#Floor sanding Sydney | Floor Sand Sydney | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ameagrice · 1 year ago

Text

Capsize

chapter twenty-eight | wide awake

percy jackson x fem! reader

Finney’s screaming echoes up the stairs and through the walls.

Rachel’s yelling doesn’t cease.

Your father’s crass words do not stop, weighing in on your heart at an astonishing amount of kilos.

The Caesars’ Jerk It Out plays so loud you know for sure that either your dad or Rachel will come up the stairs and throw open your door and demand you turn it off, that it’s making Finney upset. You won’t tell them, either of them, that your music is the least of baby Finney’s worries; his screaming parents are the ones hurting his ears.

Usually, you would rush to Finney’s side and pick him up where he’d be crying in his bassinet, desperate to make him stop in his distress. But lately, there is much less a longing to comfort him and more a longing for all of them to shut the hell up. It isn’t fair on Finney, leaving him in tears. But you’re tired of playing parent. You’re tired of playing mom.

The end of the song comes around too quickly, and you pause, waiting for the sound of footsteps. Drawers slamming echo from the kitchen below your bedroom, telling you they aren’t finished with their argument. Neither one will win—they will go to bed in silence, and wake up the next morning as new people; no apologies; no talking. They will just go. Go on.

It all started over a piece of pizza.

“Anyone else want the last piece?” You’d asked, reaching across the glass table for the last slice.

“No thanks, babe,” Rachel dismissed. The food aeroplane flew to Finney, and he giggled, chubby legs kicking in his high chair. One slipper lay abandoned on the cold tile floor, the other barely hanging in there on his chubby foot.

The night before the Big Move. Pennsylvania to New York City. Everything was packed up in boxes and cushioned with styrofoam and bubble wrap, ready to be transported across the country. New York, your father said, would be a good move for business and the family. The Upper East Side would be like your dream come true, he’d convinced you. You’d love it.

New York, he promised,

would

change

your

life.

In the later years to come, he had been right, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. In many ways, you were very, very grateful for your father’s selfish move. The idea of New York, at the time, was loud and scary, but it brought you to the next chapter of your life, filled in gaps you didn’t know existed yet, and bridged the way to new friends and family. You would forever be grateful to New York for all that it gave you and all that it stood for.

You fell asleep to the sound of a vase smashing, peaceful with violence.

—

Two years later, a summer in Australia once would have seemed like a dream. After a good few weeks at Camp Half-Blood, having made new friends and uncovered the side to you that always felt missing, a summer relaxing in Sydney felt right. Of course, the occasional monster popped up here and there as Travis had warned you they would; when you became aware of who you really were, the monsters became more aware of you, as well.

It was nothing you couldn’t handle, though: small creatures with gills and sharp teeth swimming in your toilet water, and a strange creature digging it’s way up from a beach’s sand to bite you. When they had been eradicated and sent back down to Tartarus, you could enjoy the rest of your days in confidence and peace.

“You should come up some time,” you lay on the floor of your room, on the phone to Travis. “It’s really nice here. My dad’s in a better mood, too these days. Rachel’s kinda moody but—Rachel? My stepmom. And Finney’s just—Finney? He’s my brother…”

At first, it was calm. Your dad seemed in better spirits, and Rachel liked her job. Finney’s first birthday had passed by without you, an occasion you thought would have affected you more than it did.

Your first night home, you slept soundly. Rachel woke you with your favourite pancakes and toppings. You flicked through the tv in your new bedroom and basked in the bright sunshine streaming through your open window. Australian heat was a different kind of heat, but one that was very much welcome, and your days became heaven on earth. Bright blue waters and sunny skies, and white sand so hot it almost burned your skin.

Only one thing spoiled your summer vacation—the moods you had forgotten all about, and ones you’d grown less accustomed to. Your father’s sudden snapping, and razor-sharp tone; his demands and never-ending list of chores.

“Why don’t you ever do the dishes?” You sighed one evening, as the sun began to set. “Or, like, look after Finney?”

“That’s a woman’s job, really,” he’d answered briefly, texting on his phone at the dinner table—something only he was allowed to do. “And the women take care of children. It isn’t much of a man’s job. Haven’t you noticed, yet, hon?”

The more the weeks rolled over, and September was drawing to a close. And things only grew more tense. After a whole day of watching Finney from dusk until dawn, your father also in the house, your striking point came at the sight of dirty dishes piled up in the sink, only straight after you had washed and put away the last ones.

“Oh, come on!” You exclaimed. “Dad, seriously?” You worded your next sentence carefully. “Could you wash up your stuff, please? I’ve got things to do. You’d be helping me out a deal, really.”

Only silence met you in response. From the kitchen table, in the open-plan area, Rachel raised her eyes from the baby to you, a warning.

“Rachel can finish the rest, then.”

Something struck your heart hard, and strangely, anger accompanied the feeling. “Why? They’re your dishes. We’ve finished.”

And, long story short, as per usual, an argument occurred. But this time, it involved smashed porcelain, and cuts across your bare feet.

The next morning, her car was missing.

“What’s going on with Rachel’s car?” You asked, standing at the dining table, plucking blueberries from the plastic bowl. Oddly quite was the house, much too early for Finney to be awake, and Rachel who slept beside him every night.

Dad flicked the page of his newspaper. “Head gasket’s gone. The garage said to just scrap the car.”

You nodded along, and walked away, as quietly as possible on the tiles. You couldn’t miss the uneasy feeling in your stomach, though, that something was horribly wrong.

The next weekend, you proposed an idea.

“There’s this thing in town I saw earlier,” you said, hanging around the end of the kitchen counter.

“Oh yeah?” Your dad looked your way, smiling briefly. He flipped over the bacon in the pan, sizzling away.

“Yeah, some pizza place. I thought we could all go out tonight, maybe? It’d be nice to get out for a while.” You watched his face for any changes. There weren’t any. Because he hadn’t been listening.

“Hm?”

You blanched. “What do you mean, huh?” You laughed it off, trying to make light of it. “I just told you!”

“Yeah…go grab the plates for this, will you?”

It didn’t come as a surprise to you when only weeks later, heading into late October, things went too far, and you called Travis Stoll for a bit of advice involving credit cards, plane tickets, and the act of stealing.

Days later, his birthday arrived. Around other family members, he was a changed man. You tried explaining to the one person you felt might believe you.

“He loves you,” your grandma squeezed you. “He’s your dad. All parents love their children.”

Into her shoulder, you mumbled, “‘Has a funny way of showing it.”

“That’s just your dad. He’s such a kind man. Of course he loves you. Don’t doubt it.”

You thought of the smashed window in your bedroom, and the dirty dishes in the sink; your plate of cooked food taken from your hands just because he wanted it—he’d take from his children first. Your thoughts turned to Rachel and her roses trampled into a mashed up mess in her bedroom, and Finney in tears.

“He doesn’t love me,” you shook your head. “That’s not love.”

—

The man in the leopard-print shirt sipping a can of coke looked up, unbothered.

Eyes wide with annoyance, you waved your hands about. “Where’s Chiron?!”

“Hello to you, too,” Mr. D. drawled. He flipped over a couple of cards on the table. Behind you, chaos roared. “How rude. Is that how you say hello to somebody?”

“Hello! We’re going to die! Where’s Chiron?”

Mr. D. considered it, tilting his head side to side. You wanted to scream at him, but that for sure wouldn’t get you anywhere. Dr. Thorn’s monsters were onto you, and you were outnumbered.

“About to die,” he mused. “How exciting. I’m afraid Chiron isn’t here. Would you like me to take a message?”

You looked away, unable to believe it. “We’re done for.”

Thalia, gripping her spear, shook her head. She looked more determined now than she had done the whole journey. “Then we’ll die fighting!”

“How noble,” said Mr. D, stifling a yawn. “So what is the problem, exactly?”

“The problem is that you’re an a—!”

“There’s this thing, the Ophiotaurus,” Percy cut in, literally barging into you to get into the god’s sight. “We think it’s…”

He went on to explain Bessie and his powers, and how you thought he was the creature which needed hunting down and killing, all this time.

You observed Mr. D. observing the cards in his hands. “Hmm. Is that it?”

“You don’t even care!” You screamed. Zoe hushed you. “You’d rather watch us be shot to death!”

“Let’s see; I think I’m in the mood for pizza tonight.”

You’d become so angry you practically buzzed on the spot. Percy pulled you to the side so quickly you almost got whiplash.

You considered channeling your inner-Ares and letting your anger go on the pudgy, old god, but before you could, Percy gasped, pulling you tight to him, back-to-back. You were surrounded by Thorn’s monsters, decreasing the space between them and your friends much too quickly for your liking. The manticore threw off his coat and transformed into his real self, chuckling in such an animal way that it sent chills down your spine.

“Excellent,” he said, eyeing the Iris Message. “Alone. Without any real help.”

“You could ask for help,” Mr. D. mumbled down your ear. Glaring at him from the side, you tried harder than you ever had to contain your anger. “You could say please.”

“The day I say please to you will be the day I’m on my deathbed!” You hissed. You felt Percy turn his head, ruffling the back of your hair. “There is absolutely no way in hell I will ever say please to you! Ares would have a better chance of being on the receiving end of my begging!”

Zoe readied her arrows; Thalia raised her spear, and Grover prepared his reed pipes. Percy’s elbow dug uncomfortably into your rib, and you knew then that Percy would not let any of you go down without a fight, without trying to protect you.

Though where the thought and the confidence in your best friend had come from, you could not tell.

Fury burned in your bones, and you were about to wave your hand through the misty air beside you, when you caught sight of Thalia, crying. And it suddenly occurred to you that this had happened before, to her. She had been cornered in life, and driven to her death by ignorance.

And if you were to let it happen again, if you were to let your anger and stubbornness get in the way, you too would die. There would be no saving Annabeth, no making it right with Rachel, and no last look at the best friend who you stood with back-to-back, trusting wholly in one another.

So you inhaled and exhaled quickly, and looked to Mr. D.

“Please,” you ground out, sure that every emotion showed in your eyes. “Please, help us.”

Of course nothing happened.

Your organs plummeted to your feet, and Thorn grinned.

“Seize Zeus’s girl. She will join us soon enough. Kill the rest.”

The men raised their guns, and something strange twisted the air. It was as if the pressure plummeted. Everything tinged purple—the sunlight, the ground, your skin, and everything smelled of expensive wine.

SNAP!

It was the sound of minds breaking at the same time. One of the skeleton men placed his gun between his teeth and ran away on all-fours. Another suddenly dropped to his feet as his bony body fell apart. The others followed suit.

“No!” The manticore roared. “I’ll handle you all myself.”

His tail bristled, but before he could make a move, the wooden planks beneath his paws erupted into grass and grapevines, wrapping around the monster’s body, growing and growing and wrapping until he was completely covered in vines and bright green leaves. The manticore was covered, and suddenly, all noise and movement stopped. And you knew for certain that somewhere in the vines and leaves and mess, the manticore was no more.

In silence, you all turned to Mr. D, rifling through his refrigerator.

“Well, that was fun.”

An eerie feeling had settled pretty quickly in your body. “How—why—how—”

“Such gratitude,” he rolled his eyes. “The mortals will come out of it. Too much explaining to do if I made their condition permanent. I hate writing reports to Father.” His attention turned on Thalia, hardening. “I hope you learned your lesson, girl. It isn’t easy to resist power, is it?”

Thalia blushed as if she were ashamed.

“Mr. D!” Grover was in awe. “You saved us!”

“Mmm. Don’t make me regret it, Satyr! Now get going, Percy Jackson. I’ve bought you a few hours, at least.”

“The Ophiotaurus,” Percy asked desperately. “Can you get it back to camp?”

Everyone waited for Mr. D’s reply, watching for an answer. He rolled his eyes.

“I do not transport livestock. That’s your problem.”

“But…where do we go?” You asked.

He looked at Zoe. “Oh, I think the huntress knows. You must enter at sunset today, you know, or all will be lost. Now goodbye! My pizza is waiting.”

Just as your small gang began to get itself together and get going, Percy spoke one last time.

“Mr. D?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You called me by my actual name. You called me Percy Jackson.”

“I most certainly did not, Peter Johnson! Now, off with you!”

He waved his hand, and his image disappeared.

All around you, the manticore’s men were still acting insane, and you figured you only had a while before they were after you again.

“What did he mean, ‘you know where to go’?”

Zoe’s face was the colour of fog. She pointed across the bay, past the Golden Gate. In the distance, a single mountain rose up above the cloud layer.

“The garden of my sisters,” she said. “I must go home.”

——

Sorry this one took so long, guys! What do you think of y/n and her dad’s relationship so far? I rewrote that part so many times. I’m interested in how you guys are going to perceive it. There is of course more to come for y/n and her family, and more to show for before her days at camp. There’s also more Percy scenes, more Travis scenes to come, and a whole lot of the sense of feeling like she belongs.

Thanks for reading ! :)

Taglist:

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @lilyevanswhore @rottenstyx @rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @twsssmlmaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky @emu281 @charlesswife @jessiegerl @crackerphobic20 @mata0-0mata @jccc1000 @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138

116 notes · View notes

chntfessions · 3 months ago

Note

OKAY I WAS WORKING ON THAT FAN EPISODE, AND UHH I WANNA KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

this is only a draft, feel free to give constructive criticism

some quick background, this would probably be like episode 5-7 ish in s2. elijah has not been seen again yet btw.

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“Good morning everyone and everything! The time is 8:67, and the sky is a cardboard brown. Now, if yesterday you missed the giant gaping hole that opened up on the west side of camp because you were with councilors Soren and Fennel. Well, you do now! But because I was so caught up in reporting this mysterious pit, I forgot to share some of the paintings the people in cabin ladybug made! My third favorite here is by Gramm Backside. Their painting was a self portrait of themself, it looks just like them! The same teeth, eyes, and that blackened face where you can only see the eyes and teeth! Great job Gramm! Second, we have this painting by Floor Handle. Her work had a boy in the middle of the fields. As the eternal doom of the sky and the land is swarming behind him, and it feels as if its all going to crumble down on top of him. Pretty neat! And for my personal favorite, drumroll..!”

[drumroll noises]

“Marty McMark! His painting had me in a trance. The blood stained leaves on the forest ground, realistic eyes popping out of the sky - Rowan wouldn’t like that. The sky weirdly being blue too, odd. And the creature behind the bushes with a skinny neck, and an uncanny smile. What a cool painting! Marty when you get home, you better frame that! Alright so, for our breakfast. Matthew made us some lobster biscuits with metal chunks! Yknow, if I had the very slim chance to even see a lobster house, I would feel so bad for the little lobster in those tanks. To be picked up from that cramped place into a boiling pot. Don’t worry, Matthew assured me these lobsters were already dead before cooking! For the vegans you can eat the chunks of metal! Just don’t get around any magnets! For the activities today, we have rituals to bring the demons and devils up here from whatever they were doing!”

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“The time is 12:412. And the sky is a dirt color. Look, I am very happy that you guys did bring some of those demons and devils onto campgrounds, but I wasn’t expecting this… if you weren’t here last year, then you wouldn’t know some of the stories I told. There were a couple of times when I talked about up and Adam. Or at least how he introduced himself. Adam is a demon, apparently, makes sense. But he would show up in my dreams. Offer me things, and talk. I’m not going to name who, but I think we all know who is the trouble maker here. They set up their ritual, and it worked! But now… Adam’s here and we don’t know how to really react to this. It seems like he’s been waiting for this, and doesn’t want to go back. He’s in my office, not in this room, but in the building. We don’t want you kids into this, so us councilors will be working on this! Anywhos, today's lunch is crab crunch! ‘Eat with the shells!’ And activities are eating sand! Councilors Mila and Juno will be looking after you all, keep safe!!”

[audible steps]

ADAM

“What a nice cabin you have here!”

SYDNEY

“Wha- Adam you’re supposed to be on the cot!”

ADAM

“Mm, but that’s boring, not a good way to treat guests.”

SYDNEY

“We weren’t expecting you- Adam, I wasn’t even expecting you to be real so please just stay patient with me. On the cot. Oh shoot. Really quick, kids, Salem is asking you all - please stop throwing stuff into the hole. We have no idea where it goes!”

[CLICK]

yeahhh :DD

i will be posting this to ao3

YEAHHH THIS IS AWSOME

#camp here and there #chnt #confession #mod 🦨#sydney sargent #up and adam

8 notes · View notes

byneddiedingo · 1 year ago

Photo

Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not (Howard Hawks, 1944)

Cast: Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Walter Brennan, Dolores Moran, Hoagy Carmichael, Sheldon Leonard, Walter Surovy, Marcel Dalio, Walter Sande, Dan Seymour. Screenplay: Jules Furthman, William Faulkner, based on a novel by Ernest Hemingway. Cinematography: Sidney Hickox. Art direction: Charles Novi. Film editing: Christian Nyby. Music: Franz Waxman

Beatrice and Benedick. Rosalind and Orlando. Viola and Orsino. "Slim" and "Steve"? Why do I think of To Have and Have Not in terms of Shakespearean romance? Does this most enjoyable of movies have anything in common with those grand predecessors? It's all Howard Hawks's doing, with a little bit of help from screenwriters Jules Furthman and William Faulkner. Hawks had done this sort of romance before, in his comic masterpieces Bringing Up Baby (1938) and His Girl Friday (1940), but leave it to Hawks to see World War II (and Ernest Hemingway's "grace under pressure" fiction) through the lens of screwball comedy. And to do it with the movies' most famous tough guy, Humphrey Bogart, and an unknown 19-year-old actress who had her name changed from Betty Perske to Lauren Bacall. And to treat it all as a semi-musical, with Hoagy Carmichael at the piano. Blood is shed and causes are espoused, but nobody takes it terribly seriously. Instead, Bogart and Bacall surf through the film on some of the best dialogue ever written, working out their fine romance as deftly as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers ever did on the dance floor. Walter Brennan adds another memorable figure to his impressive gallery of old coots, and Marcel Dalio brings the kind of charm that might threaten to upstage lesser performers than these stars. It's certainly not a perfect film: Dolores Moran (clambering from shore to ship in heels) and Walter Szurovy are rather tediously noble as the de Bursacs. (Watch the bit when Mme. de Bursac faints and spills the chloroform and Bacall's Slim, sensing a rival for her Steve's affections, casts a stinkeye on the fallen form and intentionally fans some of the fumes in her direction.) As the Vichy police captain, Dan Seymour seems to be trying to do a Sydney Greenstreet impersonation with the worst of all French accents. And does anybody really believe that the odd company that sails off at the end to rescue a Resistance fighter from Devil's Island is going to succeed? But no matter. It's all the stuff of which legends are made.

#To Have and Have Not #Howard Hawks #Lauren Bacall

10 notes · View notes

emporium-floor-sanding-supplies · 1 year ago

Text

Emporium Floor Sanding Supplies

Hello and thank you for shopping with Emporium floor sanding supplies we specialise in bringing you supplies directly from our Warehouses and delivering products to your business or worksite. We have a wide range of quality products do take care of all your floor sanding supply needs. Some products are not listed on the website so if the product is not listed please send us a message or call and we will most likely be able to obtain the product for you.

We have more than 50 years experience in the timber flooring industry and a here to help . We look forward to doing business with you and saving you time and money with innovative techniques to be shared and a full range of quality products to take care of all timber floors .

Floor Sanding Supplies Newcastle / Floor Sanding Supplies Sydney/ Floor Sanding Supplies Gosford / Floor Sanding Supplies Central Coast, shipping ride across Australia.

#floor sanding #handley #sand paper #floor polishing supplies #urethane coatings

12 notes · View notes

winksasleeplesseye · 2 years ago

Text

File #005 - Night Music

City of the Dead

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x OC

Word Count: 3.6k

Fandom: Resident Evil

Warnings: Financial abuse, verbal, slight domestic abuse

Summary: Amara has a slight bit of thinking on her past and what got her to become a cop, she questions Leon’s motives just the same as they make their way through the city.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

1995

Was it possible for a heart to drop through your asshole to your feet? Your stomach to lurch so violently that it’d come out your mouth alongside the vomit?

Amara does, quite frankly too well, and what had occurred since this morning is more than the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Her mother constantly made excuses for her father, saying he’d lived a tough life and that with support, he could be helped. But, how could she say that knowing that he had stolen money from his own flesh and blood to support his vices? And this wasn’t the first time either, other times the amounts had been small, nothing Amara couldn’t handle but now, it was different.

Even for someone at her young age, knew better and wouldn’t be around to do that. How could she be around to support the very same person who had hurt her?

Her small semblance of stability, her control had been rocked so easily. She never wanted to feel as frantic and shattered as she did that morning at the bank.

The teller eyed her with so much sympathy, or was it pity? Her heart almost seemed like a frog ready to jump from her throat as she backed away from the counter, the floor beneath her swaying a tad as she had to make a dash to the car before anyone could even ask her if she was alright.

She had never sped back so fast to the base, in the loaner car they always switched out at each new base.

She pulled up to the blue-clad house on a street practically hidden by the cover of trees. An aspect her mother told her the construction company did to give the houses a sense of “normalcy”. Amara didn’t exactly think it gave anything close to normal.

This had been the longest they’d stayed anywhere, thankfully in the United States this time. Monet had moved on only a year ago, college certainly gave her a great excuse to stay in one place.

Amara loved some aspects of being out of the country but the US had way more things she was more familiar with.

For one thing, now that they were in California, Amara felt that she could breathe.

Amara never really bothered to learn the actual name of the place they lived, too much of an attachment always made it harder when they inevitably left. But still, she couldn’t help the indelible yet brief mark she knows it’ll leave.

The city outside the base is not too big, not too small, it’s just right, her Mom would comment. Like Goldilocks. The city sits beside the sea, its own soft sand beach that would rush against the shore. It used to be a tourist attraction before it became overrun with more military personnel.

Amara would sometimes wish she could stay forever, just letting the sun beat down on her skin, instead of just savoring every moment here considering how fleeting it could be.

She barely gave care to the car as she practically jumped out without fully making sure it was in park. Rushing past her mother, trying not to let her in on what she was doing. The last thing she needed was to make her mother match her frantic energy. She quietly tore through her parents’ room, she’d learned early where her father tried to hide things.

When she was seven, while on base in Sydney, he’d make it a point to make a game out of hiding things for her and Monet to look for. It was fun then, hiding silly things like candy and toys, now she was more frantic, afraid her heart would pound out of her chest.

Amara thanked the powers that be that in his old age, he’d become so predictable. Her money, every cent, is laid out in the bedside table drawer in a secret compartment.

Last time, she hadn’t been so lucky. But that time wasn’t damn near all her savings.

Savings she’d been working to fill since she was 15, every odd job, waitress gig, or even errands she ran for others around the bases had gotten her that much.

“Thank goodness.” A sigh of relief pushes past her lips, a weight had temporarily been lifted as she counted it all.

At that moment, her mind had been made up, she’d leave and never come back.

At the same time, she had a ball of anxiety lodged in her sternum, how would she survive? Moving from place to place is all she had ever really known. No, she shakes her head at that, fighting against the voice in her head that instilled her fear of the unknowns.

She tiptoed from the room, heading to hers.

“This is crazy,” Amara quietly said to herself, as she looked around her room. Her haven for the past few months. It’s not like she isn’t weighing the pros and cons despite fending herself off from the voice in her head yet again about every wrong thing that could happen.

What if this happened, what if that happened, what if you ruined your life with one impulse decision and ended up homeless or worse? Amara winces as if someone had slapped her at that thought.

She threw just about everything she had into backpacks and suitcases, something she’d always been too familiar with. Amara had never quite gotten to a point where she could just unpack everything. Both literally and figuratively.

—-

Amara wrestled with her decision, wrestling so long that it had now gotten dark outside. Maybe she needed to sleep it off, and have a clear head in the morning.

She went through the usual evening routine with her Mom, setting out the table since the latter so graciously made them all dinner but her Dad was nowhere in sight. She doesn’t exactly consider that an improvement–but it was better than him sitting in a darkened living room in front of the TV, blinds drawn against the beautiful California sunshine and a certain funk permeating the air. “Thanks again, Mom.”

“What, honey?” Her mom blinks and turns her full attention to Amara as she turns off the sink, smiling vaguely. “Could you say that again?” Amara wanted to slap herself for even attempting to talk to her at the same time as the running water, something that was, unfortunately, kind of broken. Something that her father continuously put off fixing, much like everything else.

“I was just saying thanks for dinner.”

“Ah, it’s the least I could do. Did you get everything figured out?” Her mother asks.

Amara furrowed her brow. “Huh? With what?” Was her mom already onto her?

“With the bank this morning? I know you went out and came back, you seemed pretty tense.”

Amara waved it off, putting on her best nonchalant act. “Ah, was nothing crazy. Everything’s good.”

“Good, good.” Her mother smiled, throwing her a mischievous look but something in her eyes made Amara feel like she didn’t completely buy it. “Now, do you think you can grab me some ingredients for a pound cake? I’d let you do it but you’d burn the house down.”

“Hey!” Amara gasped, a little offended. She wasn’t that bad a cook! So what if she burned mac and cheese once? One time isn’t enough to say she’s a bad cook.

She does as she asks, grabbing the items and setting them out but her stomach rumbled just looking at the actual food they’d have for dinner. Her mother is a miracle worker with every ingredient and within 20 minutes, the mixture is already in the oven.

“Let’s get started,” her mother lightly pushed her to the dining room table, “don’t want the food to get cold, do we?”

Amara sat at the dinner table, watching her mother carefully as she served the food. Off in the distance, she heard a car door slam and could tell trouble was brewing. She couldn't help but now notice the way her mother's hands were shaking, a sign of the anxiety that had become all too familiar in their home.

Just as they were about to start eating, the front door slammed shut, and heavy, stumbling footsteps made their way toward the bedroom. Amara already knows what exactly he planned to do, come in for the money and head back out. But not this time.

"Hey, what's going on?" Her father slurred, looking around the room with bleary eyes as he came in unceremoniously. If he was angry, Amara couldn't exactly tell but that doesn’t stop her from being on edge.

Amara didn't answer, but her mother spoke up. "It's dinner time, dear. Why don't you come to join us?"

"I don't feel like eating," her father said, but he still sat down at the table regardless and her mother prepared him a plate anyways. Couldn’t he do that himself? Her eyes focused on the food on her plate as she quietly ate but she could practically feel her father’s eyes searing into the top of her head. It was clear that the night was going to take a turn for the worse.

The tension in the room is palpable. The scent of alcohol reeked throughout the room, there was no denying where the scent was emanating from either. Amara glanced at her mother, who looked like she was anywhere but there. Clearly, she wasn’t going to address the elephant in the room, more likely for her own sanity.

She just wanted to get through dinner without any incidents.

But it wasn't meant to be. Cutting through the offensively loud silence, Amara's father suddenly turned to her and said, "You think you can just take whatever you want, huh? That money was mine!"

The nerve of him! His money?

Amara’s pulse pounded in her ears like a bass drum, drowning out everything else around her. She felt her breathing quicken and her hands begin to shake as her blood boiled with rage, immediately standing up from the table. "It was my money, Dad! I earned it!"

Her mother spoke up, "Oh, stop it, both of you. Can't we have one nice dinner without all this fighting?"

Amara shot her mother a withering look. "You always defend him, even when he's clearly in the wrong. For fuck sake, he stole from his own daughter! What are you gonna defend him for next? Murder?”

That's when her father snapped. He grabbed Amara by the arm and shoved her into the wall. "Don't you ever talk to your mother like that again," he snarled.

Amara had had enough. “Fuck you,” She pushed him out of her way, no longer afraid of him as she had grown to be. As she returned to the living room with her packed bags in tow, her father's rage boiled over.

"You little brat," he spat, lunging towards her. "I'll teach you some respect."

Amara backed away, preparing to grab something to defend herself if necessary. Her mother tried to intervene, but her father continued to yell and curse, his anger escalating by the second. When he finally threatened them both, Amara knew that she had to take action.

She ran for the phone, her heart racing. "I'm calling the police," she said, her voice shaking with anger.

Her father laughed. "Go ahead, call them. They won't do anything."

But Amara was determined. She grabbed the phone and dialed 911, explaining the situation to the operator. As she spoke, she could hear her father's angry words in the background, and her mother's feeble attempts to calm him down.

When the police arrived, her mother defended her father, telling the officers that he had just had too much to drink and that everything was fine. But Amara knew better. She had seen this all before with things on TV, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before her father's small act of anger turned into more violence.

This was the first time it had ever escalated to that level, a part of her, while putting on a brave face, had never been as shocked as she was at his actions. Over money that wasn’t his, no less.

The officers handled the whole situation and cared more than she really ever thought they would. Something about it made her not feel so helpless in everything, she wanted to do that for others somehow.

As the police left, Amara made a final, final decision. She would leave this toxic environment and never look back. It was time for her to make her own way in the world, and she was determined to do it on her own terms.

—-

September 30, 1998.

From that point on, Amara could never really put much stock into anyone. That whole situation really wasn't about the money but really the principle of it all. Losing family and friends in many different ways had made her so afraid of actually caring for others.

Amara always likened it to shedding your skin and baring your heart, opening someone up to every vulnerability, every vein, every pulse that pumped through it. And every single thing that had occurred had been like someone had taken that very same beating heart and thrown it to the cold, hard floor.

But then, she ended up here right out of the academy. Raccoon City. She got this job and met people who showed that maybe it wasn’t so bad to bare your heart and rely on others. That people could be tight-knit, an actual family without the mess, and have your back.

Showed her that she could rise above her circumstances and be better.

And now, even though most were gone, she still tried to be better and was better for having known them.

She pondered on these things briefly in the moments of silence between the three of them. She straggled behind Leon and Ada, looking at the city streets and what had become of them in such a short amount of time.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of a restaurant she had been to before, and usually, she’s never one to be too hard on herself, but Jesus, she’d seen better days.

Her hair stuck to her skin, no thanks to the endless rain, and would more than likely be unruly when it dried. But on the bright side, it did offer some cleansing of the grime she’d accumulated, though she was sure that her leather jacket, turtleneck, and jeans could never be worn again after tonight. They’d probably be soaked through forever now.

“Road’s out, we’ll have to cut through that shop.” Ada’s voice cuts through her thoughts. The very sinkhole that Ben had mentioned lay before them.

Leon stood at its very edge, looking down at the scaffolding and things of that nature. Amara joins him, no real or particularly interesting thoughts on what’s down in it but she can’t help but say what comes to her mind first, “Big ass hole.”

He starts laughing, probably at the absurdity. “Anything you could’ve said and that’s the best you’ve got?”

“I mean…my brain is more than a little fried right now, so yes.” Amara starts to laugh with him. She doesn’t miss Ada’s shake of her head as she worked on the lockpicking but she really didn’t care, she needed to laugh at something to keep from going insane.

“Fair enough.”

“So, I guess it’s my turn to ask you something, what really got you into wanting to become a cop?”

“You sure you wanna know?”

“No, I don’t give a shi-yes, I want to know, Leon!” She lightly jabs him in the shoulder.

Leon took a deep breath before answering. “Ever heard of the Garcetti family?”

“In passing, go on.”

“Well, I’m not sure of all of the details since I was just a kid, but I only assume my parents must’ve gotten in bad with the family…long story short, that night I became an orphan.” Leon gives her a strained smile, almost like he didn’t just tell her the most heart-wrenching thing you could tell anyone.

Her eyes widened in surprise just thinking about it. “Shit, Leon.”

Leon doesn’t exactly seem to let on at first glance that he’d been through something of that magnitude but Amara is someone who always kind of thinks–thought people lived one story, but after everything, she’s become wise enough to realize people are more than they appear to be.

Leon shrugged. “It’s nothing…—don’t give me that look-“

“I’m sorry, Leon. That just really sucks.”

“Yeah well, you asked.” Leon points out. That is a fair point on his end. “If it hadn’t been for the officer that night who protected me, I wouldn’t be standing here today. He’s part of the reason why I felt drawn to it all. It was a long time ago, but I always carry that with me.”

Amara nodded, understanding. “I get that, somewhat. My dad was in the military, we moved around a lot. I didn’t exactly have the most stable home or many friends growing up. So when I was 18, I joined the academy to get away from it all.”

She went on. “It wasn’t easy, but it was a way for me to have some control over my life and certainly drove me to want to help others in a way that I hadn’t been afforded. That’s part of why I ended up with S.T.A.R.S.”

Amara smiled softly, thinking of the team once more, even though it was for a short time, they were the first people in a long time that made her feel like she belonged somewhere.

There was a comfortable silence between them until Ada called them over, finally managing to get the door opened.

It’d been a while since she’d been to Kendo’s Gun Shop, it wasn’t exactly everyday that she needed a new supply of guns, or ammo, she had plenty at the station at one time or another.

She and the whole team knew him well enough, she had even gotten the chance to meet his family at one point this past spring. Amara could only hope they’d made it out.

The shop is completely ransacked, shelves tipped over and shards of glass from the display cases strewn about the floor. If someone were to ask what exactly chaos looked like, this was definitely one of the images Amara would conjure up.

“Ugh, what a mess,” Ada comments, searching the shelves for extra ammunition.

In the name of self-preservation, Amara does the same, placing whatever she could into her hip pouch. Moving deeper into the store, suddenly a shotgun cocked and Amara turned to find that Leon is held at gunpoint.

“Don’t move,” Kendo threatens, his face contorted in fear as Amara quietly peered around the corner of the shelf. She didn’t want to get too jumpy, especially in what had quickly escalated to a tense situation.

“I’m just passing through, I’m gonna ask you to lower that weapon,” Leon speaks calmly, looking forward, probably just as mindful not to set Kendo off.

“Like hell you are, you’re gonna turn around and go right back out the way you came in.”

Amara crouches low, tiptoeing over shards of glass nearing the two of them. If anyone could talk him down, she hopes it’s her.

"Kendo, it's me," Amara calls out, hoping to calm the panicked man. "We don’t want any trouble."

In the momentary second that Kendo turns his attention to her voice, Leon is quick to turn on him, aiming his gun at him. Amara and Ada both emerge from the shadows, guns already aimed and ready. Kendo looked frayed and exhausted, with bloodshot eyes and a crazed expression. Amara noticed the shotgun was shaking in his hands as he tried to keep it trained on Leon.

Amara can see that Kendo's daughter Emma is standing nearby, her eyes sunken and her skin paler than usual. She knows that Emma is turning, yet Kendo still protected her despite the futility of it.

"Kendo, lower it," Amara says calmly, taking slow steps forward. "Just like the man said, we’re just passing through.”

Kendo hesitates for a moment, his finger still on the trigger of the shotgun. Amara sees the fear in his eyes, the fear that's driving him to protect his daughter at all costs.

"Please, Kendo," Amara continues, keeping her voice steady. "We're not the enemy here.”

Kendo hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting between the three of them. Slowly, he lowers his gun, allowing Amara to approach him. Amara can see the relief on Leon's face as he lowers his own gun.

As they talk with Kendo, Amara can't help but feel a sense of sadness and desperation. They're all just trying to survive, to hold on to some semblance of normalcy in a world gone mad. And yet, the odds seem to be against them. It’s at this point that Amara lets it sink in just how many people had been impacted by this, innocent people.

By the conversation’s end, Amara’s sure none of them feel any better about everything thus far.

“You know,... it’s one thing to keep the truth from us, but why him?” Leon turns on Ada, a determination in his voice.

A lone gunshot sounds off from behind the door, and Amara’s heart drops. Please, don’t let there be another shot.

“I want to stop this. Protecting people like them? That’s why I joined the force.”

Ada turns squarely to Leon. “My mission is to stop Umbrella’s whole operation, we may not make it out.”

Leon’s response proves to Amara that he was destined for this. “Whatever it takes to save this city, count us in.”

#leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x oc #re 2 remake fic #re2make #re 2 remake #re2 remake #original black character #original character #original characters #city of the dead fic #black oc #black resident evil oc #Leon kennedy x black oc #I tried figuring out html to fix the formatting but alas no luck #mixed race oc

11 notes · View notes

floorstanding312 · 12 days ago

Text

Professional Floor Sanding Services In Western Sydney

Looking to rejuvenate your wooden floors? Our expert floor sanding services in Western Sydney are designed to give your floors a smooth, elegant finish. Whether you're renovating your home or enhancing your business space, we offer top-notch results for more details visit our website.

#floor sanding western sydney #western sydney #floor sanding

0 notes

stantonflooring · 10 days ago

Text

https://www.stantonflooring.com.au/timber-floor-repairs-sydney/

Timber Floor Repair Services in Sydney | Stanton Flooring

We offer a full range of timber floor repair services, including timber floor sanding, polishing, recoating, staining and floorboard replacement in Sydney.

#floor sanding penrith #floor sanding sydney

0 notes

blogdemocratesjr · 1 year ago

Photo

Sarah Snook as Joan of Arc in George Bernard’s ‘Saint Joan’ by Sydney Theatre Company

JOAN'S MANLINESS AND MILITARISM

Joan's other abnormality, too common among uncommon things to be properly called a peculiarity, was her craze for soldiering and the masculine life. Her father tried to frighten her out of it by threatening to drown her if she ran away with the soldiers, and ordering her brothers to drown her if he were not on the spot. This extravagance was clearly not serious: it must have been addressed to a child young enough to imagine that he was in earnest. Joan must therefore as a child have wanted to run away and be a soldier. The awful prospect of being thrown into the Meuse and drowned by a terrible father and her big brothers kept her quiet until the father had lost his terrors and the brothers yielded to her natural leadership; and by that time she had sense enough to know that the masculine and military life was not a mere matter of running away from home. But the taste for it never left her, and was fundamental in determining her career.

If anyone doubts this, let him ask himself why a maid charged with a special mission from heaven to the Dauphin (this was how Joan saw her very able plan for retrieving the desperate situation of the uncrowned king) should not have simply gone to the court as a maid, in woman's dress, and urged her counsel upon him in a woman's way, as other women with similar missions had come to his mad father and his wise grandfather. Why did she insist on having a soldier's dress and arms and sword and horse and equipment, and on treating her escort of soldiers as comrades, sleeping side by side with them on the floor at night as if there were no difference of sex between them? It may be answered that this was the safest way of travelling through a country infested with hostile troops and bands of marauding deserters from both sides. Such an answer has no weight because it applies to all the women who travelled in France at that time, and who never dreamt of travelling otherwise than as women. But even if we accept it, how does it account for the fact that when the danger was over, and she could present herself at court in feminine attire with perfect safety and obviously with greater propriety, she presented herself in her man's dress, and instead of urging Charles, like Queen Victoria urging the War Office to send Roberts to the Transvaal, to send D'Alençon, De Rais, La Hire and the rest to the relief of Dunois at Orleans, insisted that she must go herself and lead the assault in person? Why did she give exhibitions of her dexterity in handling a lance, and of her seat as a rider? Why did she accept presents of armor and chargers and masculine surcoats, and in every action repudiate the conventional character of a woman? The simple answer to all these questions is that she was the sort of woman that wants to lead a man's life. They are to be found wherever there are armies on foot or navies on the seas, serving in male disguise, eluding detection for astonishingly long periods, and sometimes, no doubt, escaping it entirely. When they are in a position to defy public opinion they throw off all concealment. You have your Rosa Bonheur painting in male blouse and trousers, and George Sand living a man's life and almost compelling her Chopins and De Mussets to live women's lives to amuse her. Had Joan not been one of those 'unwomanly women', she might have been canonized much sooner.

But it is not necessary to wear trousers and smoke big cigars to live a man's life any more than it is necessary to wear petticoats to live a woman's. There are plenty of gowned and bodiced women in ordinary civil life who manage their own affairs and other people's, including those of their menfolk, and are entirely masculine in their tastes and pursuits. There always were such women, even in the Victorian days when women had fewer legal rights than men, and our modern women magistrates, mayors, and members of Parliament were unknown. In reactionary Russia in our own century a woman soldier organized an effective regiment of amazons, which disappeared only because it was Aldershottian enough to be against the Revolution. The exemption of women from military service is founded, not on any natural inaptitude that men do not share, but on the fact that communities cannot reproduce themselves without plenty of women. Men are more largely dispensable, and are sacrificed accordingly.

—George Bernard Shaw, Saint Joan

#Joan of Arc #Sarah Snook #Sydney Theatre Company #George Bernard Shaw #Saint Joan

3 notes · View notes

5sosfanfictioncatalogue · 2 years ago

Text

Artist/Painter Masterlist

a third kind of madness. (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton E, 9k

Summary: Unfortunately for him, he’s never really had the time to sit down and paint Luke properly. He tried before, when they were younger, but Luke had been restless and bratty, never sitting still for very long before he got bored or hungry or horny.

or, in which Ashton makes the most of his time off work by painting his beautiful boyfriend Luke.

Brush Strokes (ao3) - falloutmuke michael/luke M, 667

Summary: luke has autism with a love for art. michael is an artist with a love for luke.

I'd pay to see you frown (ao3) - shutupluke michael/ashton G, 1k

Summary: Ashton catches his eye for a moment, smiles nervously. Michael tries to look reassuring, but he thinks it’s probably coming across like he's undressing Ashton with his eyes. He kind of is.

Ashton doesn't look that horrified, so maybe he succeeded. He clears his throat, looks down at the floor, and undoes his robe, shrugging it off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor.

Or, Michael is an art student and Ashton is the nude model his class has to paint.

if i knew from the start, would it change a thing? (ao3) - acetominophen luke/ashton N/R, 35k

Summary: "All I painted was you, Ash. It was always you." But Ashton wasn't listening to him at all. His silver-lined eyes were trained on the hand-written words at the bottom of the canvas, unblinking.

Luke's gaze followed his and his lips parted because shit, he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten that he'd titled this one.

'Poisoned myself again. LH'.

Artist!Luke Cowboy!Ashton

it must be the stars (ao3) - skatershelley (craicshelley) luke/ashton N/R, 1k

Summary: Ashton's an artist who likes to sleep on his roof and draw at night. And then someone appears on the roof next door.

That's actually a really bad summary, but you know. Whatever.

Line Work (ao3) - ashtonhours (heartandmindxx) luke/ashton, michael/calum M, 21k

Summary: Ashton Irwin, 07/07/94, no known medical conditions and not under the influence of drugs or alcohol – and originally from Sydney, as it turns out – is looking to get a bird on his neck.

“A California condor,” he says for about the twelfth time, “on my nape.”

a story about boundaries, trust, and a line in the sand.

Muse (ao3) - moonbands calum/ashton N/R, 6k

Summary: Calum gets assigned a project to take photos of a stranger and get to know them to be able to tell their story. Calum chooses Ashton, the angel-like painter that never has his clothes free from paint.

Off-Screen (ao3) - allsassnoclass (brightblackholes) luke/ashton G, 3k

Summary: Now that classes are being taught from home due to the pandemic, students are getting a glimpse into Professor Irwin's home life, especially when his mysterious husband keeps interrupting class.

painting (ao3) - orphan_account calum/ashton N/R, 1k

Summary: calum was ashton's muse, he just didn't quite know it yet.

Paint Me (ao3) - @daydadahlias (cornflowerblue (daydadahlias)) luke/ashton E, 17k

Summary: “Holy shit, hold on a minute,” Calum says, “is that who we’re supposed to be drawing?”

“I can’t draw him,” Michael gawks, “I’m not a Goddamn renaissance painter.”

Or, the one where Luke is an art student practicing realism for a month and Ashton is the nude model in his portrait class.

Paint Me In Your Sunshine (ao3) - mukeclemmings michael/ashton, minor luke/calum M, 26k

Summary: Ashton is smiling and it grows when he turns to look at Michael. Dimples, is all Michael can think and then he notices the bit of blond coloring in his hair and oh my god, is he going to be in this class everyday? Because Michael knows he won’t be able to focus on anything else with Ashton right here.

(Michael is an awkward, freshman art major who really wants to kiss the dimples of the upperclassman who sits beside him in painting class.)

Paint Me Like One Of Your French Girls (ao3) - boomercal luke/ashton M, 1k

Summary: Ashton is a famous and revered artist who has had the same muse for a long time; Luke, the muse in question, has been keeping a string of lovers to finance his lifestyle, which often includes sitting for hours for Ashton for free.

Paint Me Wings (ao3) - outlawofideal michael/luke M, 1k

Summary: Michael needs inspiration to paint and he finds a tall blonde one in a club.

Something Old, Something New (ao3) - @ashtcnirwin (elivigar) luke/ashton T, 3k

Summary: “So, makeup, then?”

Luke can feel a rush of blood from his stomach to his face, and he rolls his lips before giving a curt nod.

“Wanna give me something more to go on, or would you like me to just slather some products on you and hope for the best?”

“Oh,” Luke says, and it comes out accompanied by a curt, breathy laugh. “I… I don’t know. I just wanted to… you know, try something new, but…”

In which Ashton is a makeup artist and Luke likes the idea of everything pretty.

Work of Art :: Malum (ao3) - eaty0urveggies michael/calum G, 3k

Summary: In a room full of paintings, he was the true work of art,

Or,

When Michael was an artist and Calum was his masterpiece.

#5sosfanfictioncatalogue #5sos #5sos fanfic #michael clifford #luke hemmings #calum hood #ashton irwin #artist #painter #artist masterlist #masterlists

4 notes · View notes