#the incredible petrified world

[weirdlookindog]

The Incredible Petrified World (1959) & Teenage Zombies (1959) - Double Feature

#the incredible petrified world #teenage zombies #john carradine #1959 #1950s movies #jerry warren #double feature #sci fi #horror #shlock #really bad movies

[movieposters1]

#Incredible Petrified World

[wriothesleysgf]

pretty boy. — gojo satoru

notes: some domestic gojo, because god knows everyone needs it today.

content: no angst, here we just reject canon and embrace fluff. implied non!sorcerer reader, but can be read either way. established relationship. not proofread. this post is leak/spoiler free! this song is the vibe i was going for, if anyone is interested.

"honey, i'm home!"

the familiar, ever-joyous tone of one gojo satoru rang through the apartment; it was always the highlight of your day. you, however, didn't respond. it concerned him a little, to be honest, but as soon as he heard the sounds of soft music echoing from the kitchen, he knew just where to find you.

you were too busy gently swaying to whichever song the radio station was playing to notice gojo. so, like any adoring boyfriend would, he leaned against the doorframe and watched.

he never thought he'd be lucky enough to have a love like you. with his position in the world of sorcery, and the prestige that his name carried, gojo always thought he'd be alone. hell, he was absolutely petrified of catching feelings for somebody, since there would likely be people willing to hurt the people that he loved in order to get to him. rationally, he knew he could defeat them, but the thought always lingered.

thus, he was incredibly grateful for peaceful moments like this. moments where he could forget that he was the honoured one, and feel like all he is is yours— because that's all he desires anymore.

gojo knocks on the doorframe, not wishing to startle you as you cook. you jumped a little, but immediately settled the very second you saw those blue eyes and messy white locks. he looked so effortlessly attractive, even after a full day's work.

without even saying a word, he saunters over to you and wraps his arms around your waist. his chin rests on the top of your head, and he continues to sway you to the rhythm. as he hums softly, you recognize that he's probably had a difficult day. it's not like him to be so quiet.

you relax under his touch and let him hold you, knowing he needs it right now. "i love you," he mumbles. each words is sincere with him. the tone is more sombre than usual, almost like you'd have expected the words to come from nanami instead.

you get to a point that you can leave the food alone for a moment as it cooks, and turn around to face gojo. his arms remain around you, but you can see his face more clearly now. he's exhausted, and trying to mask that. you move a few stray hairs out of his face, carressing his cheek. "i love you too," you finally reply.

the returned sentiment puts a smile on his face. it's not the regular, goofy grin he displays around others. it's something more real, and it makes you feel like you're one of the few people that gojo really lets in on how he's feeling. if anything, you quite literally are, as his infinity was lowered the second that he stepped into the threshold of your apartment.

since your guard is so far down, gojo begins to move you with ease. he guides your body around the kitchen, causing the pair of you to fall into a rather messy slow dance of sorts. both are content, at peace in each others' arms. there's a blissful silence, a rarity for the gojo household, where nothing but the calming music fills the air.

the two of you remain in this little, serendipitous bubble for a while. the only thing that pops it is when the food on the stove makes a concerning noise, and you notice that you were so caught up that it began to burn.

"shit!" you squeal, leaping out of gojo's arms to try to salvage your meal. he just chuckles, finding your hectic movements amusing.

"baby, don't worry about it," he says, smiling as he pulls out his phone. "i'm ordering in, we can deal with this mess tomorrow,"

gojo then moves closer to you, wrapping you up in his arms so that you can't escape with ease. he waddles backwards towards the living room, not stopping until you're both plopped down on the couch (of course he's on top of you, pinning you down yet somehow not suffocating you with the mess of long limbs that he is).

he flicks on the screen, which is showing some older and kind-of sappy romcom, and presses a few buttons to order your food. the night ends with the coffee table littered in takeout boxes and some movie still playing— you weren't sure what, as you had both fallen asleep in each other's embrace long ago.

#♡｡ now tracking: kfairy ☆.ᐟ #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojō x reader #gojo fluff #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader

[moronkombat]

characters reacting to their baby saying “dada” for the first time? kenshi, liu kang and bi han?

Almost misses it. He's holding them while trying to get something done and he hears the small but unmistakable sound of his child speaking

He freezes up while the baby just claps their tiny and chubby hands together amused and happy

Even Though Kenshi isn't around often, his partner would show their child pictures of him and that what lead them to calling him dada

Kenshi would ask for his child to say it again but they only continue to laugh and wiggle in his arms

Liu Kang is all smiles. He grins and laughs with his chest, encouraging his child to say more. "What a strong set of lungs! Keep talking, little one! The world is your audience!"

Feels incredibly proud to be called that. He knows he cannot always be available so it brings him comfort knowing that his child recognizes him

Would talk back to them while just beaming so brightly "Yes, I am your dad and you are my child who I love!"

He then holds them high up into the air before spinning them around and around which brings forth an orchestra of laughter between father and child

He is, for lack of a better term, frozen. Absolutely petrified and intimated when he hears his child utter that simple but heavy word for the first time

Bi-Han would stare down at them, his eyes wide and bewildered. He holds them loosely while his eyes seem to wander into space as if pondering something

His eyes feel damp and his cheeks wet. There's something falling from the corner of his eyes and rolling own the sides of his face. Are these...tears? Is this...happiness?

When his partner puts a hand on his shoulder, he hands you your baby before running a hand over his face. He straightens his posture and clears his throat. He doesn't say anything but he doesn't need to. You know how much joy it brought it him to hear that word

#mortal kombat #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat fanworks #mortal kombat headcanons #mk1 #mortal kombat x reader #bi han #mk1 bi han #bi han x you #bi han x reader #kenshi takahashi #kenshi x reader #liu kang mk1 #liu kang #liu kang x reader

[comatosebunny09]

Inspired by @sserpente’s The Sunwalker’s Gift.

Imagine being a shopkeeper, selling heirlooms and antiques in a quaint mom-and-pop shop.

Business is incredibly slow. You find yourself flipping through the worn, deckled pages of a book, your chin cradled in your palm. There is nary a customer in sight. Not since that new, mainstream jewelry store popped up down the street.

You’re about to close up shop early to enjoy what’s left of the day—it’s lovely outside. Too pretty to be tucked between these browning walls. But the jangle of the store’s bell lures your attention to the door.

Finally.

You look up as you prepare to greet the store’s newest occupant. But you forget how to talk—forget how to breathe—rooted to the floor like a basilisk has petrified you.

He’s ethereal amid the sunbeams pouring into your tiny store. All wintry-skinned, thin, and tall, dark lenses perched on his sharp nose. Rounded cheeks, petal-pink lips, and foxlike features.

His hair is what entrances you. Swaying like snowflakes in the breeze, and you wonder if it’s as soft as the snow it resembles. Vaguely, you register it sifting through your fingers, smell it exuding the faintest hints of rosemary and firewood.

The stranger surveys your shop, one hand tucked in his pants pocket, the other holding onto an oversized coat. Even his stance is princely. Nothing captures his attention for too long as he peruses through your wares, feigning interest in your rickety things.

You suddenly feel insecure; small—he strikes a picturesque figure amid the dusty antiques lining your shelves. The store across the way would probably suit someone so devastatingly beautiful better.

Nevertheless, you remember how to speak. Square your shoulders, plastering on your most welcoming grin despite your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin.

After smoothing out the wrinkles of your attire, you offer the customer a warm, rehearsed “Welcome!”

He perks up at the sound of your voice. Lips twitch into a half smile, silver brows lifting slightly. Your heart hiccups at the sight.

The stranger saunters towards the counter, carrying with him the scent of bergamot and brushed sage. It’s a homely scent. Somehow nostalgic as he leans towards you, tilting his shades down to ingest you with eyes the color of smoldering coals.

“Good afternoon, love,” he drawls, his accent thick with regality. The purr of it causes your body to flood with warmth. It’s almost dizzying, the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You swallow, your throat thickening with your voice. “What brings you in today?”

“Actually.” He looks thoughtful, a long finger tapping his chin. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers like all the world’s secrets bare themselves to him. “Maybe you can help me with something.”

You watch with bated breath whilst the stranger retrieves something from his coat pocket. It catches in the sunlight. Glints a pretty ruby red as he places it on the display counter with a resounding clack.

“I’ve been trying to part ways with the damned thing for ages. Yet somehow, it always finds its way back to me.” His gaze is far off for the barest of seconds before he replaces it with a nonchalant shrug, waggling his hand dismissively. “It’s long since served its purpose. An antique, if you will. I wondered how much it would go for if it still holds any value.”

He speaks of it so contemptuously. As if it’s been a burden to carry all this time. But it’s beautiful in its simplicity. Tarnished gold, carved with intricate runes you can’t quite decipher. It houses a gorgeous crimson stone that seems to hum and swirl with energy—with power. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light or your nerves causing you to hallucinate.

You’re delicate as you hold it against the sun’s rays, further studying its design. In your peripheral, you capture the stranger’s eyes, regarding you with something you can’t quite place. Disdain? Curiosity? Fondness? Whatever it is, it unnerves you. Makes your mouth fill with sand as you clutch the ring in your palm, intending to scrutinize it some more in the back. It radiates against your flesh despite it being so frigid.

“I’ll have to take a more thorough look at it,” you conclude, masking your shakiness. You muster another smile. “Would you like some tea in the meantime? It may take a while to appraise it properly.”

“No thank you, darling,” replies the fair-skinned stranger, leaning against your counter in an easy slouch. His smirk is back, boasting what you mistake for a fang, peeking through the plushness of his lips. “Never had a taste for the stuff.”

“Coffee your thing?”

“Gods no.”

“Water?”

He waves you off with a quiet scoff, venturing away to prod and examine the other little trinkets in your shop.

“Take all the time you need, love. I’ve nothing but time to spare. And, by the looks of it, so do you.” He eyes you over his shoulder with mirth gracing his countenance. A flash of affection colors his gaze before he busies himself again.

You huff a laugh at his peculiar mannerisms, disappearing behind the curtain of the back room to fetch your jewelers loupe. All the while, your mind swims with wistfulness.

You can't help but feel like the handsome stranger who’d fatefully wandered into your shop is watching you, burrowing deep into your soul, even through the thick veil of your curtain.

masterlist

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #astarion bg3 #astarion x you #past lovers #soulmate au #reincarnated lovers #astarion imagine #astarion drabble

[totaly-obsessed]

Could you write for leah where leah amd reder have kids and its parents evening and one of the kids have bad reports.

Parents Evening

Leah Williamson x reader request

-> Leah and Reader attend a Parents Evening and there are a lot more tears than expected

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

“Abigail Lynn Williamson! What is this?”

And with that Leah knew that her calm evening was over. It was never fun for the twenty-eight-year-old to hear you, her wife, yell. Especially not at your eight-year-old daughter Abigail, who was currently cuddled up to the blonde’s chest, carefully watching her little brother crawl on the floor.

“What did you do?” The defender’s whisper was met with an even quieter “I don’t know Mama.” But the flushed cheeks and restless eyes trying to avoid looking into her mothers gave her away. Abby knew exactly what was up, and it didn’t take Leah long to figure it out either.

You had rounded the corner now, a crumpled piece of paper in your cramping fist – your face just as hot as your daughter's (at least she had gotten something from you). “I found this at the bottom of your bag, Missy.”

Your oldest child tried to hide herself in Leah’s side, who knew that that was not a good idea and pulled her out of it. “It’s not important Mommy. I promise!” By now Leah had stood up, and tried to take the paper from you – but your grip would not allow it. So instead, she maneuvered you to sit down on the arm-chair.

You had just entered the third trimester with your third child, and pregnancy was a bitch.

This was the last one, as you liked to remind your wife every evening. But she did not believe you. If she knew anyone who wanted a big family, it was you. And after you had Abby, you had also claimed, that she was the last one. Even though she was only the beginning.

“Nothing you say?” Abigail’s eyes were still fleeting from Leah’s, too scared to look at her mother, even though she knew that Leah could not be mad at her.

“Dear Parents, I would like to invite you to attend your daughter’s year 3 parents’ evening on Thursday second of November. The evening will run from 4.30 pm until 7.30 pm and will be a chance for you to meet your child’s teachers and discuss their progress, behaviors for learning, and attainment in each subject.”

If you had not been so mad, your wife would have laughed at the scared look on her daughter’s face. She was petrified. “Yeah but it's not-“

“Not mandatory? No, it is not. But a bright pink sticky note says ‘Dear Mrs. and Mrs. Williamson, please attend the evening – I would like to have a word with you. Yours faithfully, D. Halliwell”

Abigail tried to ignore your stare by sliding off the couch onto the floor, trying to motivate her three-year-old brother, Noah, to play with her. But the young boy was tired and just wanted to look at the pretty pictures in his book.

After successfully having Abigail through IVF, the next attempts had failed, and for four long years, Leah and you had struggled to get pregnant again. While the process was grueling, you were so incredibly happy to have Noah with you, and both Leah and you had learned a lot through the process.

“So what baby – It’s a parent's evening, not the end of the world. What’s up?” Your ever-so-loving wife had moved behind you, massaging your tense shoulders, trying to calm you down – anxious for you and the baby. “The second of November Leah.”

But nothing clicked in the blonde’s head. “That is today. Baby. And it starts at four-thirty. That is in an hour.” Now the footballer understood. The problem was not that there was a parent’s evening, or that Abby had ‘forgotten’ about it but the fact that it was today.

Tears started to well up in the eight-year-olds eyes, pulling yours out as well. You were already an emotional person, but seeing your baby cry? The end of the world – not that the pregnancy and its hormones were any help at all.

“I’m sorry Mommy.” A now crying Abigail climbed on your lap, pressing her wet face into the crook of your neck, sobbing.

Leah's heart broke at the sight, but instead of getting involved, knowing that the two of you needed to talk, she took Noah and made her way to the kitchen. “Please don’t hate me, Mommy.”

“Oh, Baby. I could never hate you. I am not mad, okay? I just want you to tell me things like this – and lying about it does not make it better. Do you understand?” You gently wiped away her tears as the small blonde sniffled a small “Yes, Mommy.”

Your wife had re-entered the room a nearly asleep Noah on her hip, her phone in hand. “Beth and Viv are going to pick them up in a couple of minutes, go on up Abby – pack your bag.” After pressing one last, very wet, kiss to your cheek your daughter hurried upstairs to pack her overnight bag, excited that she got to stay with her favorite aunties for the night. “Lee, I’m a mess. I look-“

“Beautiful.” The defender pulled you up by your hands, eyes fleeting to the baby bump. “I’m gonna get them two ready, while you’ll get yourself ready, yeah? Don’t hurry, we have enough time as long as we are there by half six. Go take a bath baby.”

Before you reached the stairs, your wife pulled you back by the hips for a quick kiss – but after she pulled away ending the kiss, she quickly doubled down – into a bruising heavy kiss. “Alright, up ya go.” The blonde’s voice was hoarse as she gasped for air, a cocky smirk on her face.

By five you had said goodbye to the kids, promising Beth and Viv that you would bring breakfast to pick them up. The couple was over the moon, happy to take in their favorite arsenal kids, even on such short notice.

Both Leah and you were dressed to impress – your wife in a nice beige suit and you in one of your favorite winter dresses. Occasions like this were still scary so you wanted to make good impressions. It was nerve-wracking that you did not know why your presence was requested, but even with Abby in year three you still did not know if the teaching staff was completely fine with both you and Leah as a married couple and mothers.

The fear of homophobia is still at large.

During the drive Leah tried to calm you down, drawing shapes and hearts onto your thighs – but you were still tense. And that did not change. Not after you had been greeted at the door and escorted to Abigail’s classroom by a prefect.

“Mrs. and Mrs. Williamson, nice to see you again!” Mrs. Halliwell greeted both of you with a firm handshake and a tense smile on her lips. Leah, being the best wife ever, pulled out one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk for you, gesturing to sit down. She took the seat next to you and her hand quickly found yours under the table.

“I am glad to see that the invitation for this evening has made its way to you.” Blue eyes met yours, as Lee looked at you, remembering what had happened not too long ago. “Regardless I am afraid that I do not have much good news for you.”

There it was. The panic that had been boiling up deep inside of you.

Both you and your wife were preparing for the worst, whatever it may be.

“Abigail does not have the best marks in most subjects. Except for physical education.” Mrs. Halliwell threw a quick glance at Leah, who was obviously the athlete in the relationship.

You knew that Abby’s marks were not the greatest, but you were working on it, helping with homework and various projects. You had even gotten a tutor for math, the subject she felt the most insecure about – and it was her idea.

“She cannot pay attention to things longer than ten minutes, always playing around with toys or drawing. Her behavior is poor at best. She does not listen to a word I say, always thinking about something else. Things must change.”

There was a feeling in your stomach that you did not like – you hated it. The nagging voice of the teacher nearly made you doze off, you could not even imagine having to sit through it for hours like your poor daughter did.

But the disgust Mrs. Halliwell held in her voice when she talked about Abigail made you tear up. Sweet little Abby, who could listen to you read to her for hours, being able to recite every single one you had made up for her as she wrote them down in a storybook, just for the two of you. She even drew pictures alongside it, wanting to share them with her brother Noah, and her unborn sibling.

Sweet Abigail, who would hang on to Leah’s and her teammates ’ lips, desperate for every bit of footballing information she could get. But apparently, the teacher knew a different side of Abigail, one you did not.

“Do you have anything nice to say about or daughter?” Leah was getting angry as well, her grip on your hand tightening as her jaw clenched.

Mrs. Halliwell drew in a sharp breath as she filled through her papers “She is very opinionated and does not let anyone talk over her. Abigail is a great leader as she takes charge of the football team.” What sounded like a compliment, felt like a punch to the face as she called your daughter bossy. Not a single word that left her lips was said with joy, dislike lacing every word.

Leah could feel your anger radiating off you and she knew that she had to intervene “So what can we do to better things?” The woman whom you had thought of as ‘nice’ got uglier in character the longer you looked at her. Pursed, chapped lips, dry eyes with thin damaged hair – she looked tired. “As long as she doesn’t change, I don’t see any way she could improve.”

Change.

She wanted your daughter to change, instead of helping her as she was. “Change in what way?” Leah was more composed than you, used to watchful eyes and judgment. “She needs to calm down and stop talking every chance she gets – Abigail needs to pay attention. But personally, I think that it is hopeless.”

Boom. There it was.

It was over and Leah knew it, letting go of your hand as you stood up, a hand pressed to your tummy. “Excuse me? Hopeless? You are talking about an eight-year-old girl. Someone who is dependent on you, to learn. If you teach the way that you talk to us, I can understand why she does not pay attention.”

You were in full mother-bear mode, protective of your young. And while Leah was angry as well, she needed to control the situation.

And her thoughts, as she could not help but find it incredibly hot how angry and protective you got, about your child, hers in your tummy.

“Where are her things?” The stunned Mrs. Halliwell just stared at you as you, as you stood in front of her – steam practically pouring out of your ears. She pointed over to one of the desks. Of course, it was the messiest in the room, Leah’s genes coming through strong.

Your wife understood clearly, gathering all of Abby’s things from the table, as well as from her drawer in the class cupboard. “We will be going now – and you will hear from us. Have a nice evening Mrs. Halliwell.” With that you stormed out, Leah hot on your heels with Abby’s arts and crafts in her hands as the door slammed shut behind the both of you.

You held it together until you entered the car, tears escaping you in streams. “Did you hear how she talked about our daughter?” With a coo, Leah pulled you into her chest. A gentle hand stroking your hair, trying to calm you down. “I know darling.” More sobs shook your body, reminding her of how Abby had cried earlier in the day. “She was so mean to my baby, Lee!”

You both had decided to pick Abby up from the Miedema-Mead house, wanting to talk to her alone, in need of a bit of quality time with her.

Viv pulled you into a deep hug with Noah in her arms, who really wanted to stay the night at their house. The Dutch had no idea what happened, but she could see your need for stability. Beth and Leah were leaning against your family car, the defender explaining what happened quietly to her friend whose eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “Is that teacher still alive or did Momma over there get to her first?”

Abigail was quiet in the car, afraid that she was in trouble. You had given up your seat in the front, opting to sit next to the girl, holding her hand in yours.

Back at home, Leah had led everyone into your bedroom, helping you up into the high bed, your bump slightly in the way. “Are you okay baby?” You knew that the question was for the both of you, as the eight-year-old cuddled up between the two of you “Yeah, I’m fine Mama. How are you?”

And there they were again. Those annoying tears. Sweet little Abigail who was so considerate of her Mom’s feelings.

“I’m fine, thank you, baby. We wanted to talk to you about something. Is that okay?” The smaller blonde nodded, fear taking over her eyes as well. “Sorry ‘bout my marks – I’ll get better. I promise” Her little voice was muffled by Leah’s shirt that she was burrowing herself in. All three of you had changed into warm, matching pajamas as soon as you had gotten home.

“Don’t worry about them, darling.” Surprised eyes met yours as you pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Do you like Mrs. Halliwell, baby?” The instant mean face that she pulled, looked exactly like your wife’s when she was in a bad mood – answering your question without words. “That’s okay, Darl. Why don’t you like her?”

“She is so boring and she can’t explain things – I don’t understand anything. She doesn’t answer my questions and she doesn’t let me read when she asks for volunteers. I know how to read! Better than Ben, and she chooses him every time.” Her angry rambling reminded Leah of you when the book you read does not end the way you want it to. “And she doesn’t let me draw when I am finished with my questions, she yells at me a lot. And she, she jus-“ Abigail couldn’t continue, sobs wrecking her tiny body and eventually yours.

You were a terrible mother; how did you not notice? Even big and strong Leah was close to tears, watching some of the most important people of her life cry, kissing both her girls on the cheek. “Kay baby. Ya need to answer a question for us, okay? Think about it for a sec.” You held your breath as Leah asked her mini-me: “Do you want to leave Mrs. Halliwell’s class?”

The nod did not even come a second later. “Just her class or the school? Mommy and I can homeschool you til the next year starts. We can find ya a nice new school?”

“Yes please, Mama.” It was heartbreaking to see this little girl ready to give up her school because of a teacher. The principal would hear of this, and you would make sure of it.

“Please tell us if something makes you sad okay baby? We can try to fix it, but only if we know what’s up.” Abby had her smile back, as she nodded at you – imitating her mother, placing slobbery kisses all over your face, making you giggle.

Leah could barely contain her joy. Her girls back laughing again – and with Abby homeschooled she would not need to dry your tears every morning when the small blonde left the house.

“Do you have a wish baby? Your birthday is coming up.” She thought hard. Much harder than she had when deciding if she wanted to leave school – “A baby sister please.”

Both Leah and you were stunned.

A baby sister.

You had not told anybody the gender of the new baby yet – but it was safe to say, that Abby would get what she wanted. Her birthday would be a complete success.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #arsenal wfc x reader #woso #engwnt x reader #woso imagines #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #lionesses x reader

[enid-rhees]

Maggie Rhee Dating HCS (Fem!Reader)

warnings; mentions of Glenn’s death, nsfw mentions (MINORS DNI)

oh maggie rhee

this girl deserves the world and i wish i can hug her so tight

your relationship was rocky at first

before you got together, you were the one who helped her with everything after what happened to Glenn

neither of you had thought that you would catch feelings for one another

you were sure Maggie would forever be mourning Glenn, but you didn’t mind

but one day she came to you on her own, and admitted that she started to feel different about you

when you asked her what she meant, she kissed you

and after that , it was history

Maggie is extremely protective over you

everyday she’s still reliving her trauma , and the thought of you getting hurt petrifies her

so she makes sure you’re by her side 24/7

she holds you so tight at night, you’re always the little spoon with her

the two of you go on runs together, cook together, shower together

u do EVERYTHING together

Herschel Jr loves you deeply

he remembers seeing you when he was a toddler, helping Maggie take care of him

he grew up to trust you with everything he has, and he’s glad that Maggie has you

you don’t ask him to see you as his mom or anything, but at times, he definitely does

he loves you and makes sure Maggie knows it

but back to you and Maggie

you adore her so incredibly bad

on days when Maggie is feeling rough, you take it upon yourself to do everything for her

you love to wash her hair, and body. she just leans against you in utter relaxation

after what she’s been through, Maggie just needs a hug man :(

so, you try to hug her as tight as possible every day , multiple times a day

just to let her know that you’re here for her always

you loveeee cooking for her

and tbh

both of you are switches in bed

some days Maggie feels more dominant and just wants to fuck you into the mattress

and some days you want to be the one to take care of her in bed

sex isn’t often but at the same time it is

and when you do have sex, no matter who’s dominate, it’s always extremely intimate

Maggie will ask you if you’re okay every few minutes, kissing your body softly to relax you

and ofc you do the same

Maggie takes her time worshipping your body

she can spend hours eating you out, kissing and sucking at your thighs

maggie just really loves you

you’re her world, she’d do anything for you

🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

#maggie rhee #maggie greene #maggie rhee x fem!reader #maggie rhee x reader #maggie greene x fem!reader #maggie greene x reader #maggie rhee smut #maggie greene smut #the walking dead #twd #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #twd x fem!reader #the walking dead x fem!reader #twd smut #the walking dead smut

[bsof-maarav]

Editor’s Note: Sanne DeWitt is a microbiologist, geneticist, researcher, and author of a memoir: “I Was Born In An Old Age Home”. She has lived in Berkeley, California since 1957, where she moved for advanced studies in microbiology and genetics, and worked there until her retirement. The views expressed here are those of the author. View more opinion on CNN.CNN — 

In 1957, I moved to Berkeley, California: a bastion of American liberalism that squarely aligns with my progressive values, and a hub of American scholarship that nurtured my academic quest and professional growth. I came here for advanced studies in microbiology and genetics. Since then, I have lived, worked as a scientist and retired in this community.

Over the 65 years that I have called this beautiful area home, I have occasionally encountered antisemitism, but these one-off incidents never succeeded in destroying my spirit. When I was four years old, Nazis burst into my bedroom and sent me and my family to Dachau, the first Nazi concentration camp. We were soon released and I was smuggled out of Germany by a Christian woman. After this harrowing experience, not much in the Bay Area could scare me.

But since the October 7 Hamas attack on Israel, the hatred towards Jews that I have seen in Berkeley terrifies me more than anything I have experienced while living here. I am still reeling from being called a liar at a Berkeley City Council meeting, where I asked for a proclamation to mark Holocaust Remembrance Day and spoke about October 7. The Jews at that meeting were circled and called “Zionist pigs” by menacing protesters.

We are approaching the holiday of Passover, which commemorates the freedom of the Israelites from Egyptian slavery and our formation as a free Jewish people in our own land. But this Passover is like no other in recent history, with scores of hostages still held in Gaza and Jews worldwide fearful for our future — including Jews in the US. We are facing the worst global antisemitism since the Holocaust and while it is not state-sanctioned as Nazism was, it is a threat going unchecked in California’s East Bay.

It is incredibly painful to see my neighbors vilify Jews, tear down posters of Jewish hostages in Gaza and not believe Jewish rape victims. In this hotbed, hatred and hostility have become normalized. Families have moved their children out of public schools. Jewish businesses have been vandalized and boycotted. And lies about Jews and Israel have gone unchecked and unchallenged in our public forums. Our local Jewish community is both horrified and petrified.

This onslaught of Jewish hatred cannot become the new normal. This epidemic must be treated as seriously as all other hatreds that our society is confronting, such as racism and homophobia. We need more education about Judaism and how the long, sordid history of antisemitism ties into other forms of hatred in our public schools.

We need colleges and universities to unequivocally denounce hate speech and actions directed at Jews. We need public officials to urge mutual respect, understanding and civil discourse during city council and town hall meetings.

I have seen where unchecked antisemitism can lead, when people will do nothing — or worse, join the mainstream, such as our German neighbors during Nazism. This Passover, I resolve with whatever time I have left in this world to fight for the safety of the Jewish people, in Berkeley and around the globe.

During Passover, we are commanded to tell the story of the exodus out of Egypt to our children. We believe in the lasting power of sharing this history with younger generations and reflecting on this hopeful new beginning. There is also lasting power in sharing my history as a Jewish refugee — and I invite my Berkeley neighbors to hear my story. Without understanding and acceptance, we are enslaved by our biases.

The hatred, violence and bigotry against the Jewish community cannot continue — for our shared future, we must confront it and root it out.

#jumblr #october 7 #israel #antisemitism #frumblr #terrorism #usa diaspora #Jewish women #Shoah survivor #Pesach #Passover #Sanne DeWitt

[heyidkyay]

And I'm petrified of being alone, now |

Part One

Matty Healy x reader

Summary: She’s just trying to get by, really. What with being a single parent to her four year old son whilst simultaneously trying to kick start a successful career as a radio presenter. She’s got everything she’s ever wanted though, friends close by, a mum who’s merely a phone call away, and of course her baby boy. What else is there to wish for? But then, it’s not long before her relatively normal life gets upended and turned on its head, and she’s suddenly forced to deal with situations she’s never even thought to imagine.

What happens when one mention of a certain controversial singer on her show sends a flood of unexpected challenges her way? 

Warnings: This is gonna deal with a lot of controversial shit surrounding Matty and his past I'm ngl, so if you're not into that then I'd suggest not reading this! But if you are, then hi!! I hope you enjoy?

Authors Note: I'm back...:)) Back with a series too, or it will be if this first part goes down well! Lmao so pls don't hate it! Butttt in all honestly, I do have to quickly thank @procrastinatinglikeapro for all the kind words she gave me on the snippets I annoyed her with recently and for forcing me to actually believe in this fic because I very much was on the fence about posting again. So thank youuuu, it means a whole lot<3 Also, the skeleton of this was taken from a very old fic of mine which I started during the height of covid that I've just been thinking about trying to better for a long while now, so... enjoy?

And I guess let me know if this is something anyone would want to read more of? Yeeeeah, I really don't know what else to write here now, it's been a while, so! Hi, help, bye:)

Masterlist

“Yeah, yeah! I’m really into their sound at the minute! Honestly fell in love with their recent performance at the VMA’s- didn’t overdo it and kept true to themselves. Definitely did a great job there, so well done with that one if you’re listening in, lads!”

I was grinning from ear to ear as I spoke into the microphone before me, which was to be expected whenever I was at work. Strange, yeah I know, but only to any typical person with the usual nine to five, because I truly did love my job. It was tough work, strenuous at times, contrary to what most might believe, but it was pretty much everything I’d ever dreamt of.

See, I’d grown up on the outskirts of this tiny village in the Isles, where everybody knew everything about everybody. Secrets were never well kept- you could just ask our local priest about that one, who had often used to regale most of the confessions he’d heard in the only pub around for miles whenever he was pissed beyond being able to sit on his barstool. And it was also incredibly tight-knit, as in, all the kids who went to school together, then grew up and married one another, settling down and taking over the jobs that their parents or grandparents soon retired from. Hardly anyone moved away, if ever.

In reality though, it was actually just a place I’d always felt like a stranger in. Where I’d struggled to fit in and make friends, to form bonds outside of the one I shared with my mum.

I’d had a tough go of it back in school actually. ‘Mouse’ was what they’d seemingly dubbed me back then, a nickname which had travelled the masses all too quickly seeing as there had only been about sixteen kids in both my year and the one above. 

It had mostly been due to me just having been an extremely timid child, hiding behind my mum’s flowing skirts whenever we went into town and much preferring that of my own company. But that fact hadn’t gotten any easier for me once I’d been forced out of school for a few years after an accident that had flipped my entire life on its head. Resulting in me being further isolated from the rest of the world and my fuck-face of a father running for the hills.

Still. Shit happened, I supposed, and I’d been forced to grow up.

Too quickly, in truth.

So whilst everyone else had been out living, I’d been holed up in our little dove cottage miles away from them all, with only books and music to keep me company. Music which had been a true constant in my life and just about the only thing that had gotten me by.

As well as my mum, who’d forever be my rock. And back when we’d both been growing up, she had always had the tele on full blast throughout the day, cycling through the freeview channels that played the recent top 50 and old school classics.

It was one of my favourite things to look back on now, if she was ever in the mood, or when the power would finally flicker and go out completely, she’d spin this old phonograph her own father had gifted her in the days before she’d left home. The two of us would dance around the living room whilst she’d clean on Saturday mornings and then hum to it as we settled in for a long storm, her working on her trusty crossword whilst I would read or draw. It would croon out old French records she had bought long before she’d moved to the UK, and before she’d ever even met my dad.

And I would just lose myself in it all. 

It wasn’t just the basic premise of music that I had enjoyed though, it was everything else that also came along with it. The opinions, the reviews, the personal stories and thoughts, the way it made a person feel. 

So, for years I would just sit down at the kitchen table and write for hours on end about the sound, the rhythms I’d felt and heard, the lyrics that had had me bellowing out or playing on a never-ending loop in my head. And then, as a teen, Twitter had come along and had been just another way for me to express it all.

That was what had led to all this actually. The radio.

At first, I’d never paid much mind to all of the people who had started to discover the small page I’d created, the users that had enjoyed reading my inner thoughts. But then I had and it had been an insane concept to comprehend, but was also what had, ultimately, pushed me into continuing with it.

From there, opinions on genres of music and their style throughout different decades turned into thoughts on up and coming artists, then actors and other A-list celebrities. So, I’d ended up spending an awful lot of time online, simply just tweeting about it all, on subjects followers had wanted to hear about and answering questions on whether I loved a certain album or new EP. 

The account had grown rapidly after and by the time I’d had the balls to tell my mum I’d wanted to leave home and make a start for myself, in London of all places, it had gained well over fifteen thousand followers.

I went to uni down there and met people. People who didn’t shy away from me or shine a light on my odd quirks. I met my best mate there, too. And Finn was unlike any other. The platonic love of my life, or so I’d dubbed. He was eccentric, witty, and didn’t care about what anyone else thought of him. Forced me to feel that way too, slowly but surely. And it had only taken a few weeks before he'd grown rather suspicious of my constant need to always have my phone near.

He had, pretty early on, decided that I must’ve had some secret boyfriend back at home that I’d yet to tell him about and had annoyed me about it at every twist and turn, basically backed me into a metaphorical corner. So to say I’d relented fairly quickly wouldn’t be a lie, and I’d told him all about the account soon enough.

Finn had actually been the one to suggest that I take it somewhere bigger, make it into something people could tune into and not just read about. I had actually taken that consideration on board way back then, but had only acted on it when shit had hit the fan a year or so later. But we'll get to that.

So with it all, I’d made an actual radio show out of my thoughtless Twitter account, allowing people to listen in and actually get to know the person behind the name.

That was essentially how ‘Mouse On A Mic' had come to life.

Yup, I’d kept the fucking nickname! I couldn’t not in truth, it was familiar, reminded me of the person I once was, and who I am now. But the only difference was, I’d given it a new story. I’d claimed it. 

The show's audience grew fairly quickly during that first year, I was new on the scene and seemingly refreshing. I had a no-bullshit kind of attitude that my listeners admired. I called celebs out on their crap and went to new extremes to conjure up inventive ways to get followers involved. 

Ultimately doing things that other radio presenters were afraid to do at the time. Which was fair enough, in hindsight, they had actual endorsers and brands that were backing them up and funding their streams. Me, on the other hand, had no-one to answer to for my mistakes or any backlash the show received. It was just me, sat alone in my bedroom, speaking into a mic.

Only now, it was me sitting in a quaint little studio in East, not too far from my flat and walking distance from any and every coffee chain London had to offer. 

Anyway, back to the current show! I adjusted my headset over my ear as I wheeled closer to the table, aware of the many monitors and cables I was constantly trying to avoid and glanced upwards, locking eyes with my co-producer, Adi.

The girl shot me a hurried gesture, a circular wave of her hand that had me chuckling to myself even as I waved her off, knowing I’d already gotten off track one too many times this recording. 

"Alright! It seems as though we've got to move on with the next segment of the show now! Unfortunately, Ads here has informed me that I can't just sit around all day and talk about Inhaler forever. A right shame that, don’t you think?”

I huffed theatrically, whilst Adi merely shook her head at me in return, dark ringlets brushing the length of her shoulders as she mouthed the word 'prick' through the thick sheet of plexiglass that separated us.

Ignoring that loving endearment in favour of continuing on with the commentary, I hoped I hadn’t steered too far off track, there was still a lot scheduled for today's show that I had yet to go over.

“So moving on!” I sighed into the mic and rubbed my palms together, “It seems like quite a few of you lot, on Twitter especially, have made it loudly known that you want to hear my thoughts on Manchester’s very own Matthew Healy. God, is there yet another scandal under his belt I don’t yet know about, where’s he finding the time?”

I shook my head briefly and rolled forward in my seat. The wheels squeaked beneath my weight and I made a silent prayer that the mics hadn’t picked up the sound. 

What a fucking topic, I thought quietly to myself and sent Adi a semi-amused smile before I peered down at the recent headline she had handed over to me earlier that morning.

It was the same old thing. Expected really at this point.

“Healy’s at it again! Whatever will we do?” I gasped, dramatising the whole thing as I stared down at the images of the haughty singer that were plastered across the printout I held in front of me. 

There were four of them, a quick succession that had all seemingly come from a clip at a recent concert. Bit blurry but the title gave away to what was happening.

A laugh bubbled up out of me as soon as I read the headline. “Oh god, it appears Matty Healy is- just wait for it!- back at it again, only this time it seems he’s gone and traded off a drumstick for…” I paused to drum quite the anticipating beat against the tabletop, and as stoic as I could, I then added, “A joint!” And a smug grin made its way up onto my lips when I heard Adi’s faint cackle echo from just outside the booth.

“Honestly, I swear that everything this man does makes the rags! Reckon I saw an article about how he took his tea one time. And like, do me a favour, yeah? A man of the people though, in’t he? He’s got to be! I mean, just look at this headline. Fucking who the hell writes this shit?”

Tossers, I supposed. But even so.

“It’s madness.” I muttered, clucking my tongue, “But anyway, I’m guessing that most people claim him to be the epitome of a realtime rockstar, and sure, he might just be. 'Sex, drugs, rock & roll', all that shit. But how much longer is it going to last until everything goes tits up, hey?

“I mean, Healy can pretty much do whatever he wants at this point, he’s got half the world either falling at his feet or complaining about him- has done since he was what, a kid? Following his parents among the shadows of their fame before he stepped out and made an actual name for himself. It is insane to see how much he’s changed though!”

And it was. He and his band had risen to fame so evidently, their music was everywhere, they sold out shows constantly, and had the privilege to fly across the globe doing whatever they pleased. But they’d also practically grown up in the limelight, Matty especially. So it was hard not to notice the resounding changes. 

“But, if I am being truthful. And when am I not? I thought that most of the shit that went around about him at first was a load of crap- publicity of sorts, if you get where I'm going with that. Or just him being an idiot, a lad who’s had to grow up with all these cameras on him all the time and had to basically learn what he can and can’t say in front of them. Slipping up from time to time, like most do. But, now? I’m honestly not too sure… It’s just a bit sad. In’t it? There was so much potential there.”

I shrugged, a hearty sigh falling with my shoulders.

“I actually used to quite like his stuff a couple years ago, he’s got a way with words, with just music overall really. Reckon if he’d gotten his shit together he could’ve been ranked higher up on the list of rockstars. Could’ve changed or paved a way for newer musicians. But not so much anymore. His songs lack the passion they once had, they’re not what they used to be. He works hard, I’ll give him that. But, I can’t help but wonder if it’s just his band pulling his dead weight along with them now.”

I took a slow breath, then gazed down at the small amount of sticky notes I had pinned to the monitor beside me: the next segment. I’d have to wrap this one up quickly.

“Maybe that’s a bit harsh.” I said, “But honestly, I just hope he takes an actual break sooner rather than later. The band looks spent and he just seems like he could do with some time away from all the cameras and prying eyes. Just so he can sort himself out good and proper, you know? Then again, that’s just my opinion among a sea of many.”

Truthfully? I really did think that Matty had talent, and he seemed like a sound enough guy- or at least he had done, a couple of years back, before all the controversy and whatever else. Now though, the guy just seemed so caught up in it all, in the fame, the tabloids, the drama. Unaware of just how far he’d fallen.

Me, I’d seen it one too many times before, with many of the greats even, and as painful as it was to watch, what more could I do, or say? I'm a nobody in comparison.

I blew out a short breath.

“Fuck, that got all serious didn’t it?” I tried to laugh off and only felt a little more at ease when I glanced up and caught Adi’s sincere smile, “Anyway, onto our next segment, reading a couple of your lots tweets! Let's see what everyone's saying about our amazing Adi today, hey? What was it last week, Ads- those yellow trousers you were wearing?”

--

“Oi, will you two stop mucking about, please? We’ve got to get going!” I scolded without any real heat, shaking my head as I held back chuckles, always amused by the infamous pair. 

I’d not long left the studio, having walked with Adi to the nearby train station before heading over to Finn’s, and was currently packing away the belongings that had been messily upended from the Spiderman backpack I was often seen carrying about. 

My gaze wandered over to the other side of the room once I’d teethed together the bag’s plastic zipper, over to where my son, Teddy, was currently in the midst of being whirled around by his godfather, tawny coloured curls flying in every-which direction as his cheeky grin grew even more prominent.

I felt the corners of my mouth tug upwards as I watched my best mate laugh at whatever the toddler had just said, tickling the boy’s sides too. If I was feeling incredibly sappy, I’d tell Finn then just how thankful I was to have him around, because he truly was incredible. 

From the moment I’d found out that I was pregnant, Finn had been there for me. He loved my son almost as though Teddy was his own, he adored the kid like no other and had placed him on a pedestal above everyone else since the day he was born. 

Finn was always free to take teddy whenever I had the show to fret about too, or if I was ever in dire need of another helping hand. He was fiercely protective of the two of us and I knew in the very depths of my heart that there would never be a hair harmed on my son’s head as long as he was around. 

I was pulled from my thoughts just as the toddler in question came bounding over, giggling uncontrollably as Finn chased after him, his arms stretched out wide and crouched down to mimic the small boy's height. I couldn't help but notice the matching grins they both wore.

“Help!” Teddy squealed as he flung himself into my awaiting arms, allowing me to wrap him up and settle him safely on my hip, using my frame as a shield to block him from Finn’s view.

"You can't hide from me Teds, I’ll always find you!" Finn taunted playfully, laughing merrily as he wiggled his fingers at Teddy, who was only just peeking out at him from over my shoulder.

Teddy squirmed in my grasp, giggling and screaming senselessly as he tried to dodge Finn’s oncoming hands that had since managed to softly graze his sides. I could only roll his eyes in fond exasperation, the pair never failing to brighten my day, and I couldn't help but feel ever so grateful for whatever being had brought Finn into both mine and Teddy’s lives.

You see, Finn was the closest thing I’d ever had to a brother, let alone a best friend. He’d been the family I’d never known I’d needed, a home away from home. And I knew that I could always count on him for just about anything and he had proved that the day I’d turned up on his doorstep in the pissing rain one Tuesday night, utterly terrified after having just found out that I was pregnant. 

“Alright, you lot!” I began, batting away one of Finn’s oncoming hands as he made to grab at Teddy's tiny ankle. “We've got to get home in time for your bath and tea, and I think Finn here has to pick up Liv from work.”

I was directing my voice towards the toddler in my arms but also sent a knowing look Finn’s way, one which caused the man’s eyes to widen in immediate realisation. ���Liv’ was actually Olivia, Finn’s newest fling, only she had managed to last quite a while longer than the rest, a new record for him really. 

“Shit, yeah.” Finn muttered before he hurried over to his desk in the far corner. I could only chuckle quietly, Teddy joining in too when he noticed, and watch on as he hastily started to grab at an array of items, shoving them into his jean pockets. Phone. Wallet. Keys.

When he was finished, Finn spun back around towards us and shot an accusing brow our way, not too pleased about having been the source of our amassment. Teddy and I couldn't help ourselves then and laughed a little harder at his impervious expression. 

With that done and over with, I pressed my nose against the side of Teddy's head and smiled contently into his curls whilst Finn merely rolled his eyes at us, chuckling before he made a start for the door. I followed just behind, Teddy's backpack slung low over my shoulder and a happy little boy nestled in my arms.

***

People lover @/user1 Imagine being a mediocre radio host and thinking you know the ins and outs of the music industry.. #CancelMouse 102 @/user2  Don't mind me, reckon I just found my new favourite radio show:) Ugh! @/user3 Mouse sounded proper excited today but switched up so quick when that 75 bloke came up:// Soloveme @/user4 Hate to see people supporting toxic behaviour, sit down.  Milk @/user5 Don’t hate me, I'll forever be a matty girlie!! But @Mouseonamic I kinda agree?? Paris @/user6 Do you think he’s seen it yet? > Too_shy @/user7 Probably, it’s trending rn >> Drummepls @/user8 Hope he’s okay and doesn’t take it as a personal attack.. 

He should’ve known really.

He should’ve fucking known.

Even in his drunken state he should have known not to look at what they were fucking saying about him. Slumped on the floor of his hotel room, propped up against the bathroom door, too exhausted to think about moving, let alone try.

He’d only heard a snippet, caught the last of it in the cab ride back from the club the band had found themselves in. But he had heard it, and he’d listened. 

"He's got the whole world falling at his feet." He fucking wished. "Changed." Too right. "A load of crap- publicity of sorts, if you get where I'm going with that- but now I'm not too sure." Laughable, man. "It's just a bit sad." The story of his fucking life. "Potential." When’s he never not disappointing someone? "Lacks passion." Passion lies in living, mate, and he hasn't felt alive in a very long time. 

"Not what it used to be." Who he used to be.

He lit another cigarette from a crumpled pack he’d pulled from his back pocket. Watched on as a curl of smoke unfurled in the air. He only wished he’d brought something upstairs with him, or grabbed one of the little bottles from the minibar before deciding he’d needed a piss. But if he closed his eyes hard enough he could imagine it all going dark, the world fading around him. 

Though, even then he still couldn’t quite muffle the loud, pitying laugh that escaped him as he continued to scroll through the mass of tweets that never faltered. They were like a freight train, unable to stop.

Matty wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Never had he ever felt so fucking lost. Desperate for everything to just pause for a second. To stop and leave him alone for a bit. The world to let him wallow in the dark, dank pit he's hollowed out for himself.

But what a fucking life, hey.

Carelessly, he thumbed across the dimming screen, his intoxicated mind too focused on the task at hand to remember why exactly it was he was even sitting there on the cold bathroom floor. Something to do with Hann, he supposed, or George. Perhaps another heated encounter? Probably.

The sound of his phone's keyboard echoed off the surrounding walls and Matty breathed out a self-depreciating chuckle when he clicked send on the tweet he’d curated, not caring enough for the consequences. Hardly even thinking, in truth. He was far too gone to care anymore, already knew firsthand what the consequences would be tomorrow. But at that moment, he just wanted honesty. To tell the truth, for once. To let them all know that he knew he was a shit excuse for a person.

What more could the world possibly say anyway? 

Everyone around him was the same. He was simply just a puppet on a string. They’d make him sing and dance until the day he finally wrapped those wired strings tightly around his neck, and then all they'd be able to do is sit back and watch the show. And he'd enjoy every unabating second of it.

Matty @/trumanblack 10s ago Radio shows are sick man, gotta love them! And I sort of am sad haha. And I do lie, we all lie, I spose. But just listen to the radio, kids!

He laughed silently after, amused with himself, and tossed the phone off somewhere off to the side so he wouldn’t have to look at it again. 

Bullshit. It was all just fucking bullshit.

#the 1975 #fic #matty healy #angst #radio host #reader #x reader #x you #george daniel #ross macdonald #the 1975 band #adam hann #fluff #humour #matty healy fic #matty 1975 #matty healy x reader #matty x reader #matty healy x you #ao3 #pining #fame #strangers to lovers #mum reader #kid fic #kinda #getting together #SLOWBURN #mutual pining #Warnings

[deceitfuldevout]

Mercy (Part 1)

Dark!Tommy Shelby x Enemy!Reader

Word Count: +4,034

Warning(s): +18, Non con, Kidnapping, Hostage situation, Manhandling, Mind break, Threats of violence, Forced oral (m receiving), Forced stripping, Gore, Physical violence, Loss of virginity, Forced intrusion, Public humiliation.

Author's note(s): Bringing this back this series 💞

Tommy Shelby has always believed in an eye for an eye. He doesn't care how long it takes. He'll hunt down every single person who's ever wronged him. He finds out that your parents were the ones who informed the woman that cursed his Ruby. Well, he decides to save the best for last.

Since you were a little girl, your parents always warned you to stay away from gangsters. Your entire life being shielded away from any possible dangers. Being part of a clan but residing in the city. Your father had built an incredible wealth for himself. He made sure to shield you from any possible dangers the world had. But nothing would prepare you for this.

You were taken on a Sunday evening, just after church. The men who took you were ordered by their gang leader, Thomas Michael Shelby. Peaky Blinders, they were called. A group of criminals who were only up to no good. You were the first to leave mass, not wanting to partake in conversation with anyone. You decided to sit on the steps of the church, until your mother finishes conversating with the other women. You sigh, already yearning to return home. Knowing your mother, this would take a while.

You look up at the winter sky, hoping it would snow in time for Christmas. A car drives by, and two men step out. You move to the side to let them pass. They approach you, both of them standing on each of your sides. It was at that moment when you knew, they were sent by someone. Because over here, gangsters would only come for someone if they were given the orders to. A scream escapes your lips as you fought them off.

His partner muffles your cries with a rag. You scream at the top of your lungs and cry out, "Somebody help me! Help!" sobbing for them not to take you. What business did they have with you? Nothing good. Your mother is the first to notice your absence. As soon as she hears screaming from outside, she rushes out the church. To her horror she sees you being hauled into a stranger's car. She chases the vehicle now driving off, falling to the ground with a wail. Onlookers of the church try their best to console her.

The peaky men drag you to an abandoned building, the one reserved only for their worst enemies. Where numerous men have met their maker. You're tied to a metal chair, with both wrists and ankles secured. A satchel had been placed on your head. You have no idea where they'd taken you. Tommy doesn’t know if he can contain his anger any longer. It had taken them a while to find your location. A long trail of bloodshed led them directly to the church's doorsteps.

Tommy's men inform him of your parents involvement, how they had spoken of the cursed necklace to Madame. His Ruby was gone now because of it. When he heard of you he became excited. You were their only child. Their prized possession. Tommy's wedding ring feels heavy, and for once, he takes it off before getting started.

The covering is swiftly removed, a man now stands right in front of you. He takes a good look at your petrified expression. Almost as if he were admiring it. A grabs a chair to sit right in across from yours. It's cold inside the building. You could see your breath from the freezing air. He leans in, "Do you know who I am?" he questions. You shook your head. He doesn't like that, "Use your words,"

"N-no..." shrinking into the seat. Tommy doesn't buy it, "You're a liar, y'know? And a lousy one at that," because everyone knows who Tommy Shelby is.

"M-not--" you whine as he squeezes your jaw with a gloved hand. It hurts. He growls in your face, "You will speak when spoken to," he squeezes harder, "Do you understand?" he waits for what you had to say. You look up at him with a tearful look, "P-please this has to be a mistake! I've done nothing wrong!" because of that, he begins to choke you. He voice is deep, sharp, "My daughter had done nothing wrong, yet she was taken from me," he tilts his head, "Did she not deserve to live?"

You don't know what to say. How could you to a man hellbent on revenge? The real question is, what did you do to provoke him? He lets go, leaving the skin raw with visible bruising. Tommy retreats to a desk where assorted torture devices await. He careful inspects each one, examining which tool would be used. He retrieves a scalpel, one used to slice skin and gouge the flesh, "Which part of you do I cut away first, hm?"

You shook your head, now sobbing uncontrollably, "Nononono! P-please!" looking down to your lap to cry. Tommy isn't satisfied, "Look at me," he orders, "Look at me," he doesn't like repeating himself. You hesitantly rise your gaze, now looking up at the man. There's a bewildered look in his eyes. You notice the corners of his lips were up in a faint grin. He whispers, "This is the end...this is the end of your life, yeah?" he drags the blade the side of your jaw. He enjoys watching you squirm.

Tommy looks up at the men standing behind you. He orders them to leave. Now it was just the two of you. What did he have in store? He made sure you get a good look at the blade. It shines in the dim lighting, “You’re pretty, I’ll give you that much,” he brings the knife to your face, “but for how long?” he brings it down to your neck, teasing the collar. He whispers, "From now on, you are my property," he grips your jaw to open, sliding a finger inside, "It was a tongue that gave the order," his other hand digs into the sides of your jaw, forcing your mouth to open.

Tommy brings the knife to it, "Should I cut it out first?" he digs his fingers deep inside, reaching for the muscle. You try stopping him from doing so, even attempting to clamp your jaw shut, to which he began pushing them deeper in. He mimics the way you gagged around them in a mocking manner. You sputter into a sob, begging for him not to.

Tommy then stops, "No...I can't do that...then you won't explain it to me, and I want you to explain," He grips the back of your head to face him. His features are contorted with anger, "I want you to fucking explain!" he spat. Your bottom lip trembles as you say something. Tommy removes his hand to hear what you had to say, "Please...have mercy..."

“Mercy?” He scoffs, "Is that what you want?" it was almost humorous to him, the entitlement you and your family had, “Where was mercy when they took my little girl?” he brings the knife to your neck, it lightly nicks the skin. You don't say a word, too afraid of deepening the cut. He gave you a look of disgust. As if you’d done something terrible to anger him. Like you wronged him before this.

But what? Everyone in town knew there would be nothing to worry about when a blinder would arrive. No one would ever be worried of being targeted, unless they'd actually done something. So what did you, of all people, possibly do to anger a man like Tommy Shelby? You hadn't a clue.

His leans in, his forehead now pressing against yours, "I'm not going to kill you, no..." his mood swings changes, like fire and ice, "I am going to keep you alive for a very, very long time..." He flicks the button of your blouse open with the knife, "I'll have you praying for death," a promise he'll make sure comes true.

You began to plead with him, "No please! Don't do this!" tears began to form, spilling down both cheeks. You knew what happens to people who've crossed the Peaky Blinders. What they did to their victims. Sometimes not even a body was left. The thought of you being cut into a million pieces downright terrifies you, "Help! Someone! Please! Help me!"

Tommy isn't phased, he's dealt with people in denial before, “You can scream all you want, nobody will hear you,” he promises. He finishes flicking off the last button, revealing the swell of your breasts, you panic, "Mr. Shelby please! You're making a big mistake--" Both of his hands shoot for your neck. He held them in place, squeezing as hard as he can. His face nears your petrified one. There's a hint of gravel in his voice, "A lying whore is what you are," he squeezes harder, taking joy in watching you suffer.

Never in a million years would he imagine stooping this low. But this wasn't just any case, it was personal. He loosens his grip allowing you to breathe for a moment. He sighs, clearly annoyed with your behavior. Whatever games you wanted to play, he doesn't have time for, "What did I say about lying?!" Tommy yells at the top of his lungs.

"M'not lying! I swear! Ow!" you whine from his grip on your hair. He leans in and calmly states, "Fine, have it your way," Tommy didn't plan on going easy on you. But after hearing you lie right to his face? Well, he wants to make this hurt, bad. Tommy drags the sharpened tool along the fabric of your skirt. He tears your brand-new church clothes to shreds. Until you were left only in undergarments. Goosebumps began to form on your skin.

Tommy feasts his eyes on the sight of your unblemished flesh. He rakes them up and down, mentally capturing the moment. You looked soft, supple in all the right places. His tongue pokes out to lick his lips. His lids hooded from thinking about the things he would do.

Oh...this was going to be fun.

Tommy Shelby is dead set on one thing and one thing only: Revenge. There is no room for sympathy in his heart. Not after losing his wife, then his daughter. There is no other pain comparable to that. At this point, there's nothing in this world that could change his mind. What happened to Ruby changed something inside him. He would never be the same again.

"There are a few rules," he wants you to know, "Do not fight me, yeah? Or I'll break every last one of your fucking bones," he knows he's strong enough to, "Do not speak unless you're spoken to," the last thing he wants to hear is an excuse, "You are my property, what I say is law," both of his hands cradle the sides of your head. He makes sure you know, he's dead serious, "Am I understood?"

Your teeth can't stop clattering as you shiver a faint, "Y-yes,"

"What will I do with you? Hm? Should I start cuttin you up piece by piece? No...no one would waste their hard-earned money on you," he starts to mumble, "Maybe hire you as one of my whores? You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he taunts. Tommy can't help but smile at the way you frantically shook your head.

He bit his lip, as if he were in deep thought, "No, you wouldn't make it, I know your type," he knows your kind very well, bunch of prim and proper pansies, "I should break you in first, mold you, so that you won't think of anything else other than cock," Tommy always had a way to make people squirm with only a few words.

He finds their weaknesses and uses it against them. He thrusts a few fingers deep inside your mouth, enjoying the sounds of your gargled cries. He pumps the gloved digits in and out. Drool spills from the corners of your mouth. Then an idea hits him, "How about I make you my personal whore?" he taunts, "How does the title of 'cock-sleeve' sound?" poking your forehead, "Tat it right...there," twisting a finger into the skin.

All you could do was cry. A deep wail pours from your lungs. Why? Why was he doing this? You haven't done anything wrong! "P-please, if you just listen to me--" a scream escapes your lips as he pulls at your hair. There's a burning sensation on the crown of your scalp. He's done playing games, "What did I say about speaking?" his voice booms.

Tommy's hand hovers over the tray of tools. He retrieves a gag, forcing the straps around your head. He pinches your nose shut, forcing you to part your lips. He secures the metal hooks inside your mouth, forcing it to open wide. A trail of drool leaks out. It's impossible to close it without hurting. He secures the buckles located on the back of your head.

Tommy still held onto your hair, so that you would face him. There's a scowl on his sharp features. His teeth are barred. Just looking at you pisses him off. He spits inside your mouth, watching as you squirm from the act. Your tongue swirls inside as an attempt to get rid of it. He does it again, this time right at your face, then again and again. He wants this to be as humiliating as possible for you. Bound and gagged, like an animal.

Tommy zips opens his fly, he pulls out his semi-hardened cock. He gives it a few lazy tugs before finding the right grip. Then he starts to pump his shaft while keeping eye contact with you. His cold blues stare down yours. Like a predator stalking its prey. He huffs, quickening his pace.

Tommy then grabs the back of your head and forces you to take his cock. He thrusts it as far as he could go. He bucks his hips a few times, groaning at the welcoming feeling of a warm hole. You were like a present wrapped around him. His eyelids shut, his lashes fluttering from the pleasure. He pauses for a moment to catch his breath. His hands are rough, gripping the sides of your head as he starts fucking your mouth.

You have no choice but to take it. He then plunges his member as deep as it could go, stifling your sobs. There are only squelching noises coming from your mouth, just how he likes it. He gives another deep thrust, holding it for a moment as you struggle to breathe. Your nose brushes against his pubic hair. A huge trail of drool and cum dribbles down your chin. Tommy moans, "Fuck yeah...let me fuck your throat..." he throws his head back in pleasure before looking back down at your pathetic form.

He indulges in the sight of you crying out. He could practically feel the scream trapped in the back of your throat, "M'gonna paint you with it..." His breath starts to shorten, "...mark what's mine," Tommy shuts his lids, his nose scrunches as he was close. Your throat was burning from the abuse. Soon enough he came, in hard waves. He shoots a load down your throat, painting the inside to his liking.

Tommy waits for a moment to catch breath. Some of his hair sticks to his forehead from the sweat. He brushes it back with a free hand, catching his breath. His cock was still buried deep inside your mouth. He hisses, baring his teeth while pulling it out. His cum trails from the tip of his cock to your now swollen lips. There's something so sinister about the act that he just can't seem to get enough of. He actually starts to laugh, "You'd let anyone use you, hm?" If he were in a romantic mood, he'd kiss you, make it all nice and sloppy.

But it just wasn't enough. He wants more of you. He cuts the ropes that bounded your hands to the chair, pulling you out of it. One of the first things you do is make a run for it. He groans with annoyance, what a stupid thing to do. Before you could reach the door Tommy plants a few bullets in it. You fall to the ground, shielding your head from the strays.

Tommy sighs, "You shouldn't have done that..." he places his gun back in into its holster, before approaching your quivering form still on the floor. If looks could kill, you would be dead on the spot. You're too scared to even move, trapped under his piercing gaze. Tommy's expression is purely livid. He strides over, his cock still half hard. He curls a finger, giving a nonverbal command. When you dare not to move, it only worsens his mood.

You shook your head, "Please...you don't have to do this..."

"I know, I want to," he confesses, "I want to break you,"

If you didn't want to comply, fine. He'll have to come over there. Tommy's shoe lands on your shoulder, sending you falling to the ground with a thud. He has a leg to each of your sides, now wrestling into submission. His strength is unlike anyone you've met. He forces you on your stomach. You try your best to fend off the gangster.

You land an elbow on Tommy's rib, before he ultimately wins the upper hand. He uses his belt to bind both your wrists together. As you twist and turn, Tommy lands a few hard cracks against your rear. A chain of curses escapes your lips. He doesn't stop, not even after your skin is raw. He'll make sure to leave bruises. When he hears your mumbled, pleas turn into full-on screaming, it was music to his ears. He wonders what it would sound like breaking you in.

Tommy doesn’t bother prepping, he wants this to hurt. He slides his leaking tip up and down, gliding it against your cunt. It takes him a moment to find it. Soon enough, he's pressing his leaking tip against your opening. He held your head still against the ground. His gloved hand spreads across the side of your face. His other held his cock, guiding it to your opening. As soon as he thrusts it in, you scream at the top of your lungs. Fuck did his ears hurt.

A hand shoots to muffle your cries. Tommy scowls, "Fucks sake would you keep quiet?!" he looks you in the eyes, "This isn't your first time," when he says it you only cry harder. That's when it clicked. Tommy grins, "So it is..." there's a hint of glee in his voice. He sounds smug, knowing that he'd taken something from you that no other man will, "Then I might as well take every last one..." he purrs, thrusting his hips faster.

There was something about being a woman's first that does something to a man. Tommy wanted to fuck that innocence away. He's going to train you really well, have you begging for his cock. He'll make sure to ruin you for any other man. He spits on his gloved palm, reaching down to rub at your sensitive bundle of nerves. He can feel your walls fluttering everything he rubs small circles against your clit. He can feel that you were close and quickens his pace.

He grunts, "You keep saying no..." he collects the growing slick from your folds, "But the body never lies..." he juts his hips. A stray of curses escapes his lips as changes pace. He presses his sturdy body against yours. His embrace was suffocating. Tommy only seemed to care for his own comfort, reveling in the feeling of a tight cunt. He tilts his head to face your ear, "When your husband finds out you've already been used..." he has a way to torment with words alone, "You will always remember this...remember me..." he slows his pace, now thrusting deep and slow. He's focused on making you come undone. He wants to be your first everything.

Tommy whispers, "...You’ll remember your first time, being taken by a filthy gangster,” he rasps, licking a stripe against the shell, "First fuck..." he forces your mouth to part, delving his tongue deep inside. He swirls the muscle around, taking his sweet time tasting the corners of your mouth. He muffles your whimpers in the kiss, parting with a smack, "First kiss..." his hand now rubs your sensitive nerves in short, hard circles, "First time coming undone..." he doesn't stop, not even after the waves of pleasure hits you, "All mine..."

Although you were the enemy, you have a snatch that could drain his balls dry. Tommy juts his hips back and forth, feeling for a good rhythm. He grunts against your neck, dipping his tongue out to taste those sweet tears. He moans, "You're going to take every, fucking, drop," thrusting his hips with each word. Just how he likes it, "'Gonna make you pay me back yeah?" he whispers.

Tommy fastens his pace. His breathing becomes ragged, to the point where he can only speak in short curses. He bites down on your shoulder, enough to draw blood. When he finishes inside, part of you felt almost grateful he was finally done. That spark of hope quickly dies out when he starts pressing his tip against your ring.

You've never screamed so hard in your life. You almost feel dizzy from how much pain you were in. Almost passing out a few times. Your comfort doesn't matter to him. After all, you're his property. Tommy locks an arm around your neck, squeezing hard enough to make you faint. You went limp as he began pummeling your channel. It was euphoric to him, seeing the enemy suffering.

Usually, he wouldn't feel this satisfied, not even with a killing, it was more of a chore for him. But this? There was no other pleasure like it, and Tommy Shelby has had a lot of sex. He leaves your bruised and battered body on the cold floor. Blood and spunk oozes from both holes. Tommy begins to dress himself. He doesn't even bother to look at you.

Only when he retrieves a handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiping it against your mound. He presses the fabric against the abused holes, scooping out its contents before pocketing it. He'll need this for later. Tommy doesn't feel any shame or remorse, he can't seem to feel anything. He takes a drag after a fuck like that. It helps him think. What to do, what to do, his options are endless.

There you are, his pet, still panting from earlier like some bitch in heat. He's still riding that adrenaline rush. You on the other hand, were out of it. Mentally and physically. Unable to even whimper because you had lost your voice a while ago.

Tommy crouches down, peering at your expressionless face. He mentally captures this moment, enjoying that foggy look in your eyes. He hums, "Let's get you cleaned up," he splashes a bucket of ice-cold water on you. He leaves you now soaking from head-to-toe. Your undergarments now cling onto your skin, leaving little to the imagination. Tommy forces you to stand. He held you up by the back of your neck with a firm grip, leading the way outside.

A group of onlookers see what's happening. Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, parading a poor woman who had been stripped of her modesty. He doesn't bother covering your face. He wants people to recognize you. They don’t speak up, afraid of would happen if they would. He hands the bloodied napkin to one of his men, "For the parents," perhaps this will send a message.

Tommy clicks open the trunk, shoving you inside. He slams it shut before driving off to a new location. He knows that word will spread. Soon enough, it'll reach your family's ears. If it's a war they want, then it's a war they'll get. He's not worried at all about what would happen, he knows he has the high ground. He's going to enjoy watching your clan die out.

But for now, he needs to smuggle his new pet out of the city.

#dark!tommy shelby #dark!tommy shelby x reader #dark!tommy #reader #reader insert #fem!reader #afab!reader #fab!reader #my work #my works

[homelanderbutbig]

What Heaven Feels Like (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1158 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

You share some morning cuddles. Inspired by this ask.

It took quite a bit of convincing to get to this point with Homelander. Although he would chain himself together with you if it was possible, he was not shy to express his concerns about you moving into his penthouse. He was terrified about sleeping in the same bed with you, as he had never spent the night with anyone before. Even when he was in a relationship with Maeve, she always made it perfectly clear to him that she would be sleeping in her own apartment.

Because of his size and strength, it petrified him to think he might injure you during the night. His heightened senses make him a light sleeper, waking up at the slightest noise, but he still found himself unable to permit even the smallest of chances that he might roll over into you without noticing before it's too late.

And yet, despite his fears, Homelander still found himself yearning for that connection with you. The normalcy that couples get to engage in, waking up to the sight of your loved one, is something he has never been able to experience. And you're the only one he'd ever want to share such an intimate moment with.

Luckily, with some delicate discussion, you two were able to come to an agreement over your sleeping arrangements. Because his bed is practically two king sizes in length and width, it leaves you plenty of room to sleep together but with a barrier of a couple feet in between your bodies.

You aren't sure how you managed, but somehow you've woken up before Homelander. Maybe it's because he's used to the blaring sunlight creeping through his penthouse windows as dawn approaches, but you can't fight against the brightness flooding your senses. However, your displeasure at having to wake up so early doesn't last long, when you get look at Homelander sound asleep.

It's an incredible juxtaposition to how everybody else sees him. He is the world's most powerful supe, standing eight feet tall with an inhumanly formidable physique to match his intimidating height. Everyone around him cowers in fear of his mental instability, which was forced onto him from a childhood he never asked for. All of the burdens he carries in secret, constantly weighing heavily in the back of his mind as he navigates his pain alone.

And then, there's what you are observing in front of you. There is no creases on Homelander's forehead, no tension in his jaw, no twitching of his eyes, no furrowing of his brows from stress. His face is so perfectly content, so innocent. It really reminds you of the little boy he hides inside, shielding him from the evils of the outside world. But you can always tell when his inner child is looking back at you through his eyes, when he allows himself to be vulnerable with you. How tender his expression becomes when he trusts you, to let you take his pain away. When he lets himself be loved.

You regret not bringing your phone with you before you went to bed. There's nothing more that you want right now than to take a photo of how peaceful he looks in this moment.

Carefully, you reach over to hold onto his big hand that is outstretched near you, gently massaging it with the hopes of coaxing Homelander out of his slumber. As expected, he stirs immediately from feeling your touch, letting out a soft breath. His eyes slowly flutter open as he wakes, and quickly focus on you.

You can see him cycle through his emotions as he attempts to process what is happening right now. At first he is confused seeing you in bed with him, then he remembers what you both agreed to last night, then he is scared that he might have hurt you, and then he is relieved at learning you are fine from a quick scan with his X-ray vision. And finally, a restful smile spreads across his face when he lets himself unwind, taking in the sight of you.

He didn't kill you in his sleep. You made it, you survived.

"Morning, big guy," you hum, giving his index and middle finger a firm squeeze. Just those two fingers alone are the same width as your own hand, fitting snugly into your palm.

"Morning," he croons in return, his voice a bit more deep and gravelly than usual as he starts to fully wake up. His grin grows wider until his fangs are on display, sparkling at your greeting.

Homelander nudges his body closer to you, burying his face into your chest. His massive arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in as tightly as he can without breaking you in half.

This is the first time you've ever been held by him where you've not felt the familiar cushioned texture of his suit. The Compound V coursing through his veins has left his skin essentially impenetrable, free of any scars or unsightly faults. It feels like you are being cuddled by a living marble statue, with his smooth skin polished to perfection.

You swaddle his large head in your arms as he takes in a deep breath through his nose, getting himself immersed in your scent. You've never understood this fascination he has with how you smell, but then again you don't have superpowers or his elevated senses. Whatever it is about you, it is intoxicating to him. He can never seem to get enough.

"Have I ever told you how cute you are?" you question lightheartedly, smiling while you swirl your fingers through his not-yet-styled hair.

"I'm not cute," he huffs, angling his head to look up at you. "I'm the Homelander. I'm the strongest man in the world." He's doing his best to be stern, but his eyes betray him, shining brightly from his genuine happiness.

"You can be both you know," you retort, chuckling at his response. You start lightly scratching his scalp, getting a prompt reaction from him as he nuzzles himself back into your chest.

"Hmmm…" he mewls under his breath, closing his eyes while he melts completely into your body. "Maybe… just for you."

"Don't worry, I'll keep your secret safe," you playfully promise, giving him a kiss on his head as you continue running your nails through his hair.

Every stroke of your exquisite fingers softens him further, until he feels himself dissolve into a puddle. This must be what heaven feels like. The rest of the world doesn't matter to him anymore. He can't believe he was so worried about sharing his bed, and depriving himself of these mornings with you.

Homelander ends up being quite late for his morning meeting, struggling to eventually break free from your blissful snuggle session. But as painful as it was to get out of bed, he takes solace in knowing he gets to do it all over again with you, every morning from now on.

#the boys #the boys tv #homelander #homelander x reader #g/t #size difference #my writing #that 'big guy' is for you sehtoast 🫶

[quasar1967]

The Incredible Petrified World (1959)

SEE WOMEN TRAPPED IN FANTASTIC CAVERNS AT THE CENTER OF EARTH!

When the cable breaks on their diving bell four people find themselves trapped in a hidden underwater world.

#the incredible petrified world #john carradine #50s sci fi #science fiction movie posters

[movieposters1]

#Incredible Petrified World

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood makes it through a late and relaxed morning, a leisurely afternoon well suited to reminiscing, and the earliest part of a normal evening before his luck runs out.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: They're idiots, your honour, unrequited pining (it's requited, they're just stupid), language, canon typical violence, only proof-read while sick

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I love me a good miscommunication trope, and coming up with ideas on how to make long-term mutual pining work is way too much fun, so finally figuring out both angles of what these two lovebird's dynamic was going to be was a major driving force behind this re-write hehehe I'm not sorry This chapter fought me every step of the way, and I had to split it into two parts so it wasn't outrageously long, but in the end I'm incredibly happy with the result! Chapter three will take place only a few minutes after the end of this.

Since this is where the 'slight au' part comes into play, I'm curious to see what you guys think of the world building in this one! Please feel free to leave any comments or questions if I was a bit vague on something, or if you just want to know more about this little headcanon universe of mine

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 5.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  The sun has only just begun its descent towards the horizon, but the chill on the wind already cuts to the bone.  In spite of the numerous layers of suit and coat, it bites into Anthony’s flesh.

 “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” a woman calls out to him, loud enough to be heard over the chorus of cafe patrons hiding from the cold behind steaming cups of tea and coffee.

  “I think I’d be better off not doing anything you would do, Luce,” he shoots a wink at her over his shoulder, holding the door open with his elbow to shoot a two-fingered salute at the ginger woman beside her laughing unabashedly at their playful bickering.

  Lucy mutters a retort under her breath, a particularly colourful string of insults if the swat on the arm it earns from her girlfriend is anything to go by.  

  The door swings shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of Norrie chastising her partner about ‘publicly decent language’ and leaving him with a pep in his step as he wanders towards Regent Street in the general direction of his favourite rapier shop.  

  Something about afternoon tea with his best friend and her girlfriend always leaves him feeling reminiscent, the water-colour splashes in soft shades of orange across the horizon only serve to heighten the feeling.  His short walk to Mullet and Sons allows him some time to indulge.

  A lot had changed in the six years since Lucy had joined himself and George at Lockwood & Co..  For one, they’d gained quite the reputation.  Fittes and Rotwell were still most people’s first choice, but now you’d be more likely to hear their little agency recommended than Bunchurch or Tendy’s.   He’ll admit, initially it seemed as though they were going to become infamous rather than renowned; between the disaster at Sheen Road, the disaster at Combe Carey, the disaster at–

  Well, you get the point.  It hadn’t looked promising.

  Their luck had begun to change with the case of the Bone Glass, then eventually Aickmere’s, but it hadn’t felt like nearly enough.   Those days had been filled with anxiety.   Worst of all was the fear of his Talent fading, the uncertainty of what his life would look like without the thing he’d based every choice he’d ever made on.  How was he supposed to survive in a world in which he couldn’t See?  He’d been terrified of running out of time to achieve his dreams, petrified he would fail his family by never achieving anything worthy of their name.  It was safe to say he hadn’t been in the best headspace.

  The fear almost overwhelmed him as time rushed on towards his eighteenth birthday, made all the more unignorable by his experience watching Quill Kipps lose his own Sight.  And while they’d found a solution for the retired Fittes agent in the form of Fairfax’s Ghost-Vision goggles, there was no replacement for the real thing.

  And then the daunting milestone had come and gone with no discernible difference.

  George was the next oldest.   Over the course of that year his Talent faded slowly, then all at once.  He hadn’t minded overmuch, the library had become preferable to being in the field somewhere around their fifth arson-related-incident.  In his defence, Mrs. Manfield flying across her lawn like a bat out of hell screaming about her antique doily collection being smoke-stained would have been enough to traumatise anyone.

  The following year had gone quite flawlessly, if he did say so himself.  With George as their dedicated researcher, and Lucy and Anthony’s competitive spirits driving them to never fall behind each other in skill, they were capable of taking on a significantly larger number of cases.  If they needed additional hands in the field for any particularly challenging jobs they’d enlist either George or Kipps with the aid of the goggles.

  But by her nineteenth birthday, Lucy actually seemed upset that her Talent refused to fade.  The boys had been confused by this at first, and while Lockwood had the sense to leave it alone, George had continued to question her.  They’d found out the full story of how she’d come to be an agent when she’d finally broken down.     She’d never chosen this life, and even though she loved her time with Lockwood & Co., she’d always been comforted by the notion that this life of fighting and fear had an expiration date.  In contrast to his own relief and excitement at the prospect of never losing his Talent, she felt nothing but trepidation.  George was watery eyed by the end of her confession, his lips pressed tightly into a thin line to prevent them trembling.   Anthony felt like he might be sick.   By the light of the numerous mismatched candles on Lucy’s lopsided birthday cake, they made a pact to pretend as though her Talent was fading, and phase her out of the agency within a year's time.

  A few short months later, the first headline popped up in a small gossip rag. It wasn’t even one of his top five.  Someone had taken notice of his remaining Sight at his advanced age, but hadn’t yet noticed their attempts to fake Lucy’s waning Listening.

  In the days after the first article's publication, the obnoxiously loud business phone began ringing more often.   Then, another article in a larger paper.  Followed by another, then several more.

  Anthony had to restrain George from ripping the phone’s cord out of the wall after one too many interrupted naps.  The researcher moved in with Flo not long after, but still kept his room mostly furnished for the evenings he worked far too late to make it to their flat safely.

  By the time their story had been told often enough for the media to lose interest, they had gone from having enough cases to keep them busy to too many to keep up with in what had to be some kind of record time.   In light of the extra attention they had considered hiring another agent, but their options were slim and the thought of bringing in a child to fight their battles was surprisingly difficult to stomach.  Anthony made a mental note to apologise to Barnes after that realisation, gaining some perspective on the man who’d tried so desperately to keep them away from the front lines.

  Time felt more like an undefeatable foe in the six months that followed than it had at any previous point in his life.  How was he supposed to keep taking on cases without anyone to watch his back in the field?  Would he end up alone in this bloody house yet again?   Despite the thoughts that haunted his darker moments, he knew he would let Lucy leave without any fuss.  Even in the last weeks of her employment he knew he could never be selfish enough to ask her to stay.   Though, had he known–

  A street sign reading ‘Half Moon Lane’ interrupts him from his stroll down memory lane, heralding the end of his journey.   The old building slumps under the weight of time.  Even the paint on the window is chipped, almost removing the ‘Sons’ in Mullet and Sons.   Although the storefront's outward appearance borders on decrepit, they have undeniably the highest quality rapier’s in London.  The hinges shriek as he pushes the door open, alerting the proprietor to the presence of a customer.

  “Ah, Mr. Lockwood!  A pleasure, as always.  How can I help you, my boy?” emerging from the back room, the white haired old man beams upon recognising him.  

  “Mr. Mullet, please, the pleasure is mine!  I believe one of my agents placed an order with you recently?  I’m here to pick up for her.”  

  After confirming her name and the details of the order, the old man teeters his way back into the room he’d just come from.  When he emerges again, he does so with empty hands and a deep frown upon his face.  

  “It appears one of my sons has caused a touch of a mixup and sent your employee’s rapier home with another agent.  I can place another order with our supplier, but I’m afraid it won’t arrive until the end of the month,” his tone is apologetic, but Anthony still has to fight the urge to groan in frustration.  

  “Mistakes happen, Mr. Mullet.  We’re only human after all,” thankfully, he’s had plenty of practice schooling his tone over the years, “that being said… we’ve made commitments for this evening.  I can’t very well ask one of my agents to walk into a haunted house unarmed.”

  “Of course, I understand completely.  Since you’ve been doing business with us for so long, I’m willing to offer a percentage off of any of our in stock models as a token of our apology.”  

  It’s a gracious offer, one Anthony is happy to accept.  He defers to the expertise of the older man, allowing him to lead them from option to option within the dimly lit store.  

  Trying to choose such an essential tool for her without her input is a surprisingly daunting task, and he finds himself quickly overwhelmed.   Searching for something to distract him until he can ground himself properly, he lets his eyes wander freely over the different kinds of metal glittering from mahogany shelves before they fix on a single standing display across the room.  Driven by curiosity, he approaches the case to inspect its contents.  What he finds nearly steals the breath from his lungs.    Laying on a scarlet velvet cushion is the most beautiful rapier he’s ever laid eyes on.  It has a fine silver blade, connected to an intricate swept hilt inlaid with gold leaves that wind around the counterguards and down the central ridge.  When his eyes travel to the pommel and find her birth stone caged within golden vines, he begins mental preparations to re-mortgage the house.   Thankfully, when Mr. Mullet wanders over to find him staring transfixed at the weapon, he gives him a knowing smile and cuts the younger man a deal he almost feels guilty accepting.  

  When he departs the shop, rapier tucked safely into a cloth wrap, the sun is dangerously close to the horizon.

  Uttering a quiet prayer to the powers-that-be, he scans the area for a payphone.  Luck is on his side today and he finds one rather quickly, tucked into a nook beside a cafe a few shops down.   As he makes a beeline for it with purpose, he comes aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing slowly to attention.  At first it’s easy to brush it off as a result of the temperature, but the closer he gets to the booth the more the sensation builds.  It feels like someone’s watching him.   Stepping into the silver-glass encased rectangle, he lifts the phone from the receiver before pausing.  Thinking quickly, he puts on his best thoughtful expression, pretending to have forgotten the number he needs to call as an excuse to let his eyes wander his surroundings.  The droning of the phone waiting for input makes the entire situation feel even more unnerving.  

  Nothing glaringly obvious jumps out at him; no nefarious stalker in a trench coat peers at him from some dark alley, no one stares at him over the top of an upside-down newspaper.  All his eyes can find is folks hurrying into their vehicles before the threat of darkness grows, shop workers locking their doors and flicking off their lights.

  Scoffing at himself for allowing his paranoia to get the best of him, he dials a night cab.  Though he’s quite certain he’d imagined the threat, he still refrains from mentioning his destination out loud.  He hadn’t made it as far as he had by throwing all caution to the wind.  Just… most of it.  Before he can waste too much time chastising himself any further, he slams the phone back into place and turns with purpose to wait for his ride in the safety of the cafe.  

  Honestly, it’s a good thing he’s so dramatic.  If he hadn’t insisted on doing the most theatrical spin, complete with the billowing of his coat as he exited the box, he wouldn’t have startled the man watching him from behind the corner of a nearby bookstore.     The balding head disappears as the body it’s attached to ducks behind the brick wall.  Anthony has several options, but very few of them are good.  He quickly decides his best course of action is to pretend to be unaware of the man’s presence, electing to continue on to grab himself a tea whilst he plans his next move.

  Watching the brilliant orange and scarlet glow of sunset, Anthony finds himself observing the comings and goings of vehicles outside the shop window.  There’s an unusual amount of traffic for this time of day.  He’d expect to see a large number flocking to their homes, seeking safety from the threats that come with darkness.  But to see even two or three vehicles stop to park alongside the road this time of night was unusual.

  The arrival of his cab shakes him from that train of thought, jumping the tracks straight to figuring out how to make it to Mrs. Roland’s house in decent time without being followed.  He hadn’t seen another sign of the man since, but he’s not convinced the danger has actually passed.  With a huff, he draws himself out of the comfortable chair.   The cold air is no more forgiving now than it had been before.  Allowing the warmth of the night cab to envelop him, he instructs the driver to begin a complex route to their destination in the hopes of losing those tailing him.  

  The sky is pitch black by the time they arrive, but his efforts seem to have been successful.  While he’d thought for a moment one of the cars that started up as he’d exited the cafe might have been following them at first, there’s no sign now of anyone suspicious following behind.

  Stepping out of the cab onto the curb, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort his thoughts before he dares to step foot into the house.  Why, precisely, would somebody have him under observation?  For once in his life, he can’t think of anyone who would have reason to.     Pulling up the sleeve of his coat to check the watch on his wrist, he curses under his breath at the time.  There’s going to be a lot of grovelling in his very near future.  It’s nearly thirty minutes past six.  She’s going to kill him, and he can’t even fault her for it.

  He’s about to rush into the house when a set of headlights comes into view at the top of the street, nearly blinding him before cutting to blackness at the sight of his silhouette.  

  Bloody hell, that is the final straw.  He’d done quite a fine job feigning ignorance until this point, but he has to draw the line at this level of obviously shady behaviour.  If they’re this incompetent he can get to the bottom of the matter without the need for secrecy or strategy.    He straightens to his full height, setting his jaw and turning to walk with confidence towards the sleek black car now parked roughly a hundred feet ahead of him.

  The sound of glass shattering fills the quiet night air before he can make it more than halfway, stopping him dead in his tracks as he listens for any further sign of danger.  Usually, the thought of his associate in any form of peril is more than enough to send him spiralling into an – admittedly unnecessary – protective frenzy.  However, considering all elements of the present situation, he finds himself torn.  Their interview with Mrs. Roland prior to the acceptance of the case had left them both confident the Visitor is a Type One, which she’s more than capable of handling herself, and if he doesn’t chase this lead down now–  

  An unholy shriek echoes down the street, sending chills down his spine.

  Sketchy stalker-mobile be damned.

  He turns on a dime, long legs carrying him across the lawn as if chasing his own shadow as the headlights behind him reignite and light his path.  The golden beams veer away, the car pulling a sharp u-turn to flee the scene.  If he wasn’t so worried, he’d probably be frustrated.   He almost can’t stop fast enough to prevent himself from running face-first into the door when the handle refuses to turn.  Swearing loudly, he jiggles it again to ensure it isn’t just stiff before he risks causing property damage.  The screaming is making it hard to think, but he can’t quite put his finger on what about it is making him feel so unnerved.  When it finally hits him, property damage is the least of his concerns.  Barely audible beneath the unnaturally shrill sound, her scream is hoarse and pained.

  He takes a full stride back, rocking his weight back on his left leg and lifting his right.  His foot hits its mark directly beside the lock, the full weight of his panic-aided-strength sending it flying open.  He can’t help but wince at the crunch of drywall, likely from the knob on the far side embedding itself in the wall, but he doesn’t waste any further time on it before striding into the house.   Dead ahead, an electric lantern sitting on the kitchen counter bounces light off of the shining tiles covering the majority of the space.  To his left is a small dining room with only a mid-sized table, four chairs, and a plethora of obnoxiously colourful paintings on the walls.  Deciding having both hands free will be more conducive to survival, he dumps the cloth bag containing her new rapier on the table and rushes towards the commotion.

  Between his relief at seeing her unharmed and the sheer comedic value of the expression on her face as she slides around the corner with arms flailing, he almost bursts into hysterical laughter.  Thankfully, his self preservation instinct is strong enough to encourage him to duck behind the wall while he gets himself under control.   Under normal circumstances he would let her exit the house rather than practically jumping out at her, but he can’t be sure there isn’t someone still waiting outside.  And as a small bonus, if she’s already mentally signing his death certificate, he can’t make it any worse by making an entrance.  He feels a grin spread across his features despite a valiant effort not to enjoy this too much.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious,” he has to bend to wrap an arm around her middle, but that doesn’t stop him.   Instead of lashing out or screaming again, she catches him off guard by completely relaxing into his hold.  A spark of protectiveness flares beneath his breast as the back of her head falls to rest on his collarbone and she lets out a shaking breath.  In stark contrast to her usually unflappable nature, she trembles like a leaf.  There’s no way a simple Type One put her in this state.

  It takes all of his willpower to peel his arm from her waist, to offer her the only shield he can by tucking her safely behind him.  He takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling slowly through pursed lips and drawing his rapier.  It’s not enough to eliminate the intoxicating effect of her proximity, but it dampens it enough he can think clearer.

    “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!” the rage in her tone fills him with relief, not even the impact of the flat of her hands against his back can take away from it.  He’d obviously prefer if she were calm, but he’ll take anger over despair any day.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?” he breezes past her outburst, not having to look over his shoulder to know if looks could kill he’d be dead on his feet.  

  He knew this routine like the back of his hand.  She’d be angry at first, call him every name in the book, and then they’d move past it and get the job done.

 Except there’s no scoff, no retort, no rapid fire insults, no reply of any kind.  The silence is deafening.  Taking back every scathing remark he’s ever made about Orpheus’ lack of restraint, he caves to the impulse and glances over his shoulder.   He’d been right about the look, at least.  The incredulous fury painted across her face might have been comical in another place, on another day.  But there, just beneath the surface, was something he hadn’t expected to find; betrayal.

  Shit.  He’s really fucked up this time.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself,” the venom dripping from her tone feels like knives in his chest, “you would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyways.”   Time comes shuddering to a halt.  His pulse is deafening as it thunders in his ears.  If he’d put her life in legitimate danger – regardless of the circumstances – he’d never forgive himself.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?” he manages to choke around the lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like his heart, turning to face her fully and reassure himself by searching every visible inch of her for any sign of injury.  The urge to reach out and touch her, to feel her body beneath his hands and know for sure she isn’t being stubborn enough to hide some kind of fatal wound from him, is so strong his fingers burn.

  After a few incidents involving him turning into a lovesick moron at the slightest touch from her early on in her employment, she’d gone to great lengths to avoid any form of contact with him.  He’d come to terms with this, resigning himself to the idea of a life spent admiring her from arms length.  So while she hadn’t seemed too opposed to having him in her personal space tonight, he had no intentions of pushing any farther and making her uncomfortable.

  That was the plan, at least.  But when screaming pierces the air once more, the colour drains from her face, and he watches her cave in on herself in an attempt to hide; he feels like this counts as extenuating circumstances.     He takes a single large step forward, arms reaching towards her in unison.  Her hands are over her ears, head tucked into her chest, elbows tight to her ribs.  He allows his upper body to curl at the edges and cage her against him, hugging her head to his chest to muffle the noise.

  Then, it stops.  It’s hard to decide if the ghostly howling or ensuing silence is louder.  

  “You okay?” he murmurs the question, reluctantly releasing her to rest his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to try to catch her gaze in the low light.   There’s merely inches between their faces when her unfocused eyes finally lock with his own.  It’s hard to breathe without acknowledging they’re breathing the same air, but he files that thought away for later.  He concentrates instead on tracing every one of her features with his gaze, every tensed muscle and line that may offer him some insight into her condition.   She squeezes her eyes shut, blinking like she’s just woken up.  When she finally focuses on him, her pupils blow wide as dinner plates.  Her lips part, her small gasp the only disturbance in the air as he involuntarily holds his breath.  

  A sharp stab of heartbreak courses through him as she steps back abruptly, raising her palms in surrender.  His poor heart stops dead for the umpteenth time today when he spots the dark spot on her hand.  She tries to drop her arms, to move to put more distance between them, but his sense of urgency outweighs his better judgement as he grasps her tightly by the wrist.  The chill of her skin beneath his does nothing to assuage his concerns as he pulls her across the kitchen to the light, ignorant to her protests through the haze of his anxiety.   Their proximity to the light confirms his fear, and the crimson red of fresh blood staining her skin has his stomach rebelling against him.  As soon as he drops her wrist she pulls it away and clutches it to her body, glaring daggers at him.    He makes a mental note to beg for her forgiveness later, reaching for her face and watching shades of red begin to decorate her flesh as she reaches new levels of infuriation.  Her skin is sinfully soft beneath the fingers that turn her towards the light and brush against her cheek, tucking the hair behind her ear to give him a better view.     A cold blanket of righteous fury settles over him at the sight of the narrow crimson river running sluggishly down her neck, using his thumb to swipe it away.  Murderous thoughts fill his head at the sight of the stain left in its wake, doubling in intensity at her expression when he shows her the smear of red highlighted by its contrast against his pale skin.

  “Now will you tell me about it?” any attempt at a playful tone is harshly undercut by the tremor of rage in his voice, but she still laughs with less nerves than he’d expected.  

  She studies him closely, but he stares right back, too focused on making the bloody thing pay for hurting her to be self-conscious under her scrutinous gaze.  After a short minute of this, understanding blossoms across her face.  

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  she pauses, lost in thought with her eyes fixed on the ground, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  He can feel the corners of his lips quirking up as she drops the stubborn attitude.

  ‘Good girl,’ he wants to say.

  “Your rapier is on the table,” he says instead, turning his back on her under the guise of watching the direction they’d heard the screaming from.  In reality, he’d just needed an excuse to hide his blush and re-centre himself.

  He’s so busy shaking the offending thoughts from his head and cursing himself out for allowing his mind to wander into unsafe territory that he’s completely blindsided by the burst of other-light lighting up the living room like a flash bang.  He’s still blinking the blind spots from his eyes when rapid movement in his peripherals alerts him to the potential danger.  The ringing of iron fills the air as he draws his rapier, muscle memory taking over despite his still spotty vision as he slices clean through the centre of the spectre mere inches from his face.

  Behind him, the sound of her drawing her own blade drains anxiety he wasn’t aware he’d been feeling.  As she takes her place beside him he admits to himself that nothing in this world feels more natural than having her at his side, trusting him to keep the Visitor at bay whilst he trusts her to strategize.

  Despite being the newest member of their agency, Anthony trusts her instincts more than even his own most of the time.   He’d figured out not long after she’d joined that she had a particular balance of empathy and intelligence - and a sixth sense he couldn’t really explain - that made her an asset in the field.  Of course he’d never been dense enough to phrase it like that to her face, not after sticking his foot in his mouth with Luce all those years ago.

  Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell him she’s finished piecing together a plan.  All he can do now is hope she’s feeling generous enough to let him in on it.

  The crisp clean sound of her new rapier sliding into its sheath suggests he might be out of luck.  He’s considering whether or not it’s worth asking her directly when his brain sputters, then stalls.   She steps back far enough he has no warning of her proximity until she presses herself completely against him, the surface area of her chest displacing against the back of his ribs in a way that leaves him feeling a little dizzy.  As much as he really, really enjoys her hands dancing along his sides and hips, he can’t help but question her truly terrible timing as he fights to keep his blade in the air to ward off their ‘friend’.

  “Follow my lead,” she says.  It takes a while to filter through the dial-up connection that is his mind at that moment.  He regains his composure just as she hurls the salt-bomb over his shoulder, realisation dawning on him in a flash similar to that of the silver fulminate as it collides with the ghost before him.  So that’s what she’d been up to.

  She’s off like a bullet the second the apparition dissipates, shooting past him and into the other  room.  In a rather impressive manoeuvre, she tucks and rolls to land on her side parallel to a horrifically sunny loveseat before shoving her arm beneath it as though searching for something.  Of all of the things he could possibly expect for her to retrieve, a silver-net was not one of them.  He adds that to the list of questions he has for her once they get this situation under control.

  She’s back on her face and hurdling across the house like a bat out of hell when Mr. Roland decides to make another appearance in the form of a pair of ghostly arms emerging from the white walls.  A stone drops in his gut when he realises there’s no way he can reach her before the grasping arms of the apparition wrap around her shoulders.

“DUCK!” he hollers, an iron taste filling his mouth.  She immediately dives for the floor and–

  He loses sight of her past the walls of the hallway.

  The pounding of his heart drowns out the noises that follow, his legs carrying him across the house on autopilot.  The cold air stings every inch of exposed skin as he closes the distance to the active haunting, but it’s not nearly as cold as the blood in his veins when he spots the telltale sparkle of silver on the rug outside the bedroom.     He ducks to grab the net and sweeps through the doorway just in time to watch her body fly across the room.

  Even the brutal screaming had paled in comparison to the sound of her head hitting the bed frame. 

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

#aislin writes #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x fem!reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood & co netflix #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood and co x you #lockwood & co x you #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood & co fanfiction #no y/n #no use of y/n #reader insert #x female reader #x reader

[ragingstillness]

I’m only now really realizing how utterly insane the end of RE7 must have been for Chris Redfield.

I mean, he’s an experienced BSAA agent. He’s survived the worst bioweapon disasters his world has known. He’s lost friends and whole squads to monsters straight out of people’s nightmares.

Then one afternoon he gets a report, detailing a horrific outbreak where Tyrant-Class Bioweapons have been making people disappear in the Louisiana swamps. There are reports of explosions, fire, gunshots, screams.

Chris hops into a helicopter, mentally preparing for hell on earth. The helicopter reaches the site, Chris looks down, and sees what looks like a giant petrified tree sprouting out of the ruins of a house, destruction in every direction and there, standing in a little clearing near the collapsed tree, holding a rifle, is a Olive Garden breadstick of a man, his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting up to them “hey my wife and I could use some help!”

He’s wearing fucking jeans and a fucking white button down shirt. He looks like a suburban dad coming off of work. He looks like he drives a minivan. He looks like the most excitement he sees is the office Christmas party when his boss hands out free champagne.

He’s blue-eyed and has blonde hair, light skin, he looks like a Sim come to life. Like a mannequin from The Gap.

Chris, still floored, rappels down to the man. He asks his name.

“Ethan,” the guy says with the faintest California accent. He’s smiling exhaustedly.

Chris scans the scene for any monsters. There are none. This fluffy Texas Toast white bread man took out all the monsters? By himself? With a flimsy rifle? That was several years old? While protecting his wife?!

Chris wouldn’t have entered the house without at least three squads. He’s learned his lesson from the mansion outside Raccoon City.

One man. One, regular man. It’s beyond impossible, it’s unbelievable, it can’t be true.

Chris pinches himself to make sure. Yup, not dreaming. “Ethan, are you human?”

Ethan frowns at him like a confused puppy. Chris is reminded of a beagle retriever mix. “I’m pretty sure I am.”

“I’ll check you just to make sure.” Chris runs a scanner up and down Ethan’s body. He looks at the results. “Are you *sure* you’re human?”

Ethan laughs self-deprecatingly. “I did get a lot of that goo on myself but I didn’t eat any of it, pretty sure I’m fine.”

Chris looks back down at the scanner. Incredibly high concentrations of the virus. By all accounts, Ethan should be a morphed bloody mess right now, extra eyes and hands mutating out of his torso, half his face melted. Chris looks back up at Ethan. He’s smiling nervously, happy in his delusion. He reaches up to scratch some dirt out of his hair then winces as he realizes he’s tried to use the arm that appears to have the hand stapled back onto it. Chris googles at it. Regardless of mutations the pain and blood loss from that alone should render Ethan dead. “Why are you here Ethan?”

“I got a cryptic message from my wife who’d been missing for three years. I figured she was in trouble so I went to find her.”

“And when you found her?”

“She’d been infected and cut my hand off with a chainsaw.”

“What did you do then?”

Chris expects Ethan to spin some tale about blundering through the forest and killing an infected tree. Instead, this man looks right at Chris with the eyes of a madman and says “I went and found a cure to save her.”

“You…what?!”

“Well admittedly Zoe did help me out with that. I hope she was out of the house when it collapsed, she was a great friend.”

“The fuck?” Chris muttered under his breath. Most of the people he knew, including his BSAA teammates, would run for backup upon finding someone they cared for had been infected.

Chris himself had made a promise with Claire that if either of them got infected they’d do each other the honor of a mercy killing.

Cures for any virus outbreak were one in a billion. But Ethan had been totally confident in his ability to rescue his wife and cure her of the infection that caused her to cut his hand off with a chainsaw! “Who the hell are you?”

“Well I’m a systems engineer by trade, originally from LA. God the drive down here was so long.”

Chris blinked. Then again. Then again. Still didn’t seem like he was losing his mind and hallucinating. “I have to make a call, I’ll be right back.”

Chris passed the oblivious Ethan off to one of his lieutenants, instructing him to get Ethan some medical attention.

Jill picked up on the first ring. “Valentine.”

“Jill it’s Chris.”

“What’s up? I heard you were sent out to Louisiana. Rough stuff, I hope you’re alright.”

“Yeah…about that. I need to bring a bioweapon into the BSAA as an agent.”

“Are you out of your mind?! They’ll never go for it!”

Chris looked over at Ethan, now waving a tiny green bottle at one of the medics, demonstrating pouring it onto his injured arm. “I think they’ll make an exception.”

#re7 #drabble #re7 fic #resident evil #Ethan winters #chris redfield #Ethan is a feral little man #and Chris doesn’t know how to deal with it #I’m enjoying finding ways to describe Ethan #but nothing tops the re character guide itself #‘a rhapsody in khaki’ I can never do better than that #yes the ‘eyes of a madman’ thing is an ofmd reference #Stede and Ethan have similar feral energy

[banana-breaded]

Bryce Lawrence was an excellent plot device

both in how he represented the failings of the Twelfth Legion and how he presented Nico with a clear enemy in "HoO".

Starting with the latter, Bryce pursued Nico and co. in order to find Reyna and bring her back to the Romans to be unjustly tried and convicted. For what? He didn't know. Not until he overheard her confiding her darkest secret into Nico. Upon hearing this information he scorns Reyna for her past, for something that wasn't her fault or even bad, and promises that she will feel pain and shame when he informs everyone of it.

Quoting directly, Bryce says, "I can't wait until your little secret comes out."

This sentiment is then repeated in italics, serving to represent Nico's thoughts (since it's in his point of view) and how he therefore zeroed in on this statement. He did so because of his outrage for how his friend (!) was being treated, yes, but also because of how the statement mirrored his greatest fear.

Nico was petrified of his own secret being revealed, and being presented with a callous, cruel person who would obviously not accept him and instead revel in his despair was, as seen in the book, a switch being flipped for him. It's mentioned that whenever Nico felt like someone was judging him, he'd usually push them away by yelling at them. This means his typical response was one of anger, and in this case the anger was entirely justified.

Nico was tired of lurking in shadows, tired of fading away. Symbolically, he felt as if he couldn't be himself, not in broad daylight, in the view of others. He was tired of hate and grief welling up inside of him and not having an outlet, having someone to talk to because of his inner turmoil (though he was getting there with Reyna).

In that way, I think him disposing of Bryce was a release. To do so, he revealed all of his secrets, all of his darker emotions (which was most of them) and completely eviscerated a target, a clear enemy, in the process. I think that how easily this was done also serves to show that Bryce is nowhere near strong enough to endure what Nico has.

He did this not only to protect his friends, but to stand up for himself. Murder is usually not a condone-able thing, but since Bryce was explicitly portrayed as an unrepentant killer who delighted in harming and slaying innocents even if it meant ending the world, we can give Nico a pass on this one.

On a side note, I actually think Nico's way of getting rid of him, albeit dark, was merciful. Bryce was transformed into a nameless, voiceless, presumably personality-less spirit. This indicates that he probably ended up in Asphodel rather than the Fields of Punishment, where he was undoubtedly going otherwise. Personally, I think an eternity of nothingness is preferable over an eternity of excruciating pain, so Bryce got off easy.

And to address that first initial point, I think it's incredible that for all of the rules and structure of Camp Jupiter, they still manage to fail on so many fronts. Like in the case of how easy it was for a corrupt Apollo legacy to seize power, for one, and how that same legacy would be able to impale a fellow camper and get away with it.

No wonder Octavian took such a liking to Bryce.

Another failure would be how they decided that, rather than trying to detain or reform a murderer, it would be better just to unleash him onto an unsuspecting world of mortals. "Not our problem now, even though this unstable and cruel person who is more powerful than the average citizen, and who has a history of killing things, is now allowed to rampage without being monitored." Wouldn't you know, he ended up being a problem for the good guys (and likely committed several atrocities in the period in which he was left unchecked). Who woulda thunk it?

Needless to say, Nico's story has always been the most emotionally charged, the most filled with symbolism and growth, and the least fun for a character to experience*. No wonder he's such a fan favorite.

*seriously, everyone else had several wacky, zany adventures along side a large group of close friends, and the silliest things that ever happened to him up to this point were being turned into corn (not pleasant) and wearing funky shirts, and in the first scenario the people with him didn't even really want to be near him. and of course, he went through an ordeal, so yeah, not fun.

#pjo stuff #percy jackson #heroes of olympus #rick riordan #the heroes of olympus #nico di angelo #pjo fandom #pjo #riordanverse #octavian #octavian hoo #hoo #bryce lawrence #reyna ramirez arellano #read riordan #riordan universe #riordan books #camp jupiter