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Save My Family From the war nightmare in Gaza
Hello My name is Neama, I'm 24 years old and I'm trying to save my family from the war. I used to work for the medical staff and help treat patients and children through my profession as a medical analysis specialist. We are the ones who separate doubt and certainty, but the occupation came and we were displaced. Because of this harsh war, I couldn't continue my profession of helping and saving children, and this saddens me.


My father, Mohammed, is 69 years old, and my mother, Amal, is 60 years old. We are a family of 7 (Ahmed, 32 years old, Alaa, 36 years old, Mariam, 27 years old, Ne’ma, 24 years old, Mahmoud, 22 years old) and the family of my widowed sister, 38 years old, who has four orphaned children (Tulin, 10 years old, Obaida, 9 years old, Laith, 6 years old, Ghaith, 5 years old). We lived a life full of happiness. We had dreams that were shattered by the barbaric Israeli attack that does not differentiate between young and old. After our house was completely destroyed, we were displaced to the southern Gaza Strip in search of a safe life, but this enemy does not differentiate at all and targets us in the shelter tents and their harsh conditions of extreme heat, lack of privacy, abundance of insects, and scarcity of water and food. We are now suffering from famine because of this war.


My father, Mohammed, suffers from a chronic disease (chronic pulmonary obstruction and difficulty breathing), and his condition has deteriorated, making him depend on oxygen tubes. One of my sisters has special needs (quadriplegia), while my other sister is a widow with four orphaned children and suffers from a chronic illness (ulcerative colitis)


You can contribute in any way you see fit to move my family out of Gaza to get the necessary medical treatment and live in a safe environment, every effort creates a useful impact and contributes to making a real difference. Through financial donations, you can contribute any amount you see fit, whether small or large, via the link or share it with your friends and anyone who can help us
Thank you very much for your humanity and standing with us. We hope that the war will end and peace will prevail in the world. Thank you all in advance for your support. May God protect and bless us all
https://gofund.me/5c9c46ba
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DEALER
Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller

Summary: Your dealer boyfriend Tommy asks you to meet with his business partner for a little exchange.
A/N: THIS TOOK FOREVER OMG. This has been in the drafts for like a year if you can believe that. I need to thank my beautiful friend Sini (who is unfortunately not on tumblr 💔) for proofreading and encouraging and constructively criticising. I already have an idea for a second part to this so let me know if you want it ! also my ask box is open so come talk to me!!
Word Count: 4.2k
Warnings: 18+, DUBCON, semi-public, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, Tommy getting cucked over the phone; mention of guns, violence/blood, drugs, criminal activity in general
It was another one of those nights. Tommy had come home with a fresh, open gash on his forehead and busted lip. Your heart dropped down to your stomach the second you laid eyes on him. You immediately rushed over, inspecting the wounds with his face in your hands. He assured you it was nothing, that he was fine, but you still practically dragged him upstairs to let you patch him up.
You sat him down on the bed and stood in between his legs, inspecting every scratch on his face like you had a doctorate in medicine.
‘I hate this, Tommy… You know how much it scares me.’ He hissed in pain and winced as you dabbed some disinfectant to the gash, you mumbled an apology
‘It’s fine, sugar. I promise. I’m fine.’ He reluctantly let you clean him up, probably thinking it would shut you up, but his nonchalance always felt like a stab to the heart.
‘I mean it. You never tell me anything and you come home late with all these cuts and bruises. Of course it scares the shit out of me, what do you expect?’
Even though you didn’t say it directly, he knew what you were referring to. You’d had this conversation with him countless times before, like when you had noticed his knuckles all cut up, or the bruises he could hide under his clothes, or when you realized that he carried his gun with him wherever he went. He would just tell you the same things over and over. It wasn’t exactly his dream career, but it’s fine. It’s just business, it’s not as dangerous as you think. This is all just part of the job, it’s what pays the bills. He knew you worried about him anyway, despite how many times he told you not to. He could see that sad glint in your eyes every time he came home late at night to find you awake on the couch, and knew you had pictured the worst. He knew what it meant every time you hugged him a little tighter at the door before he left. You loved him. You needed him.
He gently grabbed your wrists, his large hands easily encircling them. He gazed up at you with softened eyes.
‘Look at me, sugar. It’s just the job. I can handle it, you know that. I told you that a million damn times.’ He was using that tone he always uses when he wants you to calm down. And it always works. That soft, gentle whisper with the right amount of certainty and assuredness. He could’ve told you the world was ending in that tone and it would’ve been okay. ‘And I know you don’t like seein’ me hurt and all, but I’ll be fine. You don’t need to be worryin’ all the time. I’m strong, I can take it.’ He said the last part with the hint of a smirk crossing his bloody lips, a subtle tease in an attempt to lighten the gloomy mood that hung in the evening air.
‘I’m still gonna worry, Tommy.’ He noticed the quiver of your lip and the faint sheen of a tear in your eye that threatened to spill down your cheek. He sighed and pulled you into his lap. Your limbs immediately curled around him as naturally as an instinct, and his responded in kind. He stroked your back soothingly, whispering how much he loved you, how he would always come back to you and would never leave you. He squeezed your thighs, kissed your neck, the comforting whispers turned into little gasps, and the night ended with your clothes on the floor, and the two of you tangled up in each others’ bodies.
Nights like those were a common occurrence- he’d come home all bloody, you’d patch him up, then you’d hold each other until the sun rose. You weren’t afraid of him, you were afraid of what he did. You knew exactly what they would say- what did you expect? You should’ve ran for the hills the second he told you about his whole business. Naive little girl. It could only end in tears, if not much worse. You knew you should’ve ran. But you didn’t. They didn’t know what you knew.
They hadn’t been there on the night you met, at the bar you worked at. They hadn’t seen the way he protected you from a creepy old drunk customer who wouldn’t leave you alone. They hadn’t seen his charming smile when he met your parents for the first time. The way he shook your father’s hand confidently, and hugged your mother, kissing her cheek politely as he welcomed them into your apartment. They hadn’t seen how he’d slaved all day in the kitchen, preparing a meal that would impress them. The way he wouldn’t let you lift a finger to help him, insisting that you let him handle everything so you could relax. He told them he was a contractor, that he worked for his brother. It wasn’t exactly a lie, that was his front- his “laundromat”.
You’d seen his hands balled up into fists, scars adorning his knuckles from throwing punches, but those were the same hands that brushed away your tears and held you with such tenderness whenever you needed them to. You had overheard strings of foul threats flowing so freely from his lips when he took calls in another room and hoped you were out of earshot, but those were the same lips that whispered sweet nothings to you on Sunday mornings while you were still half-asleep, curled up in his arms.
It was getting late and Tommy wasn’t home. You held out on dinner in the hopes that he might be back in time for you to eat together, but it was another one of those nights. You were standing at the sink, cleaning the small array of kitchen utensils you had used to prepare your own meal when the buzz of your cell phone cut through the silence in the house. His name lit up the screen, and you answered.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi, baby. You okay?
‘Yeah, I'm good. Just finished dinner. You on your way home?’
‘No, uh, not yet. I’m a little tied up here.’
‘Oh… Is everything alright?’
‘Yeah, no, it’s fine, sugar. don’t worry ‘bout me.’
Normally you would’ve rolled your eyes at his mantra, but his tone was hesitant. You knew he was building up to something, and you knew you wouldn’t like it.
‘Tommy, what is it?’ There was a moment of silence and he sighed audibly through the phone.
‘I uh… I need you to make a delivery for me, honey. You think you could do that for me?’
‘A delivery?’ for a moment it didn’t register. Then the penny dropped, and you fell silent, frozen in place.
‘I know, baby, I know. I would normally get one of the guys to do it but none of them can right now. I know it’s a lot but I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. Please, baby.’ There was shame oozing from every word.
‘What am I delivering?’
For a moment there was more silence.
‘It’s probably better if you don’t know.’
The package was hidden in a nondescript grey shoe box, tucked into the corner of the closet, where he had directed you to look. A brown paper parcel, wrapped in layers of tape, giving no indication of its contents. The weight of it felt like a grenade in your hands. It could have been a grenade, for all you knew. You elected to carry it inside the box to avoid suspicions. The chances of anybody seeing you with it were slim, but your mind was spinning with visions of flashing blue lights and cops and handcuffs.
You stopped the car, right where Tommy had instructed you to. The place was exactly as you had imagined it- a dark alleyway, lit only by your headlights and the dull glow from a flickering streetlight nearby. Grimy exposed brick surrounded you on each side, slick with the rain that hammered down on the hood of your car. Aside from the constant drum of the downpour, it was silent, the archetypal place for an interaction like this. You picked up your phone and hit the call button on Tommy’s contact, lifting the phone to your ear. After a few moments, the dial tone stopped and his voice came through the speaker.
‘Everythin’ alright, sugar?’
You peered out at your surroundings through the teary glass of the windshield.
‘Yeah, um.. I’m here, but I don’t see anybody.’
‘Just wait, he’ll be there soon, okay?’
‘I don’t like this, Tommy. Why does it have to happen at the set of a slasher movie?’
You heard him chuckle lightly through the phone.
‘S’just to keep you safe, darlin’. Don’t want nobody seein’ you.’
You let out an unamused laugh. Right, no witnesses. Perfect.
A sharp knock on the fogged glass snatched your attention. You dropped the phone and a small scream escaped you. Your heartbeat was ringing in your ears as your hand, slick with sweat, moved to roll down the window. You knew immediately that this was your guy, just from looking at him. He was tall, although hunched over slightly to peer into the car, broad shoulders bending to lower him down.
‘You Tommy’s girl?’
You stared up at him like a deer in headlights, frozen in the drivers’ seat. You nodded slightly, practically trembling with fear. He opened the passenger door and sat down in the seat beside you.
You stared at him in silence for a moment, watching his dark brown eyes trail down from your eyes to your lips, then from your lips to your chest, then from your chest to your hips. The sides of his lips curled up into a sly smirk before his eyes met yours again. ‘I knew he was sendin’ me some presents but they ain’t normally this cute.’ You broke eye contact, weary of giving him the wrong impression as remembered what you were here for and reached into the backseat to grab the shoebox.
‘I um.. I have it.. What you want..’ You shoved it towards him, desperate for him to take it, get out of the car, and for all this to be over. His eyes fell slowly from yours to the package in your hands as you offered it to him. He took it from you, took one look at the parcel inside and nodded, seemingly satisfied with it. Then he placed it on the dashboard of the car, and turned back to face you.
‘He tell you ‘bout my payment?’
Payment? Tommy didn’t say anything about that. And shouldn’t he be paying you for the delivery? Dread was filling your stomach as he sucked in a deep breath, evidently reading your wide-eyed expression as confusion. The glint of a pistol caught your eye, the silvery metal glinting in the weak light. You gasped at the sight of it as he took it out of his pocket, and placed it in the cupholder and held his hands up, reading the virginal fear in your eyes. ‘Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you.. Don’t wanna mess up that pretty lil’ face of yours. But I ain’t leavin’ this car without some kinda deal.’
With shaking hands, you started to search for the phone you had dropped onto the floor beneath the driver’s seat, seeing Tommy’s name still on the screen- the call was still active. You held it to your ear.
‘Tommy w-what’s this about a payment? How much do you owe him?’
Another moment of silence. Your heartbeat was ringing so loud in your ears, you barely heard his voice coming through the speaker.
‘Just go with it, baby.’
The metallic clink of your passenger’s belt caught your attention,
‘Tommy, h-he’s-’
‘ know, baby. Just go with it.’
His darkening eyes burned into yours. “Put him on speaker.”
You obliged, and for the first time, you allowed your eyes to explore him. His mannerisms were like Tommy’s, as was his tall nose and intense gaze. Your thighs were pinned to each other, a guilty fire igniting in the pit of your stomach as you watched his veiny, calloused hands unbuckle his belt while he spoke into your phone, his voice low and gravelly.
‘Sent me a real pretty one, brother. Real cute.’ His voice addressed Tommy, but his deadly gaze was fixed on you.
‘Real sweet, ain’t she, Joel?’ Tommy’s words crackled through the speaker, and your heart dropped. He set you up for this.
When your eyes met back with Joel’s, he patted his lap. You knew what to do, his instructions were clear. You climbed across the centre console shakily, arranging your knees on either side of his thighs. You held yourself slightly above his lap. The thought of another man touching you in this way felt wrong, like a magnetic repulsion was holding you back from him. He rested his hands on your hips, letting out a soft sigh as his eyes roamed your body, your chest, your waist, your hips, your thighs.
‘Work of art, Tommy.”
‘Yeah, she’s somethin’ else.’
You bit down on your lower lip hard as your heart twisted with angst and fear in your chest. Joel’s hands squeezed at the flesh of your hips, eliciting a soft gasp.
‘Relax, darlin’. I won’t bite.’
‘It's okay, sugar. He ain’t gonna hurt you. Promise.’
‘Course not. Your man would kill me if I did.’ You doubted he was exaggerating. With that, he pulled you down into his lap, leaving no space between you. A small whimper escaped your lips, the rough texture of his jeans teasing you through your panties. ‘This the first time you’re deliverin’ for him?’ You nodded. He raised his eyebrows, his intoxicating gaze travelling across your collarbones, down to your chest. Joel took the phone out of your hand and placed it in the cup holder, next to his gun. His hands gripped your thighs and gradually moved up under the hem of your skirt, stroking your skin. He brought his lips to your neck, his facial hair scratching against the skin. ‘Got a lot to learn ‘bout this trade.’ His rough hands travelled up to your centre, rubbing you softly through the fabric. He let out a low whistle, feeling the dampness between your legs. ‘More into me than you let on, ain’t you, darlin’?’
A soft sigh came through the speaker of the phone, a sound you knew well.
‘She ain’t as innocent as she looks, brother.’ A sharp pain stabbed at your chest, hearing Tommy’s voice. He’s allowing this? He isn’t infuriated by just the thought of another man’s hands all over you? Touching you in the place only his hands are allowed to go? The thought enraged you, but you only had the resources available. So you rocked your hips and let out the sweet little whimper you had been holding in, Joel’s thickening hardness beneath you caressing every nerve. He let out a small grunt too, the same grin playing on his lips as he watched your hips grind into his.
‘That’s it. There you go, just relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.’
His hands snaked around your waist, squeezing it as his lips met your collarbone, decorating it with his light and lustful kisses, fanning the flames that were growing between your thighs. Your head rolled back, he mumbled against your skin, ‘Gonna give you a lil’ souvenir, darlin’.’ He sucked lightly on the skin at the base of your neck, eliciting another soft noise from you.
‘Best not be markin’ up my girl, Joel.’
‘Too damn late. She likes it, don’t you, sweetheart?’
You nodded, mumbling a soft ‘Mhm,’ loud enough that Tommy could hear, and you knew he did. His groan came through the speaker, and you could see the vision clearly. His head rolling back and resting on the back of the couch, jeans at his knees, and his hand wrapped around the base of his hard cock, but not moving it to savor his release for later.
Joel’s thick fingers tapped your thigh, directing you to sit up. You lifted your hips, whimpering desperately at the loss of friction.
‘Don’t think I can wait much longer for this.’ He grumbled as he pushed his jeans down to his knees. You looked down to see the huge tent he was pitching beneath your lap, and his hand palming it. His lustful eyes were trained on yours, his jaw slacking as he took in your features, his voice reduced to a desperate whisper. ‘Real fuckin’ pretty.’
His fingers tugged at your panties and you let him pull them down, his fingers immediately returned to your heat, your jaw slacked at the sensation of them tracing your clit without the limits of the cotton. ‘Like that, huh?’
‘What you doin’ to her, brother?’
‘Just playin’ with her lil clit.’
‘You like it, sugar?’
Joel saw your mouth opening to reply to Tommy and applied more pressure, eliciting a gasp from you.
‘I love it.’ your voice came out breathy and ragged from the pleasure as his fingers drew circles around it.
Joel withdrew his hand from your clit and tugged his boxers down to his knees, letting his erection spring free and slap his tummy. The length of it almost reached his belly button. He wetted his lips with his tongue, his carnivorous eyes gazing up at yours.
‘You ready for me, darlin’?’
You nodded eagerly, feeling him lining himself up for entry. He pulled your hips back down hard, and you cried out from the stretch of the intrusion and tried to squirm, but his big hands restrained you, holding you still against him. All you could do was whimper desperately, your nails carving deep crescents into his shoulders while your arousal soaked him. Joel picked up your phone and held it up to your jaw.
‘Tell him how big it is.’ His tone was commanding and dominant as his eyes watched your expression intently, watching how your features contorted in both pain and pleasure.
‘So fuckin’ big, Tommy.’
His groan rattled through the speaker of the phone
‘Bigger than mine, baby?’
Joel’s rough hands squeezed your thighs hard.
‘Yeah.’
‘Fuck.’
The corners of Joel’s lips twitched up into that same cocky grin as before, his hands travelling up to your hips and pulling them against him, then pushing them back out again, urging you to move. You immediately obliged. You ground your hips slowly against him, still adjusting to his size. Little grunts of pleasure escaped him as he watched you, his jaw tense and clearly holding back.
‘C’mon, darlin’. I’ve heard you can do way better than that.’ The same pain stabbed at your chest, the thought of Tommy going into detail about your sex life to his brother filling your mind with hot, white rage. So you showed him exactly what he had heard about. Your hips moved faster, feeling every inch of his manhood reaching your depths- deeper than Tommy ever could. You let your noises grow louder, let them drip with lust and pleasure, and made sure your boyfriend could hear it through the phone- made sure he could hear the difference.
Joel’s teeth nipped at the sensitive skin on your neck, his facial hair scratching you lightly as grunts of pleasure rumbled from his throat. He guided your hips with his hands, occasionally bucking up into you, jolting louder whimpers out of you each time his head dug even deeper.
‘Tight lil’ pussy. My brother ain’t stretchin’ you out enough? Feel like a damn virgin.’
Tommy’s voice came through the speaker at that.
‘Tight, ain’t she?’
Joel growled, his dark eyes watching as you swallowed him up over and over again.
“Won’t be for long.”
He started to buck his hips, fucking you from below. You stopped moving, letting him use you, take what he wanted. Grunts and whimpers fell from both of your mouths, and the windows of your car became cloudier than they already were, save for a desperate handprint and a drop of condensation trailing down from it. Joel was still holding the phone to your ear, letting your noises drip through the phone. The audio was clearly enough fuel for Tommy, his heavy breathing giving you the perfect indication of what the scene was like back home.
‘Fuck, you sound so pretty, baby.’ Tommy’s voice was gravelly and soaked in desire. You gushed down below but not for him. Your eyes met Joel’s again, and you began to move, your hips meeting his half way. His head fell back against the headrest, his predatory gaze trained on you. His rough hand moved from your hip, up under your shirt and his thumb rolled over the stiff bud, before grasping your breast roughly.
‘You gonna tell him how good it feels, darlin’?’ he nudged your cheek with the phone, urging you to speak into it.
Your voice had become a trembling, whining mess. ‘Feels so fuckin’ good, Tommy. So good.’
‘Yeah? I fuck you better than he does?’ You nodded in response and Joel nudged your face with the phone again, silently commanding you to verbalise it.
‘Yeah, so much better.’ You heard Tommy groan in pleasure and knew you had to dig deeper to get back at him for getting you into all this. Although a part of you wanted to thank him- it really was better. “Fuck, so much deeper. So much harder.”
Joel’s hips started pumping up into you roughly, his grip on you getting tighter, possibly leaving bruises under his fingertips. You moaned as the pain blended with the pleasure he was giving you as he held the phone back to his own mouth.
‘You gonna let me fill up your girl, brother?’
‘You better fuckin’ not, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.’
Joel’s eyes burned into yours, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. You looked at him and nodded, and he immediately hit the red button on the screen, then tossed your phone to the empty driver’s seat beside you. Both of his hands gripped your hips tightly, and sweat dampened the skin of his thighs.
‘Bounce on it for me.’ You did. The car started to shake with the force of your movements. If this part of town wasn’t so empty, you’d be expecting a knock on the foggy window from a cop. ‘You gonna let me fill you up? Don’t let him scare you, he ain’t gonna lay a finger on neither of us.’
You nodded, picking up the pace of your hips to meet Joel’s quickening thrusts. His tip kissed your cervix over and over and you cried out from the sensation. He snaked his strong arms around your waist and pulled you closer so your chest was flush against his.
‘You want that? You wanna go home to my brother with it all leakin’ out of you? Bet he’d hate that.’
You nodded, your eyes were locked onto his and you could feel that flame in your stomach turning blue. You whispered, your voice dripping with lust.
‘Wanna piss him off real bad.’
Joel’s teeth gritted as his cock twitched inside you, and with a few more thrusts he erupted, painting your insides white with his release. You fell apart at the same moment, gushing around him with loud whimpers. The force of the orgasm wracked through your body and shook you to your core. He didn’t give you much time to recover before he tapped your thigh, silently commanding you to pull off him. With your body still trembling from the force of your release, you moved back to the driver’s seat and watched him as he tucked himself back into his jeans and buckled his belt.
‘Pleasure doin’ business with you, sweetheart.’
He picked up his pistol out of the cup holder and tucked it back into his pocket before taking the box and turning to open the door. But your mind weighed heavily with the exchange, so you stopped him.
‘Wait..’ Joel turned to face you, an impatient expression written on his features. ‘..What did I just deliver?’ He stared at you for a moment, not following. ‘The package..?’ He looked down at the box in his hands for a moment before offering it to you.
‘Open it.’
Cautiously, you reached out and took it from him. With slow hands you opened it and started to tear the brown paper wrapping off the parcel, and were met with another paper package inside. But this one was white and blue, with bold letters sprawled across it, spelling out the word “sugar”. Your brows knit together in confusion as you picked it up.
‘…The fuck is this? Coke?’
You held it up to let Joel see what was wrapped up beneath the paper. He shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Says it’s sugar.’
You stared dumbfounded at the small white bag in your hand. It obviously wasn’t the white powder you thought they sold. And what, Joel couldn’t buy his own groceries? The same vile dread filled your stomach when you concluded that the sugar was just a prop. There was no delivery- your body was the exchange. Joel’s eyes clearly read the realisation on your face and his lips curled up into a smug smirk as he placed a cigarette between them and opened the passenger door, stepping out into the rain.
‘See ya round, sweetheart’
#joel miller#tommy miller#joel miller x reader#tommy miller x reader#joel miller x reader x tommy miller#joel miller fanfiction#tommy miller fanfiction#the last of us#the last of us hbo
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Do you have any plans for what happens with Urahara's shop once Aizen is dealt with? I mostly ask cus the other day I binged the AIEWAM tag, then had a dream about the Shinigami using it as a base of operations in Karakura. I don't know if that is likely, or plausible, but it was fun to picture random shinigami doing customer service.
No that's more or less what happens to it!
After Aizen is dealt with, Urahara is facing some pretty significant personal problems: his rejection by the 12th division, being pregnant with his first child (and Yoruichi's nervous breakdown of impending parenthood) and Nihofornia's National Tax Agency finally catching up to him. As a shinigami, Urahara is aware of the many ways to shimmy around death, but there is no certainty like Taxes.
It's Don Kanonji, the most reasonable and level-headed adult in the whole damn fic, who proposes the solution: between his careers of swimsuit model, UN Translator, exorcist and fashion designer, Don is also a Certified Accountant. After going over she shoebox full of miscellaneous receipts and assorted Papers That Might Be Important, Don negotiates a deal with the tax agency around Kisuke's dubious status as a citizen and even more dubious bookkeeping: kisuke will sell the business to someone with a real social security number and pay up a large percentage of the staggering amount of money he owes in exchange for being allowed to rent the building from the new owners and continue his path to legitimate citizenship and no further financial chicanery.
"Okay, but who's going to pony up the cash? I don't have that kind of money!" Kisuke wails, fully in the grip of second-trimester hormone swings.
"Urahara-san. Kisuke. Sandalhat. Buddy. Pal." Ichigo's classmate Keigo sighs, fondly patting the man on the shoulders as he sat down on the couch beside Urahara. "We're friends, right?"
"We're people who know each other's home addresses." Kisuke sniffles.
"Close enough!" Mizuiro waves, sitting down on Urahara's other side. "-and you're former second division, real cloak-and-dagger stuff. So you know that sometimes it's best to not ask so many questions, right?"
Kisuke frowned with growing suspicion. "I might have been..."
"Great! All you need to do is make Tessai clean out the garage, turn the paperwork over to me and Mizuiro, keep an ear on the line to soul society, and focus on getting this place ready for your little bundle of joy-" Keigo smiled, gesturing around the decidedly bachelor padded living room.
"-and don't worry about where this came from!" Mizuiro chirped happily, hefting a large briefcase onto the table with a loud thud that popped open the lid, revealing a frankly alarming amount of cash inside.
"I'm worrying." Kisuke grimaced.
"We very specifically requested the opposite of that." Keigo pouted.
"That's at least thirty grand in there." Don remarked with a casual glance at the carefully packed but decidedly used bills inside.
"There is Thirty-one thousand, two hundred seventy-eight point oh-six Troyen, which is exactly two and a half times this shop's discretionary income last year, and a very generous price for the business!" Mizuiro beamed.
"Why can't you guys use a normal currency like Kan?" Kisuke pouted, trying to do conversion rates in his head.
"Well for one thing, fiat currency is a hell of a lot better than anything based on the value of rice." Keigo nodded. "Though it is kinda stupid that we didn't update the name after we went off the gold standard during world war three."
"There was a third world war?" Kisuke yelped.
"A cold one, back in the eighties. You didn't notice were busy making sure Isshin and Masaki Kurosaki didn't implode." Tessai called from the kitchen.
"Oh." Urahra mumbled.
"Look, it's really quite simple- you'll go on basically as you have been with the candy shop-" Mizuiro smiled with the soothing demeanor of an unexpected adder. "-only I'll be your landlord and Keigo will be your manager!"
Urahra stared blankly at the boys, then looked up at Don Kanonji, who was reading over the contents of the file folder Mizuiro had handed him when the boys came in. "...That can't possibly be legal, right?"
"Hm?" Don hummed, looking up over his glasses. "Oh, yes. The government would really prefer a check but cash is perfectly legal tender to settle all debts with."
"But they're kids!" Kisuke gestured hysterically between them.
"Okay, Mizuiro might be babyfaced but he turned eighteen last spring and I'll be an adult by the time we turn in all this paperwork in April." Keigo groaned.
"And- and this is clearly Mob Money!" Urahara continued, waving at the briefcase of cash.
"Mister Urahara! I would NEVER-!" Mizuiro gasped with great offense. "I'll have you know all this money came from Perfectly Legitimate Enterprises!" He sniffed, arms crossed and lip pouting.
"That's the name of the Mobile Tech Support business Mizu and I have been running since freshman year!" Keigo beamed. "Makes a good packet, you wouldn't believe the kind of tips the old biddies will give a Nice Young Man in a Smart Uniform who scrapes malware off her online mahjong machine!"
Urahara stared at them blankly, gaze slowly tipping down to the briefcase full of money. "I should learn how to use living world computers."
"NO." Every single person in the building, including the shop kids and Ichigo, who had been passed out under the table after training, but was stirred to consciousness by an impending sense of danger before passing out again.
"Killjoys." Urahra muttered, sulking under his hat.
"Regardless, its a perfectly legal and honestly very generous offer for this heap, and as your financial advisor, I urge you to take it." Don Kanonji glared over his glasses at Urahara.
"So what, you boys get a cut of the candy money and rent? Cause that ain't much of a savvy deal on your end. This place runs at a debt."
"Oh no, you can keep the candy revenue and I'll only ask for enough rent to cover utilities." Mizuiro smiled. "What we want is a cut of your commission as a licensed Gotei-13 outlet contractor!"
"...But I'm not a contractor?" Urahara blinked.
"...Do you just. Not read things before you sign them?" Keigo glared.
"Yeah, you're not just in hock to the NTA, the Soul Revenue Service is after you too for running a fake Gotei-13 service center, and bailing on a century's worth of filings by faking your death." Mizuiro frowned at him with concern. "So e of those papers you signed when you resumed your identity and job as captain- however briefly were the result of Captain Kyoraku cutting you one HELL of a parole deal with the SRS, but the agreement was that Urahara Shoten would be the base of operations for ALL the shinigami operating in Karakura, under the direct supervision and control of the Gotei-13 and he sure wasn't stingy with the budget he gave you! Well. The budget he gave me and Keigo to spend since I'd be the property owner and Keigo would be the business owner."
"Aaaand since you also signed the soul society official secrets agreement, it's not like you can ask someone else to buy you out from the NTA, so not only are we your best offer, we're your ONLY offer!" Keigo grinned.
Urahra stared at them blankly. "You've set me up." He mumbled.
"You sent yourself up for this when you failed to do your due diligence when signing contracts." Don Kanonji corrected him, pulling some documents out of the folder and signing them, before pushing them across the table. "Please actually read these before you si- you've already signed them." Don Kanonji groaned as Urahara slapped the pen back down on the table with spite.
"Fine, fine- I guess I'm back to following orders instead of giving them. What do you want, Boss?" He glared at Keigo.
"Put your feet up and finish putting together that gift list for the baby shower." Keigo nodded. "We weren't kidding that your first priority is getting this place ready for baby... Does it have a name yet?"
"...No." Kisuke wilted despondently. "Yoruichi still isn't answering my texts!"
"Hm." Keigo nodded. "Okay, put your feet up, finish that baby shower list and think of a name for the little rugrat. Just leave the rest to us for now!"
"You guys are good kids." Kisuke smiled weakly.
"Would you be willing to make a sworn statement to that effect, so we can have it on file for any future HR disputes?" Mizuiro smiled.
"Absolutely goddamn not." Kisuke glared.
#aeiwam#an elephant is warm and mushy#bleach#bleach fanfic#kisuke urahara#mizuiro kojima#keigo asano#Don Kanonji#yoruichi shihouin#Kisuke and Yoruichi are T4T in this fic and the prospect of parenthood is hitting her pretty hard#but she comes around sooner than later#she just needs to shake the generational trauma of growing up in a household of Ninjas and Ghosts
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Foxes
Jenni Hermoso x Child!Reader
Summary: You like foxes
Jenni watches as you unpack your bag.
It is with great certainty that you line up your toys. She'd tried to get you to cut down on the amount that you brought with you but it'd triggered a meltdown so big that the neighbours complained about the noise.
It was easier to let you bring them all, even if they were all exactly the same as each other.
It wasn't an exaggeration either.
They were the same exact fox toy. The same one over and over again.
You had a few different ones at home but there were about seven or eight of this one, staring at Jenni with blank black eyes.
You pet each of them on the head before getting off the bed. You've been fascinated with the carpet ever since you both got in, randomly stopping what you were doing to aimlessly stroke it with a little crinkle between your brows that shows you don't know why you like it either.
It's another one of those things that Jenni has come to love about you.
It's strange, she knows, to outsiders but it's you down to your very core and she loves that.
You occupy yourself so well, so independent in your playing. Or...independent in the way that you only played by yourself because people tended to not play the way you liked and that usually sent you into a meltdown.
Either way, with you investigating the carpet and your foxes lined up against your pillows, Jenni takes the time to unpack her own things.
It had been a bit of a risk bringing you to the World Cup but with her parents and Rafa both busy, there was nowhere else she could put you but here.
"There foxes here, Mami?" You ask, finally sitting up.
"In Australia?" Jenni asks," I think so, osita."
You hum and get to your feet.
Your obsession with foxes is a little over the top, Jenni can admit but it's not causing anyone any harm so she indulges it. Besides, it just means that she knows exactly what to get you.
You hum again, meandering over to rub your hands over her soft tracksuit bottoms.
Your hand does a big swipe down before going straight up to her hip to do it again.
"Do they feel nice?" Jenni asked with a little laugh and your head bobs up and down in agreement.
You jolt when there's a knock at the door though. You immediately clamp your hands over your ears and Jenni sympathetically smooths down your hair.
"Don't like it, Mami," You say.
"I know."
There's another round of knocks, more impatient than before.
"One second!" Jenni calls as she sets you up at the desk with your pencils and drawing pad.
Jenni pokes her head out of the door. "Hola?"
Irene, Laia, Mariona and Alexia wait there, each of them sporting large smiles.
"Can we come in?"
Jenni spares a look behind her. You seem content again, scrawling over the paper.
"Yeah, alright." She lets the others in. "Osita, we've got company."
"Hi," You say but don't tear your eyes away from the page.
Laia and Mario instantly make themselves comfortable on Jenni's bed while Irene goes to check out the view. Alexia wanders closer to you, crouching by the chair you're sitting in.
"Hola, osita," She says to you," It's nice to see you again. I missed you."
"Okay." You keep drawing.
"Osita," Jenni says," Tell Alexia you missed her too."
Your brows draw together but you do what you're told. "Alexia," You say," Missed you too."
Alexia smiles at you fondly, more than aware of your little quirks as she takes a peak at your drawing. "That's a nice fox," She says.
"Yes," You say," It's a red fox." You flip to the front of the book to show the exact same drawing. You keep flipping the pages to show Alexia the exact same drawing on all of them.
The same red fox on all the pages.
"Red fox," You say, suddenly regurgitating words Jenni's heard countless times before," Vulpes vulpes. Found in Europe, Asia, Africa and America. Most widely distributed animal naturally apart from people." You keep drawing, dragging your pencil across the page. "Give birth in dens. Babies stay with adults until autumn and then leave."
"You know a lot about foxes," Alexia says.
"Yes," You reply, switching your orange pencil for black.
"Do you have a favourite?"
"Swift fox," You say immediately," Vulpes velox. Small like housecat. Found in America." Somehow, you've opened up a little to Alexia, fully facing her now though your eyes are nowhere near her face. "I like foxes."
"I know," Alexia says. She dips her hand into her pocket. "I couldn't find a big one but here."
It's a keyring with a knitted fox attached to it.
You swipe your hand over the fabric and immediately pull it away, grabbing it by the silver ring instead. You want to pull a face but you know that's not okay.
Mami tells you that all the time so you keep your face blank.
You shuffle off the chair to give the keychain to Mami to look after, wiping the icky feeling off your hand while you're still there.
"Is this from Ale?" She asks and you nod," Did you say thank you?"
You turn back to face Alexia again. "Thank you."
You don't go back to your drawing, you just sit at Mami's feet and trace the pattern of the carpet with your finger.
"Hey, osita," Laia says to you," Are you enjoying Mexico?"
You don't look up from what you're doing. "No," You say," Roja is not in Mexico."
"Roja?"
"Fox that me and Mami fed in our garden," You continue, perking up a little bit," She is not in Mexico. We do not have a fox in Mexico."
"Roja wasn't ours," Mami reminds you," She only came back because we kept feeding her."
"Roja had babies," You say like Mami hasn't even said anything," That's why she was fat. Roja had babies and then we left her."
Mami sighs. "We didn't leave Roja. We-"
"Red foxes have between four to five babies," You plough on, sitting upright again and talking at Laia," Born blind and deaf. Mating happens in winter so babies are born in spring, raised in summer and leave in autumn. Babies-"
You cut yourself off as Alexia goes to move and you stand up.
"Why you going?"
"Osita," Mami says," What have I said about being polite?"
You blink at Mami a few times, trying to recall what she told you before. Mami has to give your reminders a lot. She says that you're not good socially but you don't think it's your fault that people are weird and don't make sense.
She understands you and Alexia understood you when you used to live in Spain and that's all that matters.
"Where you going?" You correct and Mami laughs a little in disbelief, though you don't really get why.
Alexia laughs. "Just the toilet, osita. I'll be back soon."
You nod at her, just once. "Okay."
You sit back down by Mami's feet and go back to tracing the carpet.
"Someone missed her tia Ale," Irene teases and that causes you to frown.
Actually, you don't think you did miss Alexia, not in the way Irene clearly thinks you do. Actually, you don't really think about Alexia when you're in Mexico. You don't really think about anyone that much unless you see a picture of them.
Maybe you do miss Alexia though. In the beginning you think you did but that's because she was a big part of your life and then she suddenly wasn't anymore and that's a big adjustment.
You miss Alexia now though, as she goes off to the toilet but you've never been all that consumed by missing people except for Mami and that's never really happened because you're always with her.
Feelings are weird and people are even weirder, you decide and you migrate a bit closer to Mami. You tug on her leg, looking at her with big wide eyes.
She seems to understand you though, throwing your favourite fox patterned blanket to you.
You make a little tent so you don't have to see anyone else.
You can't always interact with people well so you prefer being in your fox tent.
You take a big, deap breath that runs through your whole body before releasing it.
You smile.
You can feel Mami behind you.
You think this World Cup won't be as bad as you thought it would be.
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Hi! Love your blog, it's such a brilliant resource, thanks so much for writing it.
So, I'm looking for more information on ways that someone would go about breaking someone else's neck. Long story short, it's for a murder mystery situation where I need the investigators to be able to look at the injury on the victims (in an autopsy context, not necessarily on casual examination) and go 'oh, that's a specific technique and it suggests our killer has military or similar how-to-kill-people combat training'. Any suggestions?
A shovel through the spine at the base of the skull?
So, the headlock neck break is basically a fantasy. The amount of force you'd need to actually shatter someone's neck in the way presented would be superhuman. (Which does mean there's probably examples as industrial accidents, but industrial accidents are a somewhat uncommon murder method. Mostly because they're not especially portable.)
Hilariously, there are multiple attempted murder cases, where the would-be killers tried to replicate that neck break, only succeeding in annoy their victims, and telegraphing their intention. So, someone were to try to snap someone's neck that way, it would be an excellent indicator that they had no training what so ever.
There are ways that someone can kill with a headlock, such as a blood choke, but nothing that's going to concretely point the finger at someone with a military background.
Similarly, stab wounds can be very informative about the killer. But all you'll really gather is how familiar they are with human anatomy, and how comfortable they are with cutting people-shaped meat. This won't help you distinguish between someone who's done this before, and someone who's done this before for their country. (Incidentally, “people-shaped meat,” isn't strictly a joke. There are lot of potential careers and backgrounds where you could become pretty comfortable cutting into animals, either live or recently deceased. So, in this specific case, that's more about the mindset. Someone uncomfortable with that level of physicality, is like to leave behind hesitation wounds. These are smaller cuts, sometimes in the main wound channel, indicating that they're not really comfortable with what they're doing.)
So far as it goes, I'm more a fan of just ramming a blade into an artery, rather than slitting their throat. The latter is a lot more work, but the former requires you actually know where to find someone's arteries quickly and efficiently. Which isn't necessarily a sure thing.
Even tool selection won't necessarily tell you much. Someone who's using a military knife might be ex-military, or they could be someone who uses surplussed equipment because it's cheap and relatively reliable. And that's assuming you can concretely identify the knife from the wounds it leaves. Which is also not especially reliable. You can tell how far the blade penetrated, and roughly how large it is, but that won't tell you if it was a bayonet or some cheap gas station hunting knife of a similar size.
Firearms present a similar problem. Once you can track down the gun (if there were any intact bullets to compare, which isn't a certainty), you might be able to match the gun to the wounds. But, examining the wounds on their own (especially if the bullets are gone, or buried deep in the corpse) will only give you an estimate of the bullet's size. Here's a problem with this, did you know that .38, .380, and .357 magnum are all 9mm rounds? They're different cartridges, but the bullets they spit out are very similarly sized. You might be able to make some educated guesses based on the wound channel and burns, but these all fire a round that's roughly the same size. So, when someone looks at a wound and definitively says it was a .38, they don't know that. (Unless they found the shell casing. But even then, you're not likely to find a .38 or .357mag shell casing unless the attacker specifically dropped their spent brass and reloaded, as those are revolver cartridges. .380 is a semi-auto round, so those will get kicked out after each shot. And, yes, before someone complains, there is .357 SIG, that's a semi-auto cartridge. It's 9x22mm.)
Also worth remembering, you can't, specifically match a shotgun's ballistics, assuming the shell was loaded with shot, and not slugs. You may be able to match the mechanical wear on the casing itself to a model (or multiple models in some cases), but not a specific gun.
So, how do you know it was someone with military training? You don't. Learning that someone's been trained to kill is a bit easier to pin down, but the information isn't that useful. That doesn't tell you if they're ex-military, ex-police, or even just the product of an extremely messed up homelife with a prepper parent. Or, even just they got extremely lucky (or unlucky) with a single stab.
Now, it isn't pointless to try to determine that, as it can be helpful later to demonstrate that the eventual suspect had the training to kill in the method that the victim experienced. But it doesn't do much to narrow the suspect pool on its own.
Ironically, the killer not having combat training. So, with things like defensive and hesitation wounds, can be far more useful for narrowing the suspect pool. As an investigator, when you're talking to someone that you're sure has been certified in knife combat, isn't likely to be especially messy with their stabbings. (Though, to be fair, even a trained knife fighter might stab their victim many times, to ensure a faster bleedout, and not all of those hits are going to be especially artful.)
So, that's a long way from, “you can't really break someone's neck like you see in the movies.” You can kill people, and as an investigator, you can make a lot of educated guesses based on what you find at the crime scene. But, “this method means they were militarily trained,” doesn't really mean they were trained by the military.
-Starke
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Can we hear the empirical analysis Zmija. Of the 4 options
you sneaky little horny creature. you sneaky little thing. of-fucking-course you can! and with joy. please keep in mind this is entirely and absolutely subjective. random order.
blacksmith...what can I say: bicep, stamina, incredibly amazing smell. ability to focus for a surprising length of time on one important thing while keeping up tempo. persistent. reacts to failure with an honest readiness to try again right away and deep-seated certainty they can improve. knows the context and circumstance can matter as much as the underlying material reality of the situation. have I mentioned arms. also: fingers good at prying things apart, or testing things. not afraid of a particular sort of pain. and: fire. smoke. also can actually make cool shit which, let's be honest, we are all hopeless for. in my personal experience, will talk to you about various properties of various sorts of steel immediately post-coitus which will, inevitably, make you want to go again right away.
fight athlete. I am a simple animal and I find violence hot. you'll have some incredible bruises to marvel at while in a variety of incredible positions. bleeding and cuts might also be a thing. you can soothe a horrid loss or reward a vicious victory, and both will feel very good albeit in different ways. they might be very into the idea of thinking up some scenario where they can fight in your honour or for your safety which, if played right, is even more of your power fantasy than just theirs. not afraid of pain, and multiple types, which is always a great bonus. in my personal experience, might have very complex issues that can be worked out amazingly through united, honest effort in a well-developed kink scenario. and the v word again. often, those who dominate in the fighting ring like the scenario to be flipped in the bedroom and goodness what can be better than that.
weight athlete. well, let's not kid ourselves here: big. big and strong. very stubborn and persistent, and does not give up easily; when faced with adversity, has an incredible talent to grunt and groan in a way that will make you all hot and bothered. personal bias is that I love lifting weights and having had a weight lifting lover in the past gave me the best work out partner in existence - and there is something very, very special about an intense workout session followed by an even more intense sex. double happiness, double soreness, double gain. additionally, often on a bulk which means getting a lot of very good food, in amazing amounts, and then hopefully fucking after, too. and can lift you, and will be happy to lift you, and know how to respect your spine. super crucial.
park ranger. please be aware I am using this here in a very narrow meaning and largely incorrectly in relation to the whole poll - hence I didn't vote for it - because what I actually mean is a mountain rescue. GOPR/TOPR. this is the most potent combo of physical activity in an adversity context, paired with the genuine drive to do good - and, you guessed it, mountains. and I will be honest with you: had the pleasure only once, and it became a religious experience, and I can't focus enough to even write about it. I think the knowledge of trails, survival, first aid, and various more technical, very specific fields makes a person so exponentially hot it should be banned across the world for the good of horny bastards like me. only so we can break that law and make it even hotter and, most likely, perish.
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☆ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒
✦ ⊹ ˚˖ warnings... gn!reader, slightly suggestive? kisses and making out??? not that nsfw but u can be the judge of that
:¨·.·¨ ♥︎ a.n... been plagued with thoughts of making out premaritally that im having dreams about it so i thought i'd share the delusion with the dateables <3 might make a brothers version if i feel like it ૮ ˊ͈ . ˋ͈ ა posting this little drabble while i work on things ^_^
DIAVOLO !
the first kiss with him is surprisingly soft and tentative, a large contrast to the lord's usual loud and unabashed demeanour. its nothing more than a peck to test the waters, one to see if the two of you are comfortable.
its not long after that that diavolo takes the reigns, his arm curls around your neck and rests his hand on the back of your head to pull you impossibly closer. the kiss morphs from something sweet and demure to one thats hurried and pervasive.
he naturally takes the lead, mouth slotting against yours like they were moulded to be together while his tongue danced with your own, like a dog eager to show its master its affection.
BARBATOS !
the first kiss with the royal butler is one thats calm and collected, like theres no amount of doubt in his movements. theres an air of certainty almost as though he knows this is what the both of you have been waiting for.
barbatos lets you take a breath and uses that to coil his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. his eyes take in the sight of your tightly shut eyes and the faint blush that dusts your cheeks with satisfaction, a hidden greed and desire for more creeping up from the bottom of his spine and spreads throughout his entire body.
he craves more, more, and more, until you have nothing left to give.
SOLOMON !
the first kiss with the sorcerer is playful and chaste, he pulls his head back ever so slightly so you chase after his lips. a low whine sounds from the back of your throat and solomon lets out a chuckle but doesn't relent, firm in his stance.
you huff, and for a moment, you think about pulling away entirely, but the temptation of his lips overruns that thought and you give in to his teasing. like himself, his kiss is pervasive, determined to unravel you with the kiss and uncover your every secret.
SIMEON !
the first kiss with the archangel is pure and fleeting; a soft peck that was so light you would've mistaken it for a dream if it weren't for the feeling of his breath ghosting over your lips. a shared look between the two of you show that this was something that was long overdue, feelings that were bursting at the seams finally rising up to the surface in a wordless confession.
an airy chuckle escapes the both of you, the uncertainty of unreciprocated feelings now disappaiting into the air, fluttering away as though there was never any need for the anxiety or the wavering doubt in the first place.
a quiet, barely audible, "may i kiss you once more?" uttered so softly you wondered if the wind was the one playing tricks on you escapes into the evening sky. you give a shaky nod before the feeling of his warm hand gently hold your face, the feeling akin to the way the morning sun would graze your face as you awoke. its a tender touch and yet, it has you melting in his clasp.
© 2024 TEARS0FSATAN. please don’t translate, modify, repost or plagiarise my works anywhere.
#៹ ࣪˖. 🎧 light mode﹒☆#obey me#obey me shall we date#omswd#obey me diavolo#obey me barbatos#obey me solomon#obey me simeon#obey me x you#obey me x reader#obey me x gn reader
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Elaboration on the tr!Ros disability thing--
I am making this connection largely because I am a bit chronically ill and have mental health issues, both of which contributes to me needing varying amounts of assistance with life compared to an ordinary person. That is to say I don't necessarily believe that this is an intended reading, I'm just connecting parallels because of my personal history.
That said, I think there is something about tr!Ros's whole struggle that really does resonate with that experience. Ros places such a high importance on being competent and independent. The most visible motivation for this is her desire to be helpful to the people around her, which is what she has voiced as her reason for wanting to become stronger most frequently.
But below that is the certainty that she will be left alone, that she will have no one to turn to when it really matters, which is something she's been voicing at the start of the Realmathon.
And below that, much more rarely voiced, is the desire to be a fully fledged, autonomous human being, capable of doing great things and treated with respect.
I think this is why tr!Ros is so continuously resistant to things like being handed armor and weapons, given physical protection and immunity from her harmful actions, and does not internalize any assurances or compliments she's given by the people closest to her. She is sort of treated with kid gloves by the people closest to her.
Aimsey loves her, but will also frequently override her decisions, brush aside her concerns, and corral her back into the castle to keep her safe. The Kingdom cares about her, but they also don't really ever acknowledge that she has an interiority and problems that run deeper than resources and physical protection. She is treated like she is extremely susceptible to harmful external influence and fits of emotion, and not like she has a complicated, flawed system of morality and logic she operates off of. She is frequently shut down, isolated, dismissed or demeaned under the pretense of her safety or her own good.
And I think the consistent conflict and the parallel start to come in here when this desire intersects with the fact that she is somewhat dependent on other characters. She dies a lot. She struggles with fighting on a PvP and PvE oriented server. She is easily overwhelmed emotionally and physically. She is prone to destructive behavior that leaves difficult consequences. She is suicidal. She loses important items like her elytra on a somewhat regular basis that make large chunks of the server inaccessible for her.
And I feel like the fact that she does need help with a lot of stuff is frequently used against her to undercut her desire for autonomy and the fact that she's a fully fledged adult human being. She is corralled into the empty Castle and told to stay there. When she talks about how she wants to do things on her own she is scoffed at and immediately handed whatever item or resource she was working for. When she expresses jealousy or dislike towards anyone on the server she is dismissed as childish. When she talks about wanting to be independent her need for assistance in the past is used to shut her down. Her violent actions are used to wave away any perspective on morality she may have.
IDK. I feel like tr!Ros's struggles are relatable to the struggle for personhood when you are disabled and/or mentally ill in a way that requires assistance and how people sometimes treat you.
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is it true that clefairy come from the moon? is that even possible? i always thought that legend came from how clefairy are found in a place literally called mt moon.
we don't have a definitive answer for whether or not clefairy originated outside of earth's atmosphere. they're hard pokemon to come across for the sake of study!
it's not too extreme of an idea given that there are pokemon we know either for certain or almost certainly did not come into being here- deoxys being the most notable- and yet still manage to survive without issue on earth. we just don't have any proof of it in the case of the clefairy line. their association with the moon has to do more with the powers and behaviors they display when exposed to large amounts of moonlight, as well as their attraction to objects and pokemon that come from or live close to space. however, other pokemon that we know have a terrestrial origin also gain strength from moonlight, such as ledian!
so i can't really answer your question with any certainty, but i wouldn't be surprised if someday it's proven that clefairy came from or at least can live on the moon.
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Silco x Viktor -Hypoxic
Warning : PTSD, drowning
Rating : 18+
When reminiscing, Silco liked to think of the peace that water brought. Of the death and rebirth, the weightlessness. It was an optimistic perspective he had taken to dull the gritty truth of the matter. It was a way to wrap it up in a neat little package, to frame it as an experience that shaped him into who he was.
It was an easy way to shy away from the abject terror.
The desperation that came with looking into the face of one you had cherished most in the world, and knowing if you did not run you would cease to exist. There was a specific brand of dread that had sewn itself into his very being when he’d fought against the current, throwing all his worth into his attempt to flee. Frozen in horror when a large hand grasped him firmly, and he realized he was outmatched.
He could not run. He had naught the strength to fight back. There was no moment to even speak, just a split second where eyes met and he pleaded silently. The world was swiftly muffled, blurred before him. Calloused palms scrambled around his shoulders until they found a hold around his neck, and no amount of thrashing could knock them off.
No kicking, no clawing, no prying. They held steadfast. And there was this nagging disbelief, for long and drawn out moments. His brain failing to accept the reality of the situation for what it was. His body was convulsing in a disorganized rhythm, now.
Just fight a little harder, his brain informed him calmly. You will be fine, you just have to fight a little harder.
He did. He fought. Nothing changed, he was growing weaker, but his brain persisted on and on. All he had to do was muster his strength, and he was going to be fine. Just a little harder, just one last burst of energy and he would break free.
He didn’t.
That certainty vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and his thoughts were scrambling faster than he could cling to them. His vision was hazing around the edges, and Vander was going to kill him if he did not act quickly. The cold was seeping in, deep within his bones. He was cold in a way he had never once been before.
An idea sprung, if he went still the hands would relent. If he played along, if he faked unconsciousness, he would have a moment to reach for the knife that Vander always kept in the same spot. In a list ditch effort, that is what he did.
His body went limp, waiting just a moment before his fingers stretched almost past their limits, reaching for the handle.
It wasn’t there. Why wasn’t it there? Where was the knife? Why was Vander not letting go? Where was the fucking knife?
The panic set in earnestly, hands coming to grab and pry at Vander’s wrists, staring up through the muggy water at the visage of his friend. With weak and shaking hands, he tapped at the large hands around his throat. Tap, tap, tapping away, as if professing that he gave up. That he was too weak. Vander won.
Please. You’ve won. Please, let me up. Pull me up. I can’t breathe. Not you, please, don’t let it be you.
But they did not relent. They did not loosen. And he was dying. He would not change, he would not be reborn, he would die at the hands of his most trusted. And he would never get a chance at revenge.
Then, all at once, he was pushing himself above the surface. Disoriented and gasping for air, flailing to remove the hands that - well. That had apparently disappeared, that were no longer pinning him down. Lungs heaved in in gulps, attempting to provide his brain with enough oxygen that the world would stop spinning around him. He tried to get his wits about him, blinking through the darkness.
He was alive. He was cold. He was shaking. But, he was not drenched. His fingers still prickled and tingled, along with his face, from a lack of breathing - yet he was alive. Where was Vander?
At that moment, a hand reached out to his bicep to curl around it. In his alarm, he jerked back to put some space between himself and the offending grasp, snarling and braced to protect his life.
But he was met with honey eyes filled with a blatant concern, a mess of brown hair and a crooked, thin nose. Nothing like the big brute who had just - who had..
Oh, Janna, he’d had a nightmare.
With that, he behaved like a puppet with all its strings snapped. Slumping and dropping his head to continue steadying his breath, his body still quaked and twitched but he was no longer on the defensive. No longer anticipating big hands appearing out of the darkness of his room.
Because he was in his bedroom, Vander was dead. The only hands that would dare to reach for him were Viktor’s, ever gentle Viktor. Thin and nimble grip, and never oppressive. Silco was a changed man, he had been reborn, he kept a close eye on Viktor. The man could not overpower him.
“Silco?”
He wished the room had remained silent. “My apologies.” The breathless tone of his voice was pathetic. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no. You did not wake me.” Viktor leaned to sit up properly, but did not attempt to bridge the gap between them any further. He made a valiant effort to pretend he was not eyeing Silco like some unpredictable street mutt, who may snap off a finger if Viktor approached incorrectly.
It would be amusing, tomorrow.
Tonight, he stared unblinkingly at that expression. “Liar.” He accused without malice, trailing a slow eye over the dim details of Viktor’s face. The silence was thick between them for a long while, until Silco’s chest began to rise in fall at an average pace. The sweat began to dry on his skin.
Quietly, slowly, he cradled Viktor’s hands in his own. Fingers roaming over knuckles, smoothing across palms, closing around his wrists in a loose grip. He brought those delicate, kind, loving hands upwards. Around his throat, in a sick recreation of the last hands he had allowed himself to trust.
This was a challenge that Viktor was ill-equipped for, looking as lost as Silco looked determined.
Viktor was not a fool. The half asleep mumbling, the urgency in which Silco had grasped his own throat after bolting awake, the context clues were glaring. He did not know for sure, but he did not think that dream had been conjured from anything but memories.
“I wouldn’t.” Viktor spoke quietly, and Silco pushed his wrists more insistently against his throat. Enough that Viktor felt some give beneath his palms, and he flinched back when the pulse point beneath them started clenching faster and faster. But Silco did not give in, holding Viktor’s hands steadfast against his throat.
“You would.” Silco leaned closer, cataloguing him carefully. To Viktor, he looked almost undone. “If I gave you reason.”
At that, Viktor’s eyes softened greatly. Using the position to his advantage, he started to stroke delicately along the skin beneath his fingers, thumbs using Silco’s jaw to guide their path. “You wouldn’t.” He told Silco with such a certainty, gaze holding him in place before their foreheads were rested together.
The exhaustion caught up with Silco in that moment, a comfort he didn’t know he had been asking for washing over him in a soothing wave. He clung to Viktor’s frame, reeling him in until they were curled around each other, entangled in the sheets.
A dangerous thought sprout up.
Viktor wouldn’t. Anybody else could, but him? He wouldn’t do that to Silco, even if the opportunity was given on a silver platter.
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Illario was certain that Neve Gallus knew something.
By the time she, Rook, and Lucanis—whole and freshly back from the dead and with a beard—arrived at the Crow's nest of the Cantori Diamond, Illario was exhausted. He had spent the last several hours dealing with the aftermath of Caterina's immaculately staged murder, including making a show of standing frozen before breaking down to weep over the body with its face cut up and burned well enough that no one would be able to identify it, until Teia and Viago dispatched Crows to take her remains to Villa Dellamorte. He allowed Teia to comfort him, allowed her to fetch him water and then something stronger, allowed her to rub her hands up and down his arms as if trying to warm him. He grew silent and somber, gathering himself as she and Viago discussed next steps in low voices.
"Maker—" Teia gasped, and he heard Rook's footsteps, the detective's, and then the voice of his cousin.
"What happened here?"
He pounded a fist against the table once and recited a carefully rehearsed line with just the right amount of frustration and grief turning his voice ragged. Then he turned around.
The raw confusion on Lucanis' face was almost too much. A well of emotion took him by surprise, startling in its intensity and variety. Guilt, anger, relief, contempt, and the deadly certainty that he was going to make Zara pay.
Rook was beside Lucanis, and Illario could see the way they glanced at each other, already in sync. And behind them was Neve Gallus, the detective that had gone with Rook to the Ossuary, looking straight at Illario with dark eyes shadowed by her ridiculous hat. It felt like she could see into his soul.
Like she knew that two days ago he had been in bed with Zara Renata, unaware that Lucanis was rotting in a Venatori prison. Like she could smell the blood on him. Like she could look into his memory and see the way Zara ran her pointed, painted fingernails down his back with vicious intent, like she could see through his clothes to the raised welts left on his skin.
Illario fought down a strange surge of panic. That was ridiculous. She knew none of those things. He positioned himself so that she couldn't see his face.
Neve was quiet as they talked, as Illario learned that Lucanis planned to leave Treviso immediately. Planned to leave him to clean up the mess while he buried himself in his new contract. From Caterina's lapdog to Rook's, how predictable, how boring.
That thought was uncharitable, but it gave him a dull satisfaction that cut through the sting of abandonment.
Neve's stare was like a brand he could feel on his skin even as he avoided looking at her. When Lucanis and Teia left to gather supplies for him and Rook followed like a little terrier at their heels, Illario finally turned to her.
The detective had a hand resting on her hip, which was cocked to one side so that her weight was off of her metal leg. Her one boot was damp and crusted with sand, and her robes were a fashionable Tevinter style that wouldn't look out of place in Minrathous' upper city. She was curved and sharp all at once, beautiful in a striking way rather than the vacuous prettiness that he was usually drawn to in women. Under the weight of her hawklike gaze, his palms felt suddenly clammy.
"I'm sorry about your grandmother," she offered, and it sounded genuine and more gentle than he expected.
"Thank you," he returned, injecting it with what warmth he could. He sounded tired, and it wasn't an act.
"Did they leave anything behind?"
"What?"
"The Venatori." She looked him up and down carefully, eyes cataloging.
"Blood. And my grandmother's body," he snapped, then reined himself in. "My apologies, it's been... a long evening."
"I'll just take a look around before we leave if you don't mind?" Though it was inflected with a question, she was already doing it, metal leg tapping against the wood floor as she circled the large table to the seat at one end, where Caterina had been sitting. How did she know?
"Of course," he bit out, watching her with wary eyes.
Neve examined a tiny scrap of red fabric on the floorboards. She followed the trajectory of bloody footprints, gears working behind her gaze. Her hand traced a long scorch mark on the table.
"You think they were working for Zara?" The detective's tone was neutral.
"Who else?" In truth, they answered to him. A handful of agents whose loyalty he had secured as Zara had become more unhinged, more prone to sacrificing on a whim the cultists who worked for her.
Neve made a noncommittal noise, peering at broken window panes leading onto the roof.
Illario's heart rate ratcheted up, and he gritted his teeth. There was nothing for her to find, he reassured himself. But he still stepped forward, compelled to distract her from her careful inspection of the scene. He moved close enough that he could faintly smell her warm perfume oil and the hint of sulfur clinging to her clothes. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him curiously.
"Before you go... thank you for bringing Lucanis home to me," Illario said fervently, holding a deferential hand in front of his chest. He knew his expression was warm and intent because it was one he had practiced.
"Sorry to be taking him away again so soon," she said, rueful. "He's not one to take any downtime, is he?"
"No. He never has been," he rolled his eyes affectionately.
Neve's gaze was already drifting back to the windows like she was thinking about venturing onto the rooftop.
Illario gently clasped her hand where it was resting on the tabletop. Friendly, not too much pressure or contact, but with a lingering swipe of his thumb against her skin that should raise goosebumps on her arms. Her eyes snapped to his, and he found that he liked the intensity of her attention in that moment.
"Truly, I am in your debt," he murmured, voice husky and catching with feeling.
He could see her discomfort the instant it bled into her eyes and stiffened her posture. Not at his closeness, he was certain, but at the emotion in his voice and the weight of his gratitude. He felt a little thrill of satisfaction.
She cleared her throat and drew her hand away from his to straighten the front of her robes. Neve didn't, to his pleasure, step away or become shy despite her sudden awkwardness. She held his gaze coolly and deflected. "Rook's the one you should thank."
"And I will," he assured her. Unable to resist, a heady urge infecting him, he leaned closer to her, eyes half-lidded and his voice low and deep. "But if there's some way I can repay you, personally..."
Neve tensed, and her face went from neutral to stony, baleful. She looked at him like one might look at a large, very repellant insect.
That sent a surprising, giddy thrill through Illario, along with the way her pupils dilated just slightly.
"Let us know if you find any intel on Zara's whereabouts. I'll let Teia know how to contact us," she told him stiffly and ducked around him to leave.
Illario smiled to himself as he listened to her footsteps fade steadily, and drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. That one was going to be trouble.
#ok HEAR ME OUT#neve x illario#neve gallus x illario dellamorte#neve gallus#illario dellamorte#dragon age the veilguard#dragon age fanfiction#datv fanfic#datv fic#am I writing a neve illario side story?#maybe possibly#datv spoilers
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ᥫ᭡. stay quiet , tomas vrbada ( 17 + )
tags gn reader. slight exhibitionism. quickie in public. heavy petting. submission. blowjob. + 742 words.
“here?”
“here.”
tomas wearily looked down the long hall, echoed grunts and heavy punches became white noise with each soft kiss and dirty whisper that came out of your mouth. he’s completely red in the face, panting rather pathetically — it was embarrassing.
for you to put him in this state was impressive, not even his grueling training with kuai liang or bi-han could make him this vulnerable.
he’s a hunter, lin kuei. this should not make him weak.
but one thing for sure, tomas gives in too easily — for you, only you.
your nimble fingertips brushed against his bicep, dragging toward his racing pulse point. tomas squirmed at your teasing touches, making you grin in victory. with balmy lips, you feverishly kissed along his jawline, mouthing down on his neck that was marked with faint bruises from your past hideaways. flattening your tongue on his skin, the taste of sweat and smoke makes you hazy with lust.
your lewd display and the feeling of your tongue left tomas steadying himself as he clawed at the wooden walls, his quivering lips paralyzed by his teeth. everything around him became blurry, only your touch and delicate voice filled his senses. it felt good, he’ll admit. it’s only until your saliva-coated lips and wandering hands depart from his body that he becomes alert of his surroundings.
bi-han’s rumbling voice repeating demands and in unison, young voices followed by the sound of fading footsteps left tomas even more frightened.
training was over.
as his attention was elsewhere, you completely sunken on your knees — dusting off the grime and smoke particles off his pants. with a swift hand, you tugged down the pleated garment, tracing your lips at the display of his strong thighs — his skin littered with healed cuts and the occasional freckle. immediately, tomas looks down at you and begins to panic even more.
“please– w-wait a minute.” he pushes you away with a firm grip on your shoulders, furrowing his brows at your offended expression.
he never meant to be that rough with you, but he was desperate to not get caught, especially by the grumpy grandmaster.
“if bi-han catches us, we could be–“ his poor attempt to convince you gets caught in his throat when your hand brushes against the painfully obvious tent along his briefs.
you mentally laughed at the feeling of his nails digging deeper along your shoulder as you rubbed agonizingly slow over the imprint for a few seconds, listening intently to his muffled whimper. you then finally released the hot, tight confinements that his cock was subjected to.
springing to life, his hardened cock nudged your cheek as it pulsates — tip flushed with a bright red as it oozes sticky precum. with each involuntary bob, beads of precum drop on the matted floors, staining your clothing in the process.
it was so pretty, you thought.
tomas tries to swallow a groan, but it spills out his lips and echoes through the quiet hall. he presses his sweaty hands between his back and the wall, shutting his eyes out of embarrassment and the fact is he opens them, all the lecherous thoughts he held back could pour out of his mouth from the sight before him.
you gave his cock an experimental pump as you gently pressed your mouth against his leaky, hot tip to test the waters — licking off the arousal that glazed your swollen lips. tomas leans his head back, exhaling a large amount of air through his nose.
“i promise he won’t find out.” you firmly whispered, loud enough for him to hear you from his position — confidence written all over your gleaming eyes.
tomas knew you were telling the truth, he always trusted your judgment.
although he was still shaken by bi-han’s lingering presence across the long hall, tomas nodded with certainty. this isn’t the last time the both of you successfully sneaked off either, why would this be the last?
releasing his hands from the makeshift restraint, he threaded his fingers sweetly through your hair until he tugged at your scalp with gentle force.
“i’ll be quiet then, promise.” tomas whispered back, a hint of teasing in his declaration.
you smirked up at his sudden act of assertiveness and let his firm grip guide your mouth down onto his cock.
© aweina : please do not copy, repost, or modify any of my content.
#.୨୧ ina writes#smoke x reader#tomas vrbada x reader#mortal kombat 1 x reader#mortal kombat x reader#mk1 x reader#mk x reader
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all of it (all of you)
Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x hairdresser!fem Reader
Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10
Link on AO3
Chapter 4
Tag list: @janeyseymour @italianaidiota @chloeelou02x (and if you want to be tagged too just let me know.)
Warning: no, in my clean era once again.
Sorry for the delay. And it was supposed to be posted next Saturday but I have a party to go to with my friends and you guys waited for too long... So here it is and once again, thank you all very much for embracing my work with such affection.
Enjoy!
To say that Melissa's first appointment with Y/N after that apology started off really uncomfortable is an understatement.
Even before the teacher had arrived at the salon, the hairdresser was anxiously anticipating the redhead's presence.
Melissa.
The name alone echoed in her mind, awakening the memory of the last times they had seen each other — from the first day with the harsh words to the day of the apology that, although apparently sincere, still left a trace of discomfort in the air.
But the dessert that was used as a bonus to the apology was more than delicious.
Y/N herself could not deny this fact when she ate a frighteningly large amount of it, but her coworkers were the biggest and most determined witnesses of what everyone called the best tiramisu in all of Philly after sharing the remaining half of the dish. But even with all that sweetness still stuck in her memory, the hairdresser could not help but wonder if Melissa would be unpleasant to her again.
Who could know if the redheaded woman's week had been good enough to keep that animosity in her words from happening again? How could Y/N just guess if her work at the school, whatever it was, had been less stressful?
Still caught up in her thoughts, the hairdresser arranged, even if unconsciously, her brushes and scissors on the counter next to the empty tray, trying to keep her hands busy as time passed. Fortunately, the Brazilian woman's mind was distracted enough to completely ignore the memory that the act instigated.
And the second-grade teacher was feeling just like her.
Parked in front of the beauty salon, Melissa could barely concentrate on the CD she had put on to play as she took some time to breathe before finally entering the salon. The chords of Deep Purple's guitars simply didn't seem as calming as they usually did to the redhead and she knew that the reason for that wasn't the CD playing in her car, but her own thoughts.
What if the hairdresser held some... remorse?
The redhead had to admit, that thought wasn't absurd at all. She knows that she's stubborn and she would certainly have a part of her heart corroded by resentment against the unknown hairdresser if she were in her place.
But uncomfortable or not, Melissa decided, when she finally got out of her car and locked it, that she would do it anyway.
When the salon door opened, and the teacher entered hesitantly, her eyes met Y/N's for a brief moment before they looked away. And there, she seemed much smaller than the hairdresser remembered, as if the weight of guilt had shrunk her, and in response to that, the Brazilian woman just took a deep breath and approached the redhead — even before Melissa spoke to the receptionist — with a professional smile.
"Melissa, welcome. You can follow me, please." were her words before indicating with a gentle gesture the chair that, once again, was as far away as possible from the other people in the salon.
Still silent, the two women walked over, and Melissa hated it.
Dejavu, for sure.
The second and third-grade teacher would rarely be found in situations like this, where her mind feels almost frightened by the possibility of Y/N holding a grudge against the words she once said with such certainty, even without thinking. The thought of that resentment alone makes her uncomfortable, even as she carefully sits down in the comfortable chair indicated by Y/N.
The problem is that the stiffness in her shoulders did not go unnoticed by the Brazilian woman and, as she would do for any client, Y/N gently adjusted the height of the chair for the shorter woman and focused her eyes on the redhead's reflection in the mirror as she thought about what to do.
Just be professional.
“I’ll start by washing your hair.”, Y/N asked, keeping her tone calm and professional, without looking away from the teacher’s gaze in the reflection in front of her, “And the mixture of your hair dye will be prepared in front of you again, like last time, as soon as we get back here. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”, Melissa replied, almost in a whisper before continuing, “But I’d like a haircut today also. Just a few inches, ya know?”
“You know you don’t have to do that, right?”, the hairdresser made sure to emphasize after a few seconds of contemplative silence and a little shocked by Melissa’s suggestion, looking directly into her green eyes through the reflection in the mirror.
“Yes, I know, but it wouldn’t hurt to cut just a little…”, the redhead’s words sound a little awkward as she remembers why Y/N hesitated, but when she shakes her head a little and her bangs fall in her face covering her right eye, this only encourages the woman to speak again as she brushes the hair away from her face, “And this part is falling in my eye and I don’t I like it... So...”
“Okay. We can do that.”, the hairdresser says softly as she also touches the redhead’s hair, but now to move it away from her back while placing a fluffy towel there.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds after that for Y/N to lead the teacher to the hair-washing chair. When the hairdresser began to wet Melissa’s hair, with the warm water gently running down her head, the redhead felt how nicely the Brazilian woman’s fingers massaged her scalp.
The touch was so gentle and careful that it made it impossible for Melissa not to close her eyes for just a second and let herself be carried away by the sensation and the touch, momentarily forgetting the dense silence that took over the two women and letting herself be comfortable.
At least for a little while.
The silence between them was no longer hostile. But it was as if they were both handling something new, trying to find a balance, and that was still distressing Y/N more than anything.
“Is the temperature okay?”, she asked her, breaking the silence with a whispered voice.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s perfect, hun.” Melissa murmured back to her, opening her eyes for just a moment and focusing directly on the hairdresser’s before closing them again
Green eyes.
Very green.
Very green, and they looked so softly into the hairdresser’s eyes — even if upside down due to the position they were both in — that it made a small sigh escape her lips and a familiar heat take over her cheeks.
The truth is that Y/N had never particularly cared about the color of people’s eyes. At least not before meeting this client.
However, there is definitely something about Melissa’s eyes that makes them seem indescribably beautiful to Y/N. Maybe it’s the contrast of their color compared to her lashes, always dark from being covered in mascara. Or maybe it's that story the Brazilian woman's mother always told her when she was a child, saying that people's eyes show their emotions, intentions, and personality in a deeper and more meaningful way than any handful of words could, and it would be an understatement to say that Y/N doesn't want to find out what goes on inside Melissa's head.
Although she still doesn't understand why.
But she does understand that she was wrong some weeks ago. No green eyes wore like hers.
Not even close.
With the sound of blow dryers and cheerful conversations in the background, the silence between the two returned, but now that weight seemed a little lighter. Y/N applied the shampoo, working gently into Melissa's hair and noticed that the redhead was breathing more slowly, as if she was allowing herself to relax. For a moment, Y/N wondered if she should say something again, but decided that the suddenly comfortable silence was enough for now.
When the teacher's hair washing was finished, and Melissa had returned to the chair in front of the mirror, Y/N began to untangle her red hair to finally discuss how she should cut it.
Y/N doesn’t have many clients who are natural redheads, much less in Melissa’s age, and that, coupled with the fact that the teacher hadn’t dared to say a single bold word to her since she arrived at the salon, gives her the courage to really appreciate every detail of her hair complexity more comfortably.
The pigment in red hair, thanks to the lack of melanin, always turns blonde rather than grayish when it gets older, and Y/N has always found this particularly exuberant. Eccentric in its own way, the blonde inch of Melissa’s hair roots contradicted the orange-red of her eyebrows, even though some parts of her head were already turning truly white, and Y/N felt particularly honored to be the one to witness something significantly rare. But before it could get any weirder, Y/N let those appreciative thoughts that had suddenly begun to live in her mind take a nap and began asking Melissa questions, trying to create the perfect image of the cut the redhead wanted so she could finally get it.
And for Melissa, nothing was wrong. That is, until her vision of the hairdresser changed from being the reflection in the mirror to being herself, flesh and blood, right in front of her, parting and cutting her bangs as requested by the teacher.
God, she had forgotten how beautiful Y/N was.
Naturally beautiful.
No posing.
The way she frowned her eyebrows in concentration, her lips slightly pursed, her eyes that seemed to capture the light of the salon in a particularly enchanting way... But then Y/N leaned forward and her delicate fingers were holding the strands of her red hair with such precision, while the scissors made a soft cutting sound that made Melissa's heart race in a particularly discomfiting way.
The Brazilian woman was beautiful.
Terribly beautiful, and that was only made more evident by the proximity of the two of them at that moment.
And on top of everything else, Melissa noticed that Y/N also had also beautiful hands.
Very beautiful. With long fingers and well-groomed nails, with a layer of gel polish so dark blue that it resembled black, perfectly applied to each one. Melissa's mind starts to think that the choice of color must be due to how much Y/N's nails must stain due to her work with coloring her clients. But the redhead's imagination runs wild when she notices, when Y/N carefully holds the part of her bangs that is right in front of her eyes, that Y/N's nails are as long as her own.
Long enough to scratch and make beautiful marks on the skin of her back as well.
And at that moment, the teacher could feel her face heat up with the thought vibrating in her mind, dishonestly repeating herself until Y/N speaks to her.
"Melissa, don't worry. I'll do exactly as you want." joked the hairdresser, noticing the redness on the redhead's face and pointing out her nervousness, even if only slightly, before leaning in a little closer, leaving their faces now just a few inches apart as she makes the final adjustments to the redhead's wet cut.
And God help Melissa because Y/N sounds so genuine. Not having the slightest idea of the horrible things going through the teacher's mind
Maybe that's why she starts to look away from the mirror and keeps trying to stare at herself while Y/N starts coloring her hair next. Doing everything she can to distract herself, dividing her gaze between her own reflection and her plate — which is now empty and next to the mirror, with a small sheet of paper folded inside —, even though her eyes keep returning to Y/N.
The redhead's body only relaxes again when she is once again in the hair-washing chair, removing the dye from her hair with her eyes closed. But this feeling doesn't last long because, when Melissa returns to her usual chair and looks at her reflection, she can barely focus on her own reflection because mext to her own face, the mirror showed Y/N, who was smiling softly at the redhead's hair, oblivious and proud of the work she was done, and Melissa couldn't take her eyes off her.
Very. Very beautiful, in fact.
But the whole atmosphere changed when the salon door opened abruptly and a small child, completely miserable, walked in, holding the hand of a lady significantly older and even more tense than her.
The poor girl's face was wet with tears and her sobs echoed through the room even though it was possible to notice how much she was trying to force herself to stop crying. The one who Y/N would soon discover was the little girl's grandmother, who seemed significantly desperate, trying to calm her granddaughter down without success.
"Please, can someone help? My granddaughter fell on the path and got scared. I would just like somewhere private to clean her knee, please," were the lady's first words inside the crowded room, as she looked around for help.
Suddenly, before anyone even has a chance to help them, the child's eyes widen.
"Miss Schemmenti!" she shouted in the middle of the hair salon, before running away as fast as her little legs could carry her until finally stopping, right in front of Melissa and pointing to her own scraped knee while muttering, "Look."
"I can see that, little eagle. It must hurt, right? But we need to clean it up right now," Melissa suggested, with a tone so soft that Y/N almost didn't recognize her.
As the hairdresser watched the scene, an idea quickly came to her and then Y/N gently dried her hands and addressed the girl, who would soon discover that her name was Mia.
“Hey, little one, do you like princesses?” the hairdresser asked in a sweet and comforting voice as she approached the floor to speak to the little girl, looking directly into her eyes. “I have bandages of all the Disney princesses with me, and I’ll give you the prettiest one if you let your grandmother clean your knee.”
“But it's hurt.” the little girl tried to argue towards Y/N, even though her face was divided between looking at the hairdresser next to her, her teacher and her grandmother, who had now joined them.
It still took a little convincing, but in a significantly short time and with a small bottle of water and a wet wipe, Mia’s knee was clean, ready to receive a sticker with Princess Belle printed on it.
“There, and it only hurt a little, didn’t it?” Y/N finally asked, stroking the girl’s head softly and watching as she nodded affirmatively.
“That’s because she’s quite brave. Just like Belle, aren't you, little eagle?” Melissa added, with a sincere smile that was mirrored by both the child and her grandmother.
The older woman thanked Melissa and Y/N repeatedly, and the now calmer child hugged them both before taking her grandmother’s hand and walking towards the exit of the salon, leaving the teacher and her hairdresser standing there for a moment, just watching the door close behind them.
“So... Mrs. Schementti...” the Brazilian woman’s voice began again after a few seconds, with a greater hint of courage as she used a small spray bottle of water in order to make Melissa’s hair wetter so that it could be styled, since the childish distraction was enough to dry most of it, “A teacher then?”
“Yeah...” the redhead sighed before answering the question she had already anticipated as she watched Y/N stroke her hair carefully to make sure it was completely wet once again, “Second and third grades.”
Hearing the redhead’s words, the hairdresser was startled and in shock decided to completely drop the bottle next to her mirror, to focus solely on the reflection of Melissa’s face as she said her next words:
“Like two classrooms? At the same time? Together?” the Brazilian woman asks with wide eyes, full of surprise and admiration in her tone.
“Together, yes. 48 of those little eagles.”, Melissa says softly as she stares back at the hairdresser through the reflection in the mirror, even more proud than she usually is when it comes to her job at Abbott.
“And are you like... sane?”, Y/N asks with an incredulous smile as she stretches her body, now towards the dryer on her counter after leaving the water spray there.
“Yea. For now.”
“Lucky them for having someone as caring as you wen it comes to them.”, the Brazilian woman continues, now smiling and dividing her attention between parting Melissa’s hair and looking back at her face in the mirror, “Your children must be dying of jealousy of your students running into you on the street year after year.”
“No... I don’t... I don’t have any children.”, the teacher answers looking away from the mirror, trying to focus on anything other than Y/N’s face as she continues speaking, “But these little ones are so much more than I could ask for.”
And then the hairdresser’s mind simply switches off. Because obviously, she screwed up by assuming things that were definitely none of her business.
Just when everything was finally going well.
Good job, Y/N!
"Oh... I'm sorry, I...", Y/N begins, trying so honestly to remedy her words with a tone full of immense sadness and despair, but she is soon interrupted by Melissa.
"No problem. I'm infertile, but so is a third of this country, so it's all good.", the words fly through the teacher's lips so fast that she only realizes what she said after the words are already in the air.
And then silence.
Just silence.
And more silence.
"Oh, I... I really...", even without knowing exactly what to say, an I'm sorry starts to be directed at Melissa, but the redhead makes a point of rejecting it as quickly as possible, terrified by whatever is going through the Brazilian woman's mind.
“Nah... At my age, I’ve already accepted that being a mother isn’t for me, and my little eagles are more than I can ask for... and sometimes even more than I can handle.”
“I’m sure that little girl disagrees!” is how Y/N responds, happy that the conversation has returned to a less personal subject as she takes a slightly deep breath, “Believe me, she was happier with your kiss on her forehead than with the bandage. And my bandages are beautiful.”
“Why do you have these, anyway? Do you have children?”
When the question escapes Melissa’s excited mouth, Y/N smiles softly as she opens a partially hidden drawer in her station, filled with candies, lollipops, fun bandages, and glitter stickers.
“Oh no! I don't... In fact, I don’t think I’m made for this, you know?”, she begins softly before focusing her eyes on the redhead, “Children are just my most loyal customers. So it’s only smart to be prepared for anything.”
For a second Melissa wants to ask God if this smiling woman, who is now offering her a pink lollipop — which she says is the best one —, wasn’t a teacher in a past life. But before she can do that, Y/N returns to her place behind Melissa with the hairdryer on and continues, despite the noise.
“I think they like me because I genuinely laugh at all their nock nock jokes since they’re all new to me.”
“Aren’t there nock nock jokes in...?”, the teacher begins uncertainly, now wrapped up in nothing but curiosity, trying to remember if Andréa had told her about the hairdresser’s nationality.
“Brazil?”, Y/N concludes, watching as Melissa nods her head in the mirror before continuing, “Yes, there are, but they’re all different. Sometimes the whole punchline and sometimes the whole thing...”
“I see.”, the redhead finally says and smiles, playing with the loose wrapper of the lollipop between her fingers as she puts the sugary treat in her mouth for just a moment before taking it out and continuing, “So they’re genuinely funny to you?”
“Sometimes... Or just surprising.”
And then, as if by magic, everything is fine.
Really fine.
The two chat comfortably until the end of the meeting and Melissa returns home with a smile on her face, her bowl that used to contain her tiramisu — now with a paper with her name written strictly by hand and a simple thank you inside — and with her hair beautifully done.
And in the following weeks, when the teacher receives a compliment from friends or strangers, it is more than welcome. What is not welcome is the fact that, the third time Melissa returns for a touch-up with Y/N after they have made up and started to feel more comfortable with each other, the teacher is late.
Like really late.
But Barb had called so distressed. And of course she was! The results of Gerald's last batch of tests were ready but the terrifying idea that her husband of 30 years might be sick paralyzed her to the point that neither she nor her husband could open the hospital email.
The couple's daughters were still unaware of the imminent possibility of chaos in their dads health, so their presence was out of the question.
And who was Melissa to deny her friends like that?
The traffic was horrible, and when she arrived at the Howerds' house, Barb's eyes were already full of tears and Gerald was also so shaken that Melissa had to spend some time comforting them until they calmed down and opened that piece of information that would reassure them like nothing else ever had.
And far from that, amid the tranquility of the beauty salon that day, with the soft sound of instrumental music and some conversations in the background, Y/N had her face tilted toward the entrance of Riverfront Roots looking for red hair again and again, before glancing at the clock on the wall and sighing.
25 minutes past the scheduled time.
30 minutes past the scheduled time.
35 minutes past the scheduled time.
Even without meaning to, the Brazilian woman frowns, worried.
When Andrea asked her to accept Melissa as a client, she was very clear. Melissa is never late.
Something wasn't right.
Y/N walks to the window, peering out at the busy street just to see nothing. She thinks about asking the receptionist to call the teacher, but hesitates, fearing she is being too intrusive. And it's this fear that makes her wait a little longer, even as she grows restless.
Finally, after 40 minutes of delay, the salon door opens with a bang and Melissa walks in, out of breath, with her hair disheveled and her bag hanging precariously over her shoulder. Her face is flushed, and she looks quite flustered.
"Y/N, I... I'm so sorry.", are the first words she says as soon as she meets the hairdresser's eyes, startling her with how easily they slip from her lips now compared to the first time she said those, "I know I'm really late, and you must be furious with me. I understand if ya don't want to be mt hairdresser anymore. I... I really value your work, and I... I knew I was going to be late, but I just... I couldn't leave them there alone.", she began to explain herself, before realizing that without context her words hardly meant anything understandable, "My friend of almost 30 years and her husband. They... His exams... But he's fine now... And in the middle of all this, I was thinking about you, waiting for me, and I... I feel so bad. I didn't want you to think that I don't appreciate your time or your work, which I apparently am a master at doing so... And now, now I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I'm just so sorry."
And the Brazilian woman just stands still, looking at Melissa, completely shocked, recovering from so much information that was thrown at her in such a short time by the redhead.
Even though her appearance was never exactly calm or serene, her actions and words were restrained and, to a certain extent, calculated. And while the silence swallows them gently, Y/N is even more certain that it was not calculated when she watches Melissa begin to squirm, finally giving in to the discomfort.
So, the Brazilian woman takes a deep breath and steps forward, placing a gentle hand on the teacher's shoulder.
"Melissa, it's okay. Breathe. I'm not mad at you. It happens. You're here now, and that's what matters. Let's sit down and I will give you a glass of water," is what she says with a smile, before nodding to the chair that Melissa now recognizes as hers before continuing, "I'll take care of you and we'll sort out the rest later."
And so it was resolved when Y/N wrote her personal number on a small piece of paper.
“So... in the next appointments, if something happens, you just need to send me a text. You don’t even need to call the salon.”, was how she explained it, with a smile so sweet that Melissa felt morally obligated to respond the same way.
Even at night, after the redhead had already added Y/N to her cell phone contacts and the younger woman had confirmed that it was really her number with a subtle message and a smiling emoji, Melissa didn’t throw the piece of paper away, but just kept it in her wallet instead.
Right next to the one she received when she got her tiramisu plate back — and which, coincidentally, had the same harmonious handwriting.
The reason? Melissa tells herself that it's only in case she loses the Brazilian woman's contact on her cell phone — because it's not smart to rely exclusively on technology — and she keeps saying these words in her mind until they become truth to herself.
Even tho she is having a hard time doing that.
#lisa ann walter x reader#lisa ann walter imagine#lisa ann walter#melissa schemmenti imagine#melissa schemmenti x reader#melissa schemmenti#abbott elementary fanfics#abbott elementary
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Tw Bear Death, Bear Violence
more info under the read more (no pictures or videos, per my policy).
above the header warning: this is the a topic of discussion during the play by play today. The bracket announcement has been moved to tomorrow.
also, i will edit this post as updates come in. if a particularly large update occurs i will reblog the edited post.
Before i begin: This is very recent and there are still many questions. Mike Fitz (who i believe is a former ranger that currently works for explore) is reviewing the footage currently.
i did not see this incident live -- i tuned in as the camera was panning away. everything i know i have gathered from comments.
what we know:
- 469 Patches attacked and killed another bear, then dragged its body off camera -- likely, he is storing and guarding it as a food cache.
- The bear that was killed is 402.
- 469 Patches' behaviour appeared predatory in nature, not defensive or dominance related
- This occurred on the KRV camera around 1pm eastern/10am pacific on september 30th.
- rangers have been informed and are finding out what they can about the situation. they have been told where 469 Patches left the camera's view and are setting up a perimeter around the area to ensure that no humans accidentally stumble upon the situation.
- According to rangers, 32 Chunk has now usurped the corpse from 469 Patches. This is expected -- Chunk is currently the most dominant bear in the area, and the body of an adult bear contains a tremendous amount of calories.
I will post official statements here as they are given.
official statement from Mike Fitz, link here
Hi everyone. As many of you know, a bear attacked and killed another in the river mouth today. There is much we don’t know. For example, I’m not sure who the deceased bear is. I need to review the footage further and talk more with park staff. We know that it was not bear 94, who was in the vicinity with her cubs when the bears engaged in the water.
I can say with certainty that the dead bear was an adult. The bear that killed the other bear is 469. He is an older adult male that was first identified in 2001. In 2012, he was also seen on the bear cams guarding a dead bear as a bear does with a food cache. We don’t know if he killed that bear, only that he was there.
This is a difficult situation to witness. We love to celebrate the success of bears with full stomachs and ample body fat, but the ferocity of bears is real. The risks they face are real. Their lives can be hard and their deaths can be painful.
When we know more information from park rangers, then we’ll share that with you. For now, though, we don’t know who the dead bear is. Naomi, Sarah, and I will discuss the situation in detail during the play-by-play tomorrow. For the next hour at least, Naomi and I will be here to answer your questions as best we can.
and in a reply, which you can find here
I should add too, that 469's behavior in this situation looked predatory. That is, he wasn't acting in defense or simply to affirm his dominance. The prolonged attack, the fact that he dragged the other bear out of the water, and the fact that he made an effort to eat part of it all indicate this was a predatory situation.
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Light Me Up
Golden Cage - Chapter Nine



series masterlist ao3
Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader
Summary: After living in the throes of grief for over a year, your world is turned upside down in the space of a few hours.
Warnings: violence against reader (not Butcher), description of injuries, canon-typical violence, language, allusions to previous smut/masturbation, explosions, fires, reader experiences third man syndrome, happily ever after <3
Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3
A/N: I kind of can't believe it's finally here!! Keep in mind there is an epilogue after this as well! Thanks so much for reading <3
You were in an airport the last time you saw your mother. Heading to Departures, ironically.
Christmas had just passed, and the two of you had spent it curled up before the fireplace at the Lakehouse, just the two of you. Your father had sent his regards and several large boxes of new clothes and electronics. You barely noticed.
It was time to head back to Cambridge for your final semester. All of the anxiety you’d held surrounding your life post-grad, finding work, saying goodbye to your friends, and avoiding the ever-present pressure to follow in your father’s footsteps that had disappeared in the wintertime coziness was now resurging at full force.
You grabbed your mother’s hand, pulling her in close beside you, stalling at the security gate.
“What’s wrong?” she laughed.
You took a deep breath, one hand picking at the handle of your carry-on, the other squeezing her fingers. You felt like a little girl on the first day of preschool again, desperately wishing she could just go with you.
“I don’t want to go,” you admit. “I’m scared.”
“Baby, what are you scared of?”
She turns to you, searching your face, eyes warm and empathetic. She catches the tears forming on your waterline, pulling you into a hug. In the comfort of her embrace, hidden from the bustling airport around you, you let yourself cry.
“I’m scared of what comes next,” you manage between small sobs. “After I finish school, I mean. I don’t know what I want to do, where I want to go. I don’t want to work for dad but I don’t know what else to do and I don’t know anyone in New York anymore and I‒”
“Shh,” she whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Her hands rubbed up and down your back, just the right amount of pressure to keep you grounded. “You’re going to be just fine, baby girl. You know how I know?”
You pulled your head back to look at her quizzically. No, you really didn’t know. At the moment you didn’t feel like you knew anything.
“Because you’re smart, and you’re capable, and you’ve gotten yourself this far. You just need to learn to trust yourself.”
You didn’t necessarily believe these things about yourself, but when she said them they felt true. She spoke with a certainty, a wisdom that had you nodding your head, a soft smile emerging in the wake of your tears.
She walked you to security, giving you a final squeeze and a kiss. You turned to look at her one last time, not knowing it would be the very last time. You raised your eyebrows, silently asking for one last offer of reassurance. She laughed, her voice carrying over to you.
“Trust your intuition, baby.”
You have to try.
~~~
2:45am.
The elevator hums softly as it ascends your father’s high-rise, a box of glass and steel cutting through the Manhattan skyline. Below, the city sprawls out in a patchwork of light, beautiful and indifferent, like a galaxy trapped underfoot. For a moment, you are Godzilla-sized, towering over the world. Then the weight of the night crushes you back into something small and breakable. Just another pawn on the board. You are both beast and prey. All at once calm and trembling.
You steady your breath, though your pulse beats like a war drum. Boxer on the ropes. Sniper before the trigger squeeze.
The elevator doors slide open.
You’re ready to pounce.
But you're met with darkness, stillness. Silence. The only sound is the faint hum of the city thirty floors below. If the trackers are correct, they arrived here hours ago. And if your plan has succeeded, they're knocked out cold from the three bottles of wine you'd graciously poured at dinner.
The room is awash in an eerie glow, cold blue light reflecting off polished mahogany and dark glass.
You step lightly, your sneakers barely whispering across the hardwood.
Earlier, wine buzzed through your veins as the limo whisked you home from dinner, quieting the gnawing anxiety. Your limbs felt loose as you tore off your chiffon dress, trading it for a black turtleneck and tights. Sleek. Practical. Like a cat burglar.
You move through the space methodically, pulling open doors, skimming shelves, feeling beneath tables.
Nothing.
You try not to panic. You're almost certain the vials are here. It makes the most sense. They're just… Somewhere not obvious to you.
Somewhere very not obvious.
The panic starts as a whisper, then a roar. Your hands quicken, rifling through folders and documents. Words blur, meaningless shapes swimming in your vision.
MM’s words ring through your ears as your vision blurs.
Focus. Don't rush. You'll know it when you feel it.
But you don't feel anything other than your heart drumming in your ears. The deafening silence in the barren room is practically an entity in and of itself. You creep over to the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. The pads of your fingers scratch across the underside. The polished wood feels cold and unforgiving.
Your heart sinks.
It's gone.
Was it realistic to think that it would go unnoticed all this time?
The thought only gets a half second to cross your mind before the groan of a door closing reaches your ear, interrupting your movements. You freeze, ear pricking up to catch the flutters of movement in the periphery.
Footsteps pad softly behind you, quiet, almost delicate.
Not your father.
“You stupid bitch,” comes the voice, soft and venomous, slicing through the dark like a knife.
You straighten, hands flat on the desk, every muscle coiled tight.
You stand up straight, back to her. You don't dare spin around now, certain her shark-like black eyes would only serve to psych you out now.
“H–hey Monica,” you stammer, your voice barely holding. “I didn’t think you’d be up so late.”
She emerges from the shadows, strutting like a predator. Her sheer lace robe and matching teddy seem to glow faintly in the city light.
Her presence chills the room, her breathing inhumanly relaxed.
You feel the air around you crackle with tension.
“I'm just dropping off some files for my dad,” you offer, words falling flat in the tense air.
She chuckles, a soft, disbelieving sound that sends a shiver down your spine.. “Don't bullshit me, sweetie. That's not why you're here.”
You turn to face her, indignant, but her expression is cool and unfeeling. She's got a dark round button pressed between her thumb and pointer.
“You didn’t actually think we wouldn’t find these, did you?” she purrs, crushing it effortlessly in her hand. Her sneer cuts deeper than any blade. “Oh, honey. You really thought you pulled a fast one on me?”
The ground beneath you feels unsteady. You lean back against the desk, struggling to stay upright.
Monica’s voice drips with mockery. “Bugs in the car, in the office… You must’ve heard some juicy stuff, huh?” Her voice is saccharine and facetious. She’s teasing you.
The first wave of tears fall down your cheeks unbidden. Her grin widens as your first tear slips free. You swipe at it, but it’s too late. She’s seen it. She relishes it.
“I watched the footage of you and your little friend snooping around our lab,” she says, her tone laced with false pity. “I let it go because, honestly? I felt sorry for you. Poor little rich girl, desperate for a purpose.”
Her lips curl. The pity turns to venom.
“But then you cost me two fucking billion. Then you pissed me off.”
You find your voice, finally, willing it to stay even.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you spit, your voice sharper now, though your courage feels as flimsy as glass. “And I’m sure my father wouldn’t be thrilled about you making accusations you can’t prove.”
Her laugh is harsh and humorless. “Oh, sweetie, don’t start with the daddy threats. You’re out of your depth.”
You shoot a look toward the doorway to the bedroom, afraid the commotion might wake your father.
She steps closer, her shark-like eyes unblinking. “You thought you were clever, didn’t you? Sneaking off to Hunts Point like no one would notice. Your precious daddy’s little rebel. I’ve been tracking you the whole time.”
Your stomach twists. There's a terrific thumping growing from deep in your chest, threatening to swallow you whole. You feel like you're at the edge of a crumbling cliff, dangerously close to the ever approaching edge.
“Homelander was right, getting involved with your dad was not worth the hassle. You know, for a crooked businessman you'd think he'd be a little smarter, huh? Maybe protect his assets a little better, not let his own kid stage a fucking coup.”
“You started an affair with my dad… for Vought?”
“No,” she says, laughing bitterly. “I started an affair with your dad because I have an affinity for older men. Of fucking course it was for Vought!” Her voice is dripping in sarcasm.
She takes several long strides toward you. You walk backward until you hit one of the heavy mahogany bookshelves.
“You must take after your mother,” she hisses, and you drop every pretense, nothing but hate filling your stare. You shoot daggers at her in your mind for even daring to mention your mother.
“She wasn’t too smart, was she?” Monica whispers, leaning in so close her breath brushes your ear. “Didn’t even look into who her husband was screwing.” Her voice is hot on your face as she closes in on you, caging you against the bookshelf. She ducks her head into the crook of your neck, like she might endeavour to give you a hickey. Instead, she breathes into your ear.
You stiffen, the air punched from your lungs as she says the next words softly, almost tenderly.
“Because if she did, she might have seen it coming when I fucking liquefied her.”
No.
No. No. No, no, no, no.
You can’t breathe. The room tilts, your last tethers to reality strain
All this time, all this grief, all this wondering. For nothing. The person you sought, whose death you fantasized about, whose suffering you'd prayed for. The nights spent praying to any deity that would listen to just give you a sign.
And here you were, eating dinner and taking fashion advice from her.
Monica is a fucking Supe.
And she's been right in front of you this entire time.
She chuckles as the realization crosses your face, your breathing stuttering as you choke down a wet sob.
Monica steps back, watching your reaction with a predator’s satisfaction. “Oh, you should’ve seen her. She jiggled like a water balloon.”
The rage is instant, white-hot. You lunge, hands aiming for her throat.
“Oh, little girl, you don't want to do that,” she chirps. She catches you effortlessly, flinging you across the room like a ragdoll. A string of curses fly from your mouth as you fly across the room, crashing into a wood-panelled wall. You bounce off of it, hitting the floor with a sickening thud, pain flaring through your back.
Fuck, she's strong.
Her voice echoes in your ears as you pull yourself to your knees.
“They called me Liquefy,” she says, her tone mockingly grand. “But you probably didn’t find that in your research, did you? Vought’s very good at making inconvenient things disappear.” Her voice is so condescending, so soaked in fake sweetness that you'd try to throttle her again if you weren't already indisposed.
Your lip curls. “Liquefy? How original.” You’re unable to hold in a hoarse cough, wiping a dribble of blood from the corner of your mouth.
Her smile vanishes, eyes hooded and squared on you. “Enough with the commentary, you little slut.”
You begin a retort, but you're interrupted by the opening of a heavy wooden door. The creaking draws both your and Monica's gaze toward the office bedroom.
Your father stumbles out. His face is drawn, left hand clutching his chest.
You don't know whether to feel relief or fear.
“I–I think I'm having a heart attack,” he strains, lurching forward. Monica reaches for him, gathering him in her arms. He collapses as she reaches him, both of them falling to the floor.
“Y–you killed her?” he asks, his voice low and small, like a child. A fragment of your heart shatters seeing your father like this, so feeble and vulnerable.
… He didn't know?
She sputters, her voice faltering as she grasps for his face. No, no, baby, no. Her whispers meet his ears. “Honey, just relax, you're alright.”
You cough, pulling your body up off the ground, inching toward their hunched forms. “Dad! Dad, please, you heard her! She killed mom!”
You meet his eyes, crazed and wild. For a split second, you see the cognizance in his vision.
“Stay the fuck back!” Monica screams at you.
Then, she's on the move, reaching for a portrait of lilies above his record player. She rips the velvet painting off the wall, hands splayed as the frame ricochets off the thick mahogany desk. A wall safe is exposed in the shadow of the painting, Monica's frenzied hands unlocking it. Within moments you're once again met with the unnatural blue glow of V2 vials, the luminescence too familiar to ever forget. She grabs at the vials, taking one out of the safe and pulling the plunger back, ripping open his sleep shirt.
“No!” you scream, reaching forward to grab at the syringe.
Monica kicks at you, pushing your hand away.
You stare into your father's eyes, watch the life drain out of them. His pupils dilate, lids drooping.
This can't be the last moment you have with him. You can't lose another parent like this.
She plunges the syringe into your father's heart.
Hoarse screams tear from your chest as you weakly crawl forward, your outstretched hand falling short of the pair. You don't have a second to think, to absorb what's happening in front of you. You silently will him to open his eyes, to throw Monica aside and take you far away from all of this.
Your tether to reality severs, your body wholly separate from your mind now. You're only vaguely aware of the continued screams echoing out of your body, your cheeks wet with hot tears.
He lays still in her arms, chest unmoving.
He can't be dead. This can't be happening.
The word ‘orphan’ crosses your mind for a moment. You reject its heavy finality. You held so much anger over your father, so much resentment. Yet, you'd never once imagined a showdown, some final interrogation. You always figured in some far away manner that you'd receive your answers, folded and neatly piled away. This was too messy, too disorganized.
You stare at his pale skin, the blue and purple veins criss-crossing his skin laying still. The color falls from his face as his life force fades away. Monica cradles his lifeless body, rocking him back and forth as sobs wrack her body. You blink against the tears, vision blurring.
Abruptly, your father's body goes rigid, his limbs locking up as his entire body jolts forward. His eyes fly open, searching around wildly, only seeing the woman directly in front of him. His brows knit and you can't tell if it's in pain or anger.
You're suddenly aware of a heavy thumping sound filling the room. Both you and Monica lift your heads, searching for the source, before your eyes fall back on your father.
Is that… his heartbeat?
Then his skin begins to… glow. Like a bright red pulse growing from deep inside him, the glow grows brighter with each roaring heartbeat until he's casting a crimson sheen on the entire room.
His arms shoot up, hands grasping onto Monica. She cries out at his touch.
“Wait, no, let me go!” She shouts, trying unsuccessfully to pull away from him. You know she's strong, strong enough to throw you across a room like a ragdoll. But she seems so weak now in his grasp.
Screeches fall from her mouth as he digs into her skin. Her skin bubbles under his touch as his fingers twist around her wrist, her waist. Steam emanates from their union, spreading vapors into the air.
Monica screams for him to let her go but his eyes are wild and he pulls her in tighter. You feel the room heating up as she screams in pain. You smell the bizarrely sweet smell of skin melting, your train of thought ping-ponging between your hatred of Monica and love of your father.
You hate him and you love him and you hate her and you miss your mom and you miss yourself.
As your father's skin crispens with fiery heat you allow your brain to spiral back into the days of nature walks and Barbie dreamhouses. Into Christmas mornings and birthday cards. Disappointments and missed birthday parties peppered with intermittent extravagant shows of adoration and apology. You wonder where the hell things went this goddamn wrong.
The smell of burning flesh is overwhelming now.
And then there's Butcher invading your mind, him and his half-cocked confidence, his brash belief in whatever you set out to do. You long to lock eyes with him and wait for the curt little nod he offers you before you run headfirst into something uncertain.
Where is he now? Does he know what you're doing right now? Does he even care?
You're still angry with him, you still have a million things you want to say to him, throw in his face, make him answer for. But you're struck by the realization that you want to see him again. You wish you'd just talked to him before you walked in here tonight, asked him what he thought. Maybe he would have told you it was a fool's errand. Maybe he would have insisted he came with you. Maybe you would have let him.
You miss him. Your body calls for him, a homing beacon for his soul. You need his cells against yours like you need water and air and open fields to run. You need his very being to crash against yours. To protect you from whatever comes next.
You think that, if he were to materialize before you, you might forgive him. You might fall into his arms and swear your allegiance. You might kiss him directly on the lips.
You need to get out of here, if only for the chance to kiss that cocky motherfucker one more time.
The entire room is glowing red now. You feel waves of heat coming off your father.
His expression is one of discomfort and pain. He holds your gaze deeply, like he's trying to communicate with you without words.
Trust your intuition, baby.
Your mother's final words to you ring about your head. The last remaining threads of your consciousness cling to her words, hoping against hope to glean some extraneous meaning from the words.
“Run,” he says, his lips pulling painfully around the word. Tears in his eyes glint light in the cool light. He glows in a way that's painful. The audible thumping of his heart transforms, morphing into something more mechanical.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Like a bomb.
You don't hesitate this time, your body falling backward, crawling toward the fire exit.
As you crawl back, arm over leg, you watch his skin reach a fever pitch. It's like staring into the sun. The heat falls off of him like sparks, causing you to pull back, grimacing in pain. Monica wails, begging you to help her, to do something. You don't even look her in the eye.
You lurch backward, taking one last look backward, flames licking off his skin, luminescence radiating from within him.
Not the father you'd ever known. Not a man at all now.
You find your back pushing against a stairwell exit, hand grasping the handle, pulling downward to let you in. The heat pouring off him is skin melting now. Monica's screams echo in your ears.
You find your footing, dashing desperately down flight after flight of stairs, moving like air over each step. You make it ten storeys down before the entire building is rocked with a blast from above. You're sent careening down the flights of stairs, slamming into a wall of concrete. White-hot pain radiates up your left arm, as a sick, wet crack sounds out.
The pain only lasts a second before your vision blacks out.
~~~
He's been watching the top floor like he has super vision, like he can tell from all the way down on the sidewalk what's going on.
Like he can keep you safe as long as he keeps his eyes on you.
The delusion of control keeps him from barging into the office himself, fucking up the mission he knows means so much to you.
And wasn’t it his half-cocked desire to keep you safe that had put him in this very position?
From the moment the hood was torn from your head and your eyes met his, your face so much softer and kinder than the one he’d been expecting, a long-dormant instinct had awoken. Protect her, keep her safe. Sure, he had a healthy dose of distrust toward you at the start, he wasn’t a complete fool. He had told himself he was placing those bugs to make sure you weren’t double-crossing the Boys, letting your father in on their schemes. Then, when he was satisfied you were as anti-Vought as the rest of them, he convinced himself he was listening in case something happened and you needed him. What, exactly, you would need him for he was unsure of, but he liked the idea of being needed by you.
Then he heard the unmistakable and unabashed sounds of pleasure flood through his speakers late one night. His blood ran cold at the mental image of your body entwined with another. He was far too ashamed to admit just how many times he’d imagined himself in that exact situation with you. He knew he didn’t deserve you, could never really have you in the way he wanted. He’d let his defenses slip when he’d kissed you, drunk on whiskey and your scent. He knew you didn’t want him like that, so he’d pulled away. He almost turned the speaker off, unable to listen any longer, when your voice rang out clear as a bell.
Butcher.
If he hadn’t been a goner before, he certainly was then.
Now, two months out from the last time he’d seen your face, heard your voice, he wasn’t sure he was human at all anymore.
MM told him to stay far away from this mission, that you didn't want him to have anything to do with it. So, naturally, he had waited in the alleyway until you'd gone inside the building, listening through an earpiece to your voice instructing MM on what to listen for, admonishing Frenchie against being a hero. Hearing your voice again, even if it was distorted through an earpiece, calmed him. Clearly he'd learned nothing.
He’d give anything to hear that voice taunt him now, teasing him for not saying anything sooner about his feelings. He imagines your triumphant expression when you saunter out the front doors of CytoGenix headquarters, the remaining vials of V2 rolling between your fingers. He wonders if he might find the courage to apologize to you when you emerge, if you might just be overwhelmed enough to agree to give him a second or third chance. His brain conjures up the sensation your lips create when they press against his, the relaxing of his very atoms when you melt under his touch.
MM interrupts his stargazing, calling him into the van, telling him he's going to want to hear what's going on. He ducks in, heart slamming in his chest. Whatever's happening, he knows he'll be helpless to do anything about it.
And then he hears Monica admit that she killed your mother, the crash of your body across the room, your heavy breathing after she hurts you…
He's cursing under his breath and clenching his fists without even realizing it.
MM shoots him a warning glance. He settles.
But then your father has a heart attack and everything grows frenzied. Your cries break him. Monica screams and you scream and he knows something has gone horribly wrong.
You need him.
Before anyone can stop him he dashes out of the van, making it as far as the front doors when a deep boom shakes him.
The top floor of CytoGenix explodes.
Yellow and orange flames shoot out from the building, molten shards of glass falling to the ground like a hail storm.
His knees buckle beneath him, falling down against the ground. He screams, his words unintelligible save for your name interspersed amongst his ramblings.
MM falls to his side, Hughie grasping his shoulder. They offer soft condolences, their own voices choking as they speak. He hears Frenchie sob behind him.
A cry tears loose from somewhere dangerously deep inside him.
For the second time in his life, he is too late.
~~~
Wake up, baby. You have to keep moving.
You come to in a smoky stairwell, crumpled like a ball of paper.
Your legs kick out before you can fully absorb the situation around you, half-consciously pulling yourself down flights of staircases. Pain radiates up your left arm and you pull it close to your body protectively.
You duck your nose into your shirt to shield yourself from the smoke and airborne debris. You find some small solace in the fact that you encounter no other humans on your descent, promising yourself that no one else would be so dedicated as to busy themselves in their office this late on a Saturday night. No other casualties.
You're so strong. I know you can do this.
You swivel around, searching for a companion. You can barely see a foot in front of you in the smoky haze, but you know you're alone.
“Hello?”
Silence.
You continue your descent, taking care to dodge stray rubble in your path. Somewhere around the 13th floor pinpricks of black grow in your line of vision, your center of balance listing to the side. You hit a concrete wall, your bad arm taking the brunt of the hit as you stumble down another set of stairs. You hiss against the pulsating pain, falling down directly onto your ass, knocking the air out of your lungs.
Your head falls back, heels digging into the ground as the screeching white hot pain hurtles through your bloodstream. You don't even have the capacity to cry, lungs refusing to move. You feel your tether to reality slipping again.
Baby girl, stay with me.
Your eyes fly open, vision still blacked out at the edges.
Wake up, please. I need you to stay awake.
And then the tether tying you to reality comes alive.
“Mom?”
Her voice filters into your mind, her warmth surrounding you, touch sapping the pain from your body.
You need to get up now, okay? You need to keep going.
You're pulled to your feet, imbued with a renewed well of energy. It's supernatural, the forces guiding you down the seemingly never-ending stairwell. But you fall into it, resting on the energy supporting you to stay upright. The voice in your heart whispers in your ear, relieving your pain, encouraging you.
You've got this.
I'm so proud of you, you're doing so good.
You're so close!
You reach the ground floor, neon exit sign glowing a red that, given recent events, you're not overly pleased to see. Your hand hesitates on the door’s push bar, lingering in the smoky air.
Freedom is ahead of you, but your mother is behind you. You haven't been able to let go of her yet, why would you now?
“I miss you, mom,” you whisper, your lips turning around the words in a silent cry. “I don't want you to go.”
I'm right here baby. I'll always be right here.
Because she never left. Because she's in you. Because she believes in you and you should, too.
Because if you stay here right now in this smoky hallway, air laden with grief and regret and numbness, you'll never get the chance to make her proud.
“I love you,” you mouth, and you fall out into the cold New York night.
~~~
Butcher sits on the curb across from the burning building, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the orange glow barely visible against the inferno raging behind him. He’s utterly drained - hair disheveled, shoulders slumped, wearing an expression that would scare the devil himself. Smoke curls around him like a ghastly reminder of everything that’s gone wrong tonight.
Then, through the haze of ash and chaos, you appear.
Stumbling out of the wreckage like some tragic phoenix, grey smoke clinging to you like a shroud, you shuffle forward. Your steps are uneven, your body battered and barely held together, but you keep moving, broken glass crunching underfoot. It's a miracle you're upright at all.
Hughie spots you first, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. His hand flies to MM’s shoulder, gripping it hard enough to leave bruises.
“Is that—? Holy shit, it’s her!” Hughie's voice cracks as he points in your direction.
MM, still caught in his own haze, snaps to attention. His sharp, calculating gaze flicks between you and Butcher, piecing together the broken puzzle. He doesn’t hesitate.
“Hey, Butcher!” MM barks, his deep voice cutting through the chaos like a gunshot. “Look alive, man—she’s here!”
Butcher’s head jerks up so fast you’d think someone fired a shot. His bloodshot eyes dart around, scanning, searching. When he sees you, it’s like the world stops spinning. The ice in his expression melts instantly, replaced by something raw and unguarded.
He doesn’t think—he just moves.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” he mutters under his breath as he bolts across the street, cigarette forgotten.
He’s on you in seconds, his heavy boots crunching over glass as he closes the distance. Before you can even register what’s happening, he scoops you into his arms, his grip firm but careful, mindful of your injured arm hanging limply at your side. His strength is a steadying force against the chaos surrounding you.
He holds you like you’re made of glass, cradling you to his chest as if shielding you from the world. Somewhere in your haze, a delirious thought bubbles up: he’s holding you like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. The mental image is absurd, but it coaxes the faintest smile to your cracked lips.
“You came,” you murmur weakly, your voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. It’s not quite a question, but the disbelief is there in your tone. “You’re here.”
Butcher tilts his head down, his gaze locking with yours. His eyes are uncharacteristically soft, shiny, even, and there’s an edge of desperation in the way his brows knit together.
“‘Course I came, you daft bloody idiot,” he growls, but his voice lacks all of its usual bite. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, y’hear? Ever.” His voice wavers on the last word, betraying just how shaken he really is.
You nod faintly, too exhausted to say much more, but the corners of your lips tug upward. “Noted,” you whisper, though there’s a teasing lilt buried in your exhaustion.
Your eyes flicker toward the familiar shape of the white van parked haphazardly down the street. Through the smoky air, you spot them—Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko—all gathered by the open doors. Their faces are streaked with soot and sweat, but their expressions are a mix of elation and relief. Hughie’s hands are clasped together, his knuckles white as he mouths, Thank God. Annie’s wiping tears from her cheeks. Frenchie’s arm is slung around Kimiko, who smiles faintly, her usually guarded expression softening for you. Even MM, ever the stoic, allows himself a small, relieved grin.
Butcher notices your wandering gaze and shifts you slightly so you can see them more clearly. “They’re here too, love,” he mutters, his voice quieter now. “All of us. Together.”
Your heart swells at the sight, and despite everything—the pain, the chaos, the sheer exhaustion threatening to pull you under—you think, This is my family. These are my people.
Butcher tightens his grip just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. You feel the warmth of his chest through his jacket, his heartbeat steady against your ear. For a brief, blissful moment, it feels like crossing a threshold—not into a house or a new beginning, but into the arms of the people who will always have your back.
And you think, maybe you’ve been carried home after all.
End.
Taglist:
@bluemerakis
@mystic-writings
@imherefordeanandbones
#billy butcher#billy butcher fanfic#billy butcher x reader#fanfiction#the boys fanfic#the boys#william butcher#the boys tv#fanfic#the boys amazon#karl urban brainrot go brrr#the boys series#billy butcher x you#billy butcher the boys#billy butcher x female reader
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Hello, everyone!
First off, I’m sorry for even having to post this, and I’m usually nice to everyone I come into contact with, but I received a startling comment on my newest fic, Paint-Stained Hands and Paper Hearts, where I was accused of pumping out the entire chapter solely using AI.
I am thirty-two years old and have been attending University since I was 18 YEARS OLD. I am currently working on obtaining my PhD in English Literature as well as a Masters in Creative Writing. So, there’s that.
There is an increasing trend of online witch hunts targeting writers on all platforms (fanfic.net, ao3, watt pad, etc), where people will accuse them of utilizing AI tools like ChatGPT and otherwise based solely on their writing style or prose. These accusations often come without concrete evidence and rely on AI detection tools, which are known to be HELLA unreliable. This has led to false accusations against authors who have developed a particular writing style that AI models may emulate due to the vast fucking amount of human-written literature that they’ve literally had dumped into them. Some of these people are friends of mine, some of whom are well-known in the AO3 writing community, and I received my first comment this morning, and I’m pissed.
AI detection tools work by analyzing text for patterns, probabilities, and structures that resemble AI-generated outputs. HOWEVER, because AI models like ChatGPT are trained on extensive datasets that include CENTURIES of literature, modern writing guides, and user-generated content, they inevitably produce text that can mimic various styles — both contemporary and historical. Followin’ me?
To dumb this down a bit, it means that AI detection tools are often UNABLE TO DISTINGUISH between human and AI writing with absolute certainty.
Furthermore, tests have shown that classic literary works, like those written by Mary Shelley, Jane Austen, William Shakespeare, and Charles Dickens, frequently trigger AI detectors as being 100% AI generated or plagiarized. For example:
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein has been flagged as AI-generated because its formal, structured prose aligns with common AI patterns.
Jane Austen’s novels, particularly Pride and Prejudice, often receive high AI probability scores due to their precise grammar, rhythmic sentence structures, and commonly used words in large language models.
Shakespeare’s works sometimes trigger AI detectors given that his poetic and structured style aligns with common AI-generated poetic forms.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera and One Hundred Years of Solitude trigger 100% AI-generated due to its flowing sentences, rich descriptions, and poetic prose, which AI models often mimic when generating literary or philosophical text.
Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser’s sharp, structured rhythmic prose, imaginative world building, literary elegance, and dialogue-driven narratives often trigger 100% on AI detectors.
The Gettysburg fucking Address by Abraham Lincoln has ALSO been miss classified as AI, demonstrating how formal, structured language confuses these detectors.
These false positives reveal a critical flaw in AI detection: because AI has been trained on so much human writing, it is nearly impossible for these tools to completely separate original human work from AI-generated text. This becomes more problematic when accusations are directed at contemporary authors simply because their writing ‘feels’ like AI despite being fully human.
The rise in these accusations poses a significant threat to both emerging and established writers. Many writers have unique styles that might align with AI-generated patterns, especially if they follow conventional grammar, use structured prose, or have an academic or polished writing approach. Additionally, certain genres— such as sci-fi, or fantasy, or philosophical essays— often produce high AI probability scores due to their abstract and complex language.
For many writers, their work is a reflection of years—often decades—of dedication, practice, and personal growth. To have their efforts invalidated or questioned simply because their writing is mistaken for AI-generated text is fucking disgusting.
This kind of shit makes people afraid of writing, especially those who are just starting their careers / navigating the early stages of publication. The fear of being accused of plagiarism, or of relying on AI for their creativity is anxiety-inducing and can tank someone’s self esteem. It can even stop some from continuing to write altogether, as the pressure to prove their authenticity becomes overwhelming.
For writers who have poured their hearts into their work, the idea that their prose could be mistaken for something that came from a machine is fucking frustrating. Second-guessing your own style, wondering if you need to change how you write or dumb it down in order to avoid being falsely flagged—this fear of being seen as inauthentic can stifle their creative process, leaving them hesitant to share their work or even finish projects they've started. This makes ME want to stop, and I’m just trying to live my life, and write about things I enjoy. So, fuck you very much for that.
Writing is often a deeply personal endeavor, and for many, it's a way to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences that are difficult to put into words. When those expressions are wrongly branded as artificial, it undermines not just the quality of their work but the value of their creative expression.
Consider writing habits, drafts, and personal writing history rather than immediate and unfounded accusations before you decide to piss in someone’s coffee.
So, whatever. Read my fics, don’t read my fics. I just write for FUN, and to SHARE with all of you.
Sorry that my writing is too clinical for you, ig.
I put different literary works as well as my own into an AI Detector. Here you go.
#arcane#ao3 fanfic#arcane fanfic#ao3#ao3 writer#writers on tumblr#writing#wattpad#fanfiction#arcane fanfiction
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