marc felt it was as if her soul begged in every (humanly) way for him to stay there, with her… wanting his rigid sex melted with hers for good, something he happily conceded. 

"Looks like someone wants to be a father," she jokingly said, but another animalistic thrust from Marc seemed to confirm what she suspected. 

"I could be one, you know…" Marc hums against her mouth. Both laughed it off.

It is a mad, sweet addiction. 

This is the only madness that Marc wants: this love, the one a man feels towards a woman, the love that reduces a man to a slave, to a madman. He is proud to recognize himself addicted to her body, to her love, to her good heart, to the fact that their bodies could not stop once they united. Layla glides her hands over his neck, feeling the skin vibrate as he speaks. 

"Save me…" She saw how lost his expression was, still basking in the elation of being one, "save us…"  

That blissful glare was rare and gorgeous to gaze at. His forehead touched her shoulder, repeating the plea over and over. He probably didn't even know what he was saying at this point. She caresses his hair but Marc keeps his vicious, downright desperate grip around her waist, hiding his face. 

"She's a goddess, Marc!" An enraptured Steven Grant exclaims from within. Marc groans at the strident joy of his alter and it catches Layla's attention. 

"Sweetie?" She asks. It takes a few seconds for Marc to react. He breaks their physical bond, without getting away from her. 

"Steven wants to hug you," Marc murmured. Layla tilted her head, softly laughing at the tender request. 

"Did he enjoy our little show?" She playfully asked. 

"I think he did," Marc giggled, looking right at her, "it means a lot to him, you know?" He steps away from her, looking at the mirror's reflection, which showed an impatient Steven, "alright, you're in."

Layla closely pays attention to the moment her husband keeps mute for a moment. He turned around, quickly glancing at her. Layla's face beams with happiness as Steven gasps at the sight of her, completely exposed. She got down from the furniture, walking towards him. 

"Oh, dear!" Steven almost stumbled, seeing her and himself with no clothes on. He doesn't move an inch, incapable of taking his eyes off her. Layla finally comes close to him, extending her hand to caress his face. 

"Steven." His breath shortened as her hands reached his lips, brushing her thumb over it. His fearful, innocent attitude, so distant from Marc's rough ways, makes her feel guilty for how angry she was at him when they met. 

"Steven Grant… from the gift shop," she lovingly hummed, while slowly wrapping his neck with her arms. She can feel his body tensing, especially when his chest is pressed against hers, "don't be afraid…" 

She starts leaving a line of kisses all over his neck, to let him know it was real. He groans softly, sliding his hands down her waist as a sensual compensation for her embrace. 

"Layla…" he muttered, bewitched by her beauty, "look–look I–" nervousness makes him clear his throat, trying to hide the panic. Layla undoes the hug, causing a low whine from Steven. Layla pays full attention to him. She has that look in her eyes, full of love, of understanding. 

Everything changed all of a sudden. Not too long ago, Steven had been dwelling in depression for a missed date, sick of his usual bad luck. Layla's gentle heart makes him forget that angry call, the shame… he still has trouble thinking something or someone this good couldn't be true. 

"Last night… last night was amazing," Steven Grant stutters, but it doesn't scare her off. She keeps listening carefully, "I never thought you wanted me in that way… I just freaked out because I didn't know what was happening."

A cute smile on Layla's lips encourages him to continue.  

"You…" he says, feeling the typical lightheadedness of love brought with it, "you looked absolutely lovely. I feel… I feel I've been waiting for this moment my whole life." 

She nods, smiling as she remembers the kiss in the desert. Layla also remembers she had been the one starting the affections. But the memory itself doesn't prompt her to properly resume what Steven had interrupted (even if it was with a noble reason). It was the rapture that made his eyes shine. That same love he looked at her with back before finding Ammit's tomb. Layla's face came closer to his, searching to lock their mouths. 

Steven gladly consents and responds to her hungry kiss, praising her each time their mouths broke the caress. The sound of their lips colliding sent shivers through his nerves, thinking this could be the beginning to more touches. 

"I absolutely loved you fucking me so hard, Steven with a V," Layla whispered between kisses, stopping for a few seconds to bathe in the tender praise. The nerd chuckles happily. After all, she remembers that silly rhyme. 

"When I came here, I wanted my husband and I ended up with two instead." 

"I thought that if I was under the service of an evil, stupid pigeon, I was also married to you.” The mild mannered man pants against her mouth, loving the feel of her breath on his face.

Layla sneaks her tongue inside his mouth, parting his lips. Steven allows her to, leading his restless hands towards her chest, squeezing her soft forms. Layla broke the kiss, eyes open in surprise at his daring boldness. The long and awkward silence scares Steven, ashamed of his impulsivity: 

"I'm sorry, I don't want you to think I'm a creep or something–"

"No!" Layla calmed him down but Steven's insecurity keeps speaking for him:

"I'm sorry, it's just… just before I met you, I missed a date. All because Marc had to retrieve that golden beetle. I don't remember kissing anyone until you," Steven places his hands over her shoulders, "I don't remember anyone until you. Please tell me this isn't the last time we do it." 

Layla rolls her eyes, taking his hands to place them all over her chest, so he could squeeze and fondle them. 

"Didn't you hear me? I said–" she pulled him closer to her to then purr, "you can see us before we get to fuck again." Steven moans when his fingers get to touch the nascent line to the full, round part. 

"That's it… touch them if you're not convinced," Layla approves his touches, putting her hands over Steven's and he's there again, consumed by desire. His eyes reflect an incommensurable gratitude and profound relief.

"That is the best part of all this adventure," Steven whispered, amorously holding her hands on his, "I got to meet the wife I didn't know I had. How was I supposed to live the simple, normal, peaceful life Marc intended if you're not in it?" The line is powerful enough to make a tear fall from her eye. 

"You can now, Steven" she held him close, "because you're alive and I can touch you and love you." Steven wraps his arms around her waist once both lay down. He holds her with passion, gratefulness, free of any thought concerning his solitude. 

Layla means 'night' in both Hebrew and Arabic, and for the first time in his life, Marc Spector could succumb to rest, feasting his eyes on the beautiful stars that saved his existence from complete darkness.

#marvel moon knight #moon knight 2022 #moon knight imagine #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfic #moon knight smut #marc spector #marc spector x layla el faouly #marc spector smut #marc spector fic #steven grant fic #steven grant x layla el faouly #steven grant imagine #steven x layla #marc x layla #marc spector imagine #layla el faouly imagine #layla el faouly #Layla El-Faouly smut #steven grant #Layla El-Faouly #may calamawy scarlet scarab #may calamawy #oscar isaac #oscar isaac moon knight

[morally-grey-girlbosses]

Propaganda under the cut.

Morgan Le Fay

Sure she may have come up with several plots to kill her sister King Arthur and also had her child through the use of merlin the dick wizard but she is hot and people tolerate her she also calls herself your wife no matter your gander

Edelgard Von Hresvelg

we love an axe user 🙏 she has a whole alter ego/persona just for conspiracy against the church. yeahhh she does a little murder but like, she’s kinda right

Caused insane discourse over whether she was right or wrong that has been going on for four years and will never stop.

She declared a war against the church and the class system of the continent, because she wants a better world, and that's nice she looked hot while doing it too, but her methods are questionable.

She started a war to get rid of the monarchy system in her continent since she believed the system rewarded only those with luck to be born with magic crests rather than those who worked hard. Said system combined with an underground organization that wanted to exploit said crests, allowed for her and her siblings to be experimented on and for most of them to die. Edelgard is desperate to get rid of the crest system fast, since the experimentation on her while it made her more powerful it also shortened her lifespan, war was the fastest way to get rid of it. In any other route of the games that isn't hers, it's heavily implied she sacrificed some of her allies to have an advantage on the battlefield. In the route "Azure Moon" where you support her childhood friend and enemy, Dimitri, in the war, Edelgard will sacrifice her body to become a monster and finally be able to kill you both. Even after Dimitri forgives her, Edelgard will try to kill him. I love her Qwq In her route you can help her become better, and see her hopeful rather than sunk in her obsession for her goal.

Edelgard is a total badass, kind of a fascist, and head of the war crimes committee. She partnered up with a group of comically evil mages in order to destroy the Central Church and overthrow the Archbishop/dragon that had controlled the country for over a millennia, declared war before the school year ended, roping all of her classmates into the conflict, and is even the first protagonist and first female character to fall into the evil emperor archetype. But with all her war crimes, she had a reason for everything, as she was trying to free the continent from the oppressive Crest system that determined people's value by their blood and caused her to be horrifically tortured as a child.

#poll #tournament poll #round 1 #morgan le fay #fate grand order #fgo #edelgard von hresvelg #fe3h edelgard #fire emblem #fe3h

[clonerightsagenda]

Ok I am finally getting back on the horse (posting about the FMA student government AU). It is time... for plot.

To consolidate information from previous posts, Father/Chancellor Bradley left a trail of corporate destruction and embezzlement in his wake before taking on the chancellorship at a large state university where Hohenheim works. Hohenheim went "absolutely not" and started taking sabbaticals to try to collect proof of his twin's misdeeds. Father kept up with the misdeeds and contracted with the military to have the chemistry program produce some crowd control gas that ended up being harmful. The chemistry students working on the gas suspected that it could have those effects but most didn't leave the lab, fearful of the ramifications that choice could have on their education, stipend, and future career.

When the gas was used on civilians, students protested, including Scar's brother. Having a chemistry background himself, he suspected administration might have known the danger - which they absolutely did - and came close to uncovering that the military had contracted for a weapon the whole time. Before he could get all the details, though, he was expelled and deported as the chancellor's son and undergrad student president helped crack down on protestors. Now that son is back and running for graduate student president, and chem student Roy is running against him to atone for his past mistakes and prevent more such atrocities and also because he loves attention.

Ed and Al do independent study in Roy's lab, where instead of supervising them Roy spends most of his time scheming and bitching about administration with his friends. The Elrics are a little too competent to fill all their independent study hours doing titrations, so Roy starts having them do minor tasks for his campaign. They're bored enough to do it and don't really care who wins - their interactions with their cousins are minimal, besides that Ed and Envy occasionally run into each other in the Hot Topic near campus. (They have probably squabbled over the last MCR shirt a few times.)

Ling gets involved via the Elrics after hearing Ed complain about Roy's delusions of grandeur during their tutoring sessions. As part of his 12 step plan to taking over his father's corporation, he wants to add student government president to his own resume in a few years. For now, experience with a campaign and connections in graduate government would be an asset. Greed, naturally, wants to stick it to his brother.

Father enlists his more cooperative children to assist Wrath's campaign - Lust through her many committee contacts, Envy by hacking Hughes' social media accounts and getting him suspended. Pride is, again, a child and blameless in this debacle.

Meanwhile, Mei has met Scar and bonded over devotion to small, cute animals, and Al eventually meets Scar through her. There's a bit of nastiness with Winry (obviously Scar did not murder her parents; this is a college AU. Maybe he makes a dismissive comment about them pulling a white savior routine?) but Al is intrigued by the suggestion that his brother found something suspicious. He's been feeling a little faint this semester and needs something to work on less taxing than Ed hassling innocent passerby with campaign fliers, so he heads to the university archives. (Scar can't go because he has been trespassed from so many university buildings.) The information has been partly redacted but a) higher ups rarely care about or understand archives anyway and b) most archival materials these days are processed using MPLP (more product less process) to work through backlogs quickly. It's easy for something to slip past. Last time I used university records I found so many uncensored social security numbers. Luckily Al makes contact with a former archival intern who got dismissed because of her insistence on reading every slip of paper, and she points him in the right direction.

This is all leading up to election day, also the day faculty senate is going to meet to hear Hohenheim's presentation, also the day of a solar eclipse. I was in college when we had a total solar eclipse and nobody shut up about it for several months prior. You can't go anywhere without someone waving off brand eclipse glasses in your face. Greed bought some because he thought they made him look cool and immediately walked into a wall.

As election day draws near, Lust and Gluttony have already bailed because Lust saw the writing on the wall. Olivier has reluctantly endorsed Roy because she's decided she hates Wrath more. Al keeps getting dizzy spells and not telling his brother about it. Ed has gotten really into campaigning because he can run around yelling at people. And Hohenheim finally has the evidence he needs to prove his twin is up to no good, although his children are not impressed by his halfhearted greeting when he finally shows up on campus again.

Then it's election day, and everything goes to hell. That post... tomorrow? We shall see.

#fma college au #fma