#london terror attack

[girlactionfigure]

A terrorist tried to break into a kosher grocery store in London and stab Jews. The Jews took him over and handed him over to the local police. Jews just arm yourselves everywhere!

The terrorist was wrestled to the ground by local Jewish security teams.

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

I want to be very real with you all right now as someone living in the UK: I'm absolutely terrified right now.

I'm white, and so I know I am not at risk of these racist riots that are taking place across the country, but I'm worried for POC who are being targeted, who are at risk if they leave their homes or go to work.

These people causing these riots are not "protesters", they are far-right thugs who are disgusting and violent. These people do not care about those three little girls who were killed last week, they don't care about the people who were wounded during the stabbings, they don't care about "protecting women and girls", they are merely using it as an excuse to destroy and harm. I'm ashamed that this is the country I live in, where these riots are being allowed to happen, where there is so much hatred and bigotry, where there's not only rising racism but also a rise in homophobia, transphobia, etc.

I am also scared because my little sister has (finally) managed to get an actual ticket to one of the Eras Tour shows next weekend (after being robbed of £1000 by a low-life scumbag scammer), it's all she's been dreaming about for the better part of two years, but there seems to be a growing trend of terrorist and misogynistic attacks linked to Taylor Swift events: the stabbing in Southport took place during a Taylor Swift dance class aimed at children, and just now the shows in Vienna have been cancelled because of the threat of planned terror attacks. The police and Mayor of London have said that they will be working closely to enforce enhanced security measures, that "lessons were learned" after the attack at the Manchester Ariana Grande concert, but I'm still worried about my sister and our mum going next weekend.

The attack in Southport is not suspected to be a terror attack, but it's clear that a certain group were targeted when the perpetrator chose to attack a dance class aimed primarily at girls who love Taylor Swift. Targeting the Vienna Taylor Swift shows is clearly targeting a certain demographic. High profile events like this are often targets because they attract a lot of people.

Honestly, I'm just so worried right now about everything that's going on, and I feel guilty for being worried because it's not me who is being targeted by racist thugs, but all of the unrest is upsetting to see. I desperately hope that everyone right now is staying safe and looking after themselves, and that people like me who are white and witness racism firsthand don't just sit back and allow it to happen. We can't allow this to become commonplace, we cannot allow the far-right to pretend that they represent the entire country.

[canberramaidan]

People lay flowers after the June 2017 London Bridge terror attack.

[world-of-wales]

Catherine’s Royal Closet (50/∞) ♚

↬ Long Snake Stich Coat

Catherine first wore this coat from Italian label Missoni for a vigil marking the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Somme and once again wore it for the Service of Hope for the victims of the London terror attack in 2017.

The A-line coat features silver metallic threads that are crochet-knitted into an angled zigzag pattern.

It’s made from a rayon mix fabric, is fully lined and has a back vent and button fastenings on the front.

[tuttle-did-it]

Here's my thing. When someone, say in their 70s or 80s, can go off and be horrible- racist, sexist, transphobic, homophobic or queerphobic in general, fascist, islamophobic, anti-Semitic, etc. Just generally horrible.

All I think of when I meet these horrible people is,

'You saw Kennedy and MLKs assassinations. You did not change.'

'you went through the entire Civil Rights movement, and you didn't change.'

'You saw the space race, you did not change.'

'You sat through the Stonewall Riots, and you didn't change.'

'You saw Women's Lib and Second Wave feminism. You did not change.'

'You went through the anti-Vietnam war era, and you didn't change.'

'You went through the AIDs era, and you didn't change.'

'You saw Rodney King beat to death, and you didn't change.'

'You saw the IRA Troubles era, and you didn't change.'

'You saw the Berlin Wall fall, and the collapse of the Cold War with the Soviet Union, and you still didn't change.'

'You saw 11 September attacks, you saw all the terrorist attacks on London. The constant global climate change resulting in hurricanes, tsunamis, floods, and more. The horrors in Darfur. You did not change.'

'You lived through the global economic crisis, The Boston Marathon, Occupy Wall Street, The Black Lives Matter movement, #MeToo, the constant fires and floods due to climate change, Brexshit, constant school shootings, constant shootings everywhere and a fucking pendemic. and you have not changed.'

My only conclusion to all of this?

You CHOOSE NOT TO CHANGE. How can ANYONE go through all of this and NOT change?? Not become MORE concerned about the people around you, whatever their colour, disability, sexuality, gender, ethnicity, religion, politics? How can you NOT become more concerned about the world around you? How can you go through all of this and still have the same attitudes and opinions you did in 1954??

When someone says to me, 'oh, he's an old man, he's got old-fashioned ideas.' What that says to me is that that person went through at least 7 decades without learning a single thing.

Age is never an excuse. Norman Lear was 101 when he died just a few days ago. He was fighting for decades to try to bring attention to the struggles of women, people of colour, disabled people, and queer people. He is responsible for some of the most groundbreaking television in history-- including the first uncloseted gay characters, drag queens and Black trans women. At 101, just a few months ago, he was trying to get at least two shows about being queer greenlit for production. He continued to learn and grow and adapt and change with time. He allowed time to touch him. He allowed time to change him. He chose to change and keep growing and learning.

So if Norman Lear, at a 101, can understand pronouns, neopronouns, gender dysphoria, poverty, PTSD, struggles ofr people of colour, sexuality-- if he can understand all of that?? and these idiots are still ranting about the ~woke~? You know what? I've just got nothing to say to them.

The next time someone tells you to be patient because 'that person is in their 70s,' Think of all of this that they have refused to change with the times. This is their choice. Because I don't know about you, but the stuff on this list that I have lived through? Has changed me a lot. And it should.

It's very possible that the only way to ensure you don't become a conservative old person is to keep checking whether you're wrong. Every time. Genuinely mull over the opposing viewpoint even and especially when it's uncomfortable. You absolutely cannot a) consider yourself safely incapable of terrible principles because you're a good person, or b) treat a your disgust reaction to something as a moral truth. You can't get comfortable. Tiring! But you'd rather be tired and choose the right path, you know?

[sanctiphera]

Marching in the UK is changing nothing in the Middle East. It's just thousands of angry, hateful people venting their hatred on the streets of London.

[our-trans-punk-experience]

FAR RIGHT RIOTS

REBLOG THIS PLEASE!!

shit is bad in the UK but obviously it is immensly confusing and I know some people wouldn't want to search up the news given how volatile it is, so here is a timeline of events. warnings for talk of violence, child death, racism, police ect

Monday 29/07: mass stabbing occured in Southport at a kids dance class, three girls died on scene, several others were hospitalised. An at time unnamed 17 y old boy was arrested on suspicion, and a knife was seized. later

Tuesday 30/07: having read false news suggesting that the attacker was a muslim immigrant who had arrived on a small boat, far-right groups with links to the EDL their leader Tommy Robinson took to the internet to imply the attacker was Muslim attacked a mosque in Southport, and after being declared a public disturbance, the police showed up and started trying to disperse them. This very quickly spiralled into a riot in which 39 police were hospitalised. Also on this day, Nigel fucking Farage, leader of far-right party Reform UK tweeted a video in which asked if the police were lying that the attack was not "terror related", furthering belief that the attacker was Muslim

Wednesday 31/07: violent anti immigrant protest continued, and there were mass riots in London. The PM spoke out denouncing the far right rioters as "violent thugs who would feel the full force of the law"

Thursday 01/08 : to try and curb the spread of misinformation, the police released the identity of their suspect - Axel Rudakubana, born in Cardiff to Rwandan parents in hope that the confirmation that he is not a Muslim immigrant would stop the rioting. It has not. PM Starmer released a statement saying that these were "coordinated attacks by the far right. " and that "this is not a protest that got out of hand these are individuals bent on violence"

Friday Night 02/08: Riots started in Sunderland late at night with reports of "serious violence". Starmer announced he had a plan to tackle far right violence.

Saturday 03/08: New far right mob action started in Manchester, Bristol, Hull, Belfast, Stoke, and Nottingham. Nottingham saw the first counterprotest, and as I write this, clashes between antifacist protestors and the far right is on going. The racists are setting fire to migrant housing buildings and attacking both police and counterprotestors countrywide. Dispersal orders have been issued for every city centre and major town centre across the UK.

Sunday 04/08: a "nick em quick" approach is to be used against the rioters in a hope to remove the far right mob from the street as soon as possible. There have been over 100 arrests. There are no plans to bring in the army, say ministers. There is a current attack on a migrant housing building in Rotherham.

I will keep posting updates as this unfolds so watch this space. This is obviously terrifying, so I want you to focus on actionable points.

stop the spread of misinformation. i can cite all my sources on a different post if you would like, but know that i visited ten different news sites, and also watched all the live news coverage to make this post. if you see any new information, fact check it. if you see someone spreading misinformation anywhere, DO SOMETHING. call them out and correct them and if they don't fix it, report them.

take care of any of your friends who aren't white, or if you aren't white, consider not going anywhere alone. racists don't discriminate in their discrimination. they are violent, deranged, and several are armed.

unless you are attending a counterprotest, stay the fuck out of town and city centres!!!!

STAY SAFE OUT THERE!! always in solidarity

[screams-of-the-damned84]

(flops on stage) i now present to you my very silly swap au,,,

essentially jasper is now the co-leader of the society who was bitten by a werewolf and is trying to hide it, jekyll is the uni student who got kicked out due to his experiments and then picked up off the streets, etc. jasper and rachel can’t communicate and jekyll and lanyon are living the world’s weirdest horror romcom you’ve ever seen. more info under cut hehe (feat. bad explanations and doodles)

in simpler terms, jekyll and lanyon swap narrative positions (?? is that the right term) with jasper and rachel respectively. (lanyons and rachels swap doesn’t technically work as well as Jekyll’s and jaspers does but shhhhh). Frankenstein becomes the mad scientist that attacks the society and moreau becomes jaspers idol.

longer explanation but WARNING!! it is 3am when i am typing this and i am terrible at explaining. it may be slightly incomprehensible.

so like jasper and rachel founded the society after jasper publishes his research and gets semi famous. two years before current events jasper is out on a research venture and gets bitten by a werewolf. he doesn’t want to scare rachel or the lodgers so he keeps it a secret (to his own detriment). flash forward to now and jasper gets a call to investigate a “creature” terrorizing the streets of london only to find hyde.

before jasper can process the dumpster man he is looking at hyde transforms back into jekyll. jekyll explains that while trying to prove his theory of spiritual alchemy at his university he may or may not have split his own soul. and got kicked out. and is now living on the streets.

jasper, not really knowing what else to do and kinda relating to the poor guy, takes him back to the society. he introduces his co-leader rachel, who pretty much keeps this entire thing up and running. (rachel and jekyll still become friends but she especially takes to hyde. that little brother shaped hole in her heart is still very much present!) then theres the lodgers (idk how they all swap) and then there’s lanyon, a university student at the society because it was mandatory for one of his courses. he is not enjoying it and would very much rather be breaking boy’s hearts back at school. lucky for him tho, there’s jekyll!

this goes about as well as you would expect. lanyon then spends the rest of his stay at the society trying to understand (and woo) the conundrum that is jekyll and hyde. it’s very fluffy and they learn to communicate like jasper and rachel in canon (yippee!)

unfortunately for jasper and rachel, they have been playing the “just friends” game for the last decade. im having a bit of trouble trying to flesh out swap rachel so i don’t really know if she’s in a lavender marriage like canon lanyon is or is estranged/divorced or just single but whatever the case is she likes jasper but thinks he just sees her as a friend while jasper is madly in love with her and is too scared to tell her. this problem has only worsened since jasper got bitten. everyone else tho is aware of how they feel about each other and are stuck witnessing their tortuously long slow burn.

(hyde and lanyon at some point probably come up with a scheme to try and get them to confess. it goes horribly wrong.)

so yeah. this au has been floating around in my head ever since i read the comic for the first time. it mainly came to be because of how well jasper and jekyll parallel each other and because i wanted to draw stupid fluff and older jasper lol.

if anyone has any ideas/questions/etc TELL ME!!!!! this is just a rough idea if you have a better concept go for it awhdvgevd

[kachulein]

I guess my dream is quite long and detailed... I reached all 30 tags so I'll finish it off below the cut:

(Also TW: violence/murder for both the tags and below the cut)

He addressed me as Kitty or Kitten and basically treated and talked to me as if I was a cat and he had no bigger joys in life than to "play" with me now.

Me cowering in the corner was even more ironic now because the dynamic man versus cat was kind of established that way

At this point my brain was going into overdrive - how was I supposed to get out of this alive? The only chance I had was to catch him by surprise, sneak around him and escape through the door, so that's what I tried when I felt as if the right moment had come

I quickly got up and dashed around him, he turned in surprise but managed to hold on to me and drag me back before I had been able to fully exit the room

Now I was pressed up against his side and he was making even more snide and disgusting/creepy/predatory comments, really enjoying the thought of me as a human "kitty cat" and anticipating the moment in which he could take my last breath away

He started strangling me with his hands, I'm not sure if he also injured me with a weapon, I only remember how my neck was very bloody afterwards - especially on one side, so he might've injured me there with a knife

But at that point, that wasn't important to me as I was gasping for air and trying my best to make my struggle be heard and scream in some way, shape, or form

I think it was successful as I heard someone running up the stairs while I started getting dizzier with every second, my system screaming for oxygen while I was struggling against his hold

Suddenly, though, the door slammed open and it revealed my cousin standing there, a furious spark of anger in his eyes

He didn't hesitate one bit when he flung himself at the guy, tore him away from me and fell on the bed right next to us with him

Then I only saw him hovering over the guy, taking out a knife and stabbing and slitting his throat, blood splattering out and covering the sheets as the guy's body went limp

It was finally over, I had survived, and my cousin had saved me

When the police arrived we were like "y'all couldn't have come here a bit sooner??"

I met the woman/girlfriend again, she was taken away in handcuffs, looking saddened

As she passed by me she told me she really loved him even though she never liked what he'd done to other people (not just those he murdered, but also the mistreatment of others, etc.)

I asked her if he had been abusive towards her, too, but she told me that he had always been the most amazing and sweetest guy to her and she never had to fear he'd do anything bad to her

I was glad to hear that, I told her that I was sorry it had to end like this and we parted ways on kinda good terms, so to say ???

When I got home I finally had a chance to examine my condition and potential injuries (apparently I wasn't brought to a doctor or hospital?)

My neck definitely had marks on it and you could tell someone had tried to strangle me to death, and then I also found the blood stain on the left side of my neck

But I couldn't recall a moment in which I was injured there, so I thought that I hadn't noticed it while I was almost killed :'))

and then I woke up-

Reblog and put in the tags a dream you had that seems like you're making it up when describing it but it's something you genuinely dreamed.

[betweenstorms]

Part Seven of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

The rest of November slipped by in a sombre hush, days folding into one another like pages of an old book left in the rain.

Except for that one day.

A gunfight rang out near Aimsley Street, slicing through the murmur of the city. It left London tense and shaken, paralyzed for days as subways shut down, and those who could, travelled by car, turning the streets into a grid of motionless headlights.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as lethal as the terror attack at Piccadilly in 2019, but still, the unease seeped in, threading through the city’s veins, casting shadows across familiar places. And just like that, November quickly disappeared, pulling its curtain of solitude and waiting, leaving the world stripped bare, exposed to the bites of winter’s approach.

December draped itself over London like a heavy, threadbare blanket, stifling and colourless, the kind of oppressive atmosphere that made everything feel lifeless. The cold settled in, not the crisp, biting chill of clear winter mornings, but a damp, penetrating coldness that seeped into your very bones and made you wonder if you’d ever feel warm again. The streets looked as though they’d been stripped bare, left open and exposed to the heavy, overcast skies above. Most days, a dull mist hung over the pavements, giving the buildings a washed-out, ghostly quality, like a city caught between sleep and waking.

The days bled into one another, each more bleak than the last, with early mornings arriving in murky shades of grey and fading too soon into evenings that swallowed the world whole in their darkness. People moved with that characteristic urgency that winter brings. You joined them begrudgingly, always tugging your coat closer, cursing yourself for always forgetting a scarf, or for the thin boots that always seemed to soak up icy puddles like a bloody sponge.

On especially cold nights, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal, that this was simply the way things were and had always been. But it was quite difficult to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that the hollow silence that lingered in the empty spaces between your days wasn’t just the eerie stillness of winter, but the absence of something, or rather, someone, you had grown painfully fond of.

Simon hadn’t been back since early November.

He had texted once or twice, short, clipped messages that somehow still made your heart flip, each one like a handful of pebbles tossed your way. “Busy these days,” and, later, “Might be back in a month. Can’t promise.” And with each message, you felt the quiet ache of hope and disappointment, an unsettling mixture that left you feeling more and more lonely with each passing week.

You’d taken to clutching your phone a little more often, your heart flickering with every buzz, only to sink again as other, mundane notifications filtered through.

It was a strange kind of torture, missing someone who was never truly yours to miss, whose life was a map marked with destinations and duties far beyond your reach. However, even knowing this, even acknowledging the distance he kept, you felt his absence like a stone lodged deep within you, heavy and unmoving.

You found yourself reaching for the phone countless times, fingers hovering over his name, wondering if a simple call or text would bridge the painful emptiness he’d left in his absence.

But something held you back, understanding that Simon would likely meet your words with a silence that would hurt more than any reply. He’d drawn his line between his work and his personal life, between the world that demanded his professionalism and the connection he somehow allowed to happen with you.

He’d made it clear, he wouldn’t let those worlds collide, wouldn’t risk them merging into something unpredictable, something neither of you could control. And you respected that boundary, even as it tore at you.

However, the days felt endless without him, each hour stretching into another shadowed ache that you couldn’t quiet, no matter how hard you tried. Your heart felt like an open wound, raw and unhealing, each sore beat a reminder of his absence, each moment a slow, silent bleed of longing. You wondered if he felt it too, the quiet fracture of separation that neither of you could mend, a wound that only his return could begin to close.

December pressed on, relentless in its gloom.

Your world shrank, folding in on itself as you huddled in your flat, wrapped in oversized jumpers, your hands perpetually curled around a mug of tea to chase away the chill that lingered in your bones.

You fell into a sort of rhythm, almost like a ritual, as if by carrying out these small and mundane acts, you could keep the loneliness at bay. Mornings were spent buried under blankets, moving only reluctantly to start your day, while evenings were spent wrapped up on the sofa, the dim glow of a lamp casting a pale light across the room as you read, watched, and waited.

Your birthday and Christmas arrived, as dull as the winter sky outside. There was little joy in the chill, in the frozen ground that spread across Wimbledon, turning every cobbled street and brick house into an icy, unyielding facade. But you did find some comfort in being back with your parents, tucked into the warmth of their home, where the smell of spices and evergreen filled the air. Your mother, delighted to have you home, fussed over meals, bustling in and out of the kitchen with a determined cheerfulness that belied the weariness around her eyes. Your father sat by, his once-broad frame softened with age, but his gaze was still as sharp as ever.

You gave them the plane tickets to Thailand over Christmas dinner.

Your mum’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that was rare to see in the last few years.

You knew how long she’d wanted to return, how she’d looked at old photos of their honeymoon with a wistful smile, memories of a warmth and beauty worlds away from London’s dull cold. She held the tickets with reverence, tracing the letters with her finger as though they were a magical doorway back to her youth, when her husband’s sickness was just like a bad dream. Your father, whose health, thank God, had held up well in recent months despite some close calls, smiled, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Thailand,” your mother murmured, eyes distant. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been so long.” She gave your dad a nudge, eyes twinkling. “Been on about it for ages, haven’t I?”

He hummed and squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a right menace about it, that’s true.”

When you took them to the airport a week after Christmas, the terminal was filled with that strange, buzzing excitement that only comes with travel. People hugged each other, voices mixing with the static announcements overhead, foreign families pulling along suitcases, kids clutching stuffed animals and couples leading each other by each other’s hand.

You embraced your parents tightly, your mum’s hair smelling faintly of lavender and your father’s coat thick against you. You watched with a smile as they made their way through security, disappearing into the throng of travellers until they were out of sight.

And then, you were alone again.

New Year’s Eve crept up like a thief in the night, bringing with it a strange melancholy, like watching the embers of a once-bright fire slowly burn to ash. There was a hollowness in the air, a sensation that even the bright lights and the laughter of strangers couldn’t fill.

You’d been roped into joining your colleagues at a bar near the office. It seemed like a dreadful idea, but sitting alone in your flat, watching the hours crawl by, felt worse. You donned your best smile, the one that looked good enough in the mirror to fool even yourself, and you went, desperate for any mindless chatter that would at least keep your mind occupied.

But the bar was thick with heat and noise, the heavy bass of music thumping under the clatter of glass and the rise and fall of laughter. You found yourself swept into a circle of colleagues, all chattering about their plans for the new year, raising toasts, and making idle promises that would likely dissolve by February. They laughed easily, voices drifting over you in waves, and yet it all felt distant, like you were submerged in water, hearing only the echo of sound.

Then a young man from finance cornered you.

You only blinked at him, barely listening, caught in the comedic rhythm of his bouncing curls as he nodded along to his own words.

He launched into a passionate speech about the bloody sanctity of traditional gender roles. His words blurred together, his voice almost muted by the weight of your thoughts. Occasionally, you threw in a polite nod or a mumbled a barely audible “I see,” but your mind was far from this harrowing event. Then he leaned closer, mistaking your silence for interest, his voice picking up with enthusiasm as he rambled about his mother’s perfect domesticity.

He was going on about how his parents’ marriage thrived on ‘proper’ roles, his mum content at home, his father in the workplace, as if time hadn’t moved on. 

Instead of focusing on the man in front of you, whose name you didn't even know, your mind drifted back to Simon, as it always did, caught in the same endless orbit around him.

It was a quiet tragedy, really—how he occupied every corner of your thoughts, each waking hour, and even seeped into your dreams.

Last night, you dreamt of him again. You were back in Manchester, in the schoolyard where your lives had first touched, sitting side by side, sharing a slice of cake with the casual intimacy of old friends. Yet, in the dream, you were adults, marked by the years that had carved distance and longing between you.

You couldn’t help but wonder where he might be.

What distant place held him at this very moment? Did he feel the same biting loneliness that haunted you, or did the distance barely register for him? Did he notice the empty spaces you left behind, the echo of your absence? Did he miss you in that quiet, aching way you missed him, as though without him, the world felt hollow, missing something essential?

The evening dragged on, your drink untouched on the table, its amber hue glinting in the dim light of the bar.

Suddenly, the noise around you became too much so you left without a word. The countdown spilled out of the bar, each passing number a drumbeat reminding you of how misplaced you felt. The voices grew louder, almost drowning out the thoughts you clung to so desperately, but there was no shaking Simon’s image from your mind. You excused yourself to the blur of faces, slipping out into the cold just as the crowd reached “Three… two…” and a cheer erupted inside, muffled by the heavy door that closed behind you.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but there was a strange relief in it. The chill worked its way through your coat, wrapping around your limbs, but you barely felt it.

Your mind was still somewhere else—wandering across continents, or maybe just a few miles away, lingering wherever Simon might be, wherever he was spending this strange moment of resumption. You tried to imagine him in his world, far from the lights and laughter, caught in some clandestine mission, navigating the edges of danger.

It felt wrong to picture him anywhere else but beside you.

You walked down the street slowly, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, blurry eyes trained on the pavement.

A fine layer of frost glistened under the dim streetlights, turning the world silver. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The faint sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, colours bursting against the night sky, their light reflecting in fragmented patterns on the layer of ice below your feet.

You looked up absentmindedly, the fireworks dying behind your eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than you had in years.

Perhaps loving him in silence was no longer possible.

The feelings had slipped beyond your control, as if they had a life of their own—spilling over like water from a crack in glass, flooding every part of you, soaking into your bones. The walls you’d so carefully built around your bleeding heart felt like little more than tissue now, flimsy barriers against the torrent that pressed and surged within. There was no holding back, no silencing the quiet ache that had become a steady, insistent pulse beneath your skin, a longing that refused to remain hidden, that sought him out even in the hollow silence.

No, you needed to love Simon Riley openly—

—without shadows or restraint.

You needed to bring this love into the light, where it could finally catch its first breath, where it could be heard and be seen, where it could thrive unhidden, unafraid. You needed him—not in fragments or stolen moments, not as a quiet ache buried in your chest, but wholly, fiercely, as something alive and unshackled.

You had wasted so much time.

So many precious years that now felt like mere flickers in the dark, small glimpses of life that slipped through your grasp before you’d even had a chance to hold them, like a newborn. The weight of it settled heavily upon you, like the slow realisation of a loss so deep it seemed to stretch back through all the years you’d been alive.

You could feel it in the pit of your chest, that dull ache of regret, as you thought of all the things you had left unobserved, the fleeting moments you had let drift by without truly seeing them for what they were.

You should have taken the time to appreciate your mum’s rose bush in full bloom. You should have sat with her in the garden, asking her all kinds of questions about those roses and why she loved them, about her own dreams and what she longed for.

You should have lingered a little bit longer in conversation with Mrs. Riley when she waved at you from her porch after school. She had been there every day, asking after your mum or commenting on the weather, hoping for a second of connection. But you had always been too absorbed in your own world, too eager to rush home, and now, those lost conversations seemed like small, precious jewels you’d tossed aside without even realising their worth.

There was that joyful summer in Sicily, too, when you’d stood on the shore with friends, the Mediterranean sun turning the sea into shimmering glass. You’d laughed, feeling invincible, the salt breeze tangling your hair and the waves lapping at your feet. But you were always thinking ahead, already planning the next thrill, and you never truly let yourself savour the gentle kiss of the sea or the warmth of those friendships, believing, foolishly, that there would always be more summers like that one.

Now, those days felt like faded photographs, captured and stowed away, a version of you that felt impossibly distant, almost unreal.

And all those dreams you’d held so tightly in your youth—they felt almost absurd and foolish now. Those grand plans, the visions of who you’d become, had seemed so important once, so urgent. However, life had drifted by, filled with pathetic attempts, with moments you passed over for the promise of a future that never quite materialised. All the dreams you’d clung to now seemed like toys left in a forgotten corner, things that once shimmered brightly but now only reminded you of all you hadn’t achieved, all you hadn’t dared to reach for.

And Simon.

God, you should have kept in touch.

All those years stretched between you like an untraveled road, a distance marked by silence and missed chances. You’d shared so much as children and somehow, as life tugged you in different directions, you’d let him slip away, thinking perhaps that time would wait, that there would always be a someday to reconnect.

But that day never came.

How could you have let all those years pass without him in your life?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And so, your resolve sharpened as the final traces of colourful fireworks flickered in the sky, fading like smiles, leaving you alone on that empty street. Heart pounding, you reached into your bag, fingers trembling as they closed around your phone. The reality of what you were about to do seized you, filling you with a giddy sense of reckless abandon. You needed to tell him—to reach across this vast, impossible distance and let him know what he meant to you.

You couldn’t wait for another moment to slip by, couldn’t let another chance vanish into the empty air of this cold evening.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering as you stared at his name, the contact you’d saved so long ago but had so rarely dared to use. It felt monumental, like all the words you’d swallowed down like bitter pills, all the years of quiet yearning and repressed emotions were resting in a single message.

Happy New Year, Si.

You paused, staring at those three words.

It felt too simple, too unremarkable, yet somehow too much at the same time. However, you weren’t done. No, you couldn’t just wish him a happy New Year and leave it at that, not with everything you felt pressing on your chest, a weight so heavy it felt as though it might crush you. The words were there, bubbling up, desperate to spill out. Your thumbs lingered on the keyboard, hesitating, heart thundering as you finally, almost timidly, typed:

I love you.

Three more words.

They settled perfectly beneath the first message, as if they had always belonged there, tucked away beneath the safety of the New Year’s greeting. Somehow, the two messages fit together, one nestled beneath the other like layers of meaning, entwined, as though love was just a natural extension of your wish to start another year with him.

And, in a way, it was.

Two minutes passed. Then another two. And another two. But those words flew into the void, a confession to the ether, carrying with them every unspoken feeling you’d harboured, every quiet longing and desperate hope you had clung to through those long, empty days. However, it was fitting because love was never too loud between you and Simon. It was quiet, patient, a silent constant that filled the spaces between words. And yet, in this moment, as you stared at the screen, it felt too small. Because God, how you wished he were here beside you.

You wished, with a quiet ache, that he was here, that you could say these words to him aloud, that he might look at you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his and hear them for what they were—an offering, small but true, from your heart to his.

You checked your phone obsessively, but there was no reply, only the empty screen reflecting your own hesitance back at you. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching on, thick and heavy with doubt. Had he seen it? Was he even awake? Or worse, had he simply chosen to ignore it, to leave your confession to languish in the unknown, unacknowledged?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the gnawing anxiety blooming in your chest.

The street was easeful, your only company the faint sound of revellers in the distance, their laughter drifting away like smoke on the wind. And there you stood, small and solitary, your message carried away into the silence of the night. You’d given a piece of yourself away, a part you could never take back, and the ache of that realisation settled within you, but there was no regret. You couldn’t live in the shadow of regret anymore. You could feel your pitiful heart thud painfully, a rhythm of yearning, wondering if you’d gone too far, if you’d crossed a line that could never be mended.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine his reaction—his gaze lowering to his phone, those unreadable hazel eyes flickering with some emotion he’d keep hidden behind his stoic mask. Would he read it? Would he feel the weight of those words? Or would he look away, placing your soft confession with all the other things he couldn’t face? A thousand questions swirled within you, each one carrying the potential of hope or heartbreak, yet none held an answer.

New Year’s slipped by, leaving you alone in your small, silent flat.

The cheers, the drinks, the fireworks, your coworkers—they all felt like shards of a broken life happening elsewhere, a distant world removed from your solitude. You made some mint tea and curled up on your sofa, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, letting the muted glow of a mindless romcom you’d seen a hundred times fill the room. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward your phone, longing for a reply that never came. Even though the screen remained dark, indifferent, you held onto the hope that it might light up with his name, with a message that would close the distance, however briefly, between your heart and his.

But days turned into weeks.

London slipped back into its own rhythm, its pulse steady and unchanging, as if the new year had come and gone without so much as a murmur. You, too, fell into the cadence of it all, returning to the apologetic rituals that had once felt like anchors but now seemed more like weights, pulling you through the days with a muted inevitability. There was work, with its familiar faces and deadlines, the cold commute, where breath rose like ghosts in the air, and the small tasks you clung to—brewing your morning tea, buttoning your coat, watching the frost glisten on your windowsill. Each small motion, each quiet routine, tethered you to the present, even as part of you remained lost somewhere else.

The ache in your chest persisted, a constant, unyielding reminder of your confession hanging in the silence. You busied yourself with distractions, trying to smother the gnawing ache of unreciprocated love, but it lingered, like a wound you couldn’t heal, as early January passed in a blur of frozen mornings and grey afternoons.

Another week began, still with no sign of Simon.

It was strange, feeling his absence so acutely, even after so many years of silence. You found yourself slipping into daydreams, remembering those late nights in his flat, the smoke curling between you as he listened quietly to your ramblings, his presence steady and grounding. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the rare moments when his hard exterior softened, revealing the person beneath. You missed the comfort of his company, the sense of being truly seen and being heard, of sharing space with someone who, despite his walls, had let you glimpse parts of him no one else had.

But the silence stretched on, longer than you ever thought you could bear, each empty day settling like dust over your heart. Slowly, painfully, you began to accept the truth that lay beneath that silence—that this time, he might not return.

It was a dull ache, this acceptance, not a sharp, searing pain but a slow, sinking sorrow that settled into your bones, filling the spaces where hope had once lingered. It wasn’t defeat; it was a kind of surrender, yielding to a reality you had tried to keep at bay. You felt it weigh on you with a familiar heaviness, pressing down in a way that made everything seem just a little bit dimmer, a little more distant, as if the world itself had taken on his absence and softened to match the ache in your chest. You carried on, each day a quiet testament to the resilience of the heart, even as it broke under the strain of loss.

Then one evening, weeks after you’d given up on a reply, your phone vibrated.

The screen glowed softly, casting a dim, ethereal light over the shadows of your bedroom. It was a quiet, almost fragile glow, as though the device itself knew the weight of what it held, the significance of that single name illuminating the dark. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the light, your mind reeling in disbelief. Oh, his name was there, clear and unmistakable, like something conjured from a dream, a figment you’d imagined in those long, empty hours.

And yet, it was real.

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move, your hands hovering just above the screen, frozen by a mixture of hope and fear. It felt surreal, the kind of moment you’d only dared to imagine. But there it was, right in front of you. So you reached for the phone, fingers trembling, the screen warm under your touch, grounding you in this unexpected, almost magical reality. You felt it thrum in your ears, in your fingertips, in your whole body, as though every cell in your body was attuned to this moment, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

Took me far too long to catch on.

Fucking clueless sod I am.

Even with half a world between us, you were always there. Never met anyone like you, not once. Guess I was just being a fucking coward. Probably should’ve said all this sooner, but fuck it. I’ll be in London in a few days. Got hell more to say than I know what to do with.

Right. And sorry about all the swearing.

Just a little filler chapter before the big finale! hope everyone’s still excited, because I know I am!

[paranoid-borderline-insane]

Not Meant to Be Here, But Glad You Are

John Price x she/her reader

Summary: You just missed your loving partner, Captain John Price, so much, but getting through the work week was keeping yourself sane for now. That is until your workplace is hit by a terror attack. Now you need to remember all the tips John gave you for this sort of scenario and hope you can make it out so you have a chance of seeing him again. 

Inspired by 'Piccadilly' mission and my own self indulgent daydreams Post MWII. Self-indulgent as shit.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, reader is described as wearing a dress and heels, reader gets glass in her feet

Gif by @cssndra-cain 

OG gif set here

Thank you for letting me use it!

“Hey, are you sure it’s okay if I take your lunch break?” 

Looking up from your temporary desk, you smile at your desk neighbour. “Of course! I’m not hungry yet anyway.” She smiles back at you, as she lifts her bag from the floor and swings it over her shoulder.

“Then I’ll see you in an hour! Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it; have a nice break!”

The door shuts behind her and you’re left alone in the back offices of London’s Science Museum. Tapping the butt of your pen against the paper on the desk a couple of times, you let the noise wash over you before throwing it down. As much as you’re enjoying being on loan from the Wellcome Collection to help the Science Museum with their queer exhibition pieces, it didn’t dull the loneliness inside.

John <3 Price: Have to go dark again. Love you x 2 weeks ago

Me: I love you too 2 weeks ago

Me: Come home safe, my love 2 weeks ago

Me: Got a cushy third floor desk. It looks out over the crepe place we go to whenever I drag you here. 2 weeks ago

Me: Successfully found a way to get to my office without having to go past the space exhibition or getting mobbed by little kids 2 weeks ago

Me: 2 Attachments 1 week ago

Me: Wore that dress you like 1 week ago

Me: Thought you’d like to see it, I’ll wear it again when you get home  1 week ago

Me: A friend from uni sent me some pictures of some awesome vintage condoms, I’ll show them to you when you get home! 6 days ago

Me: Miss you 4 days ago

Me: Can’t wait to be in your arms again 3 days ago

Opening your phone, you look over the messages between you and John. He never minded you messaging him in the periods where he couldn’t look at his phone, but there was only so much you could message him without devolving into heartbroken cries for him to return safely. Multiple pixels lamenting how much you missed the beard burn on your neck. The smell of his cigars lodging in your hair. The overbearing heat that followed being swaddled in his arms.

You knew what you were getting into when you started dating. He warned you incessantly that there would be long periods of no communication. But with all those warnings, he always promised he’d try his hardest to make it home. And so here you are, waiting for him to make good on that promise once more.

Putting your phone on your desk, you folded your arms and looked around. Even if you were okay with forgoing your lunch break, you had long since lost focus in your work for the time being. 

Getting up from your chair, you only made it a few steps before-

BOOM

Screams and shouts started up. Frantically looking around, the office hadn’t been affected by whatever had happened. For now at least.

“Do you think there will be another terror attack in London?”

“I’d rather you were prepared, Love. Especially if you’re gonna be working in central.”

“Okay. So what would I do first?”

Kicking your heels off, you can’t hear the padding of your bare feet as you creep over to the window. The sounds of crying and screaming and shouting only being cut through by the beginnings of sirens. From outside you can see the coloured lights of police cars as they come to life. From the interior, you can only just make out that someone tripped the fire alarm in a panic. You guess that works. Just need people to get out of the building.

You're on the third floor. Too high to try and escape from the window. Silently padding further across the office space, you look for anything you could use as a weapon. A box cutter is all you can find with an open blade, but you tuck a couple pairs of scissors into your skirt pockets in case.

“Run. If you can’t run, you hide.”

“What do I do if I can’t hide?” 

“You take the weapons you find and move to somewhere you can hide.”

John is kind enough to take your hand and rub his thumb over your palm. The light from the paused movie, what brought this conversation up in the first place, illuminating your hands.

“Just keep pressing forward until you can find help.”

The open plan office wasn’t going to offer you much protection, so you start towards the door. 

Opening it slowly, the hallway was quiet, aside from the alarm still going off. That is, of course, until you make it half way down the hall. You see shadows start to grow across the wall opposite you, shouted voices and heavy footfalls accompanying them. Taking no care to stop your feet slapping against the floor below you, you race back to the office. 

Your desk doesn’t offer much protection. A reason you had tried to get to a new room. Alas, it would need to do for now. Your knees get caught in your skirt as you crawl under the desk, a cardboard box being the only thing providing a wall for you to hide behind.

The shouting. It gets louder. It’s not English. None of the words hold any meaning to you. For a split second you wish John were here. He’d be able to translate it. 

The thought of John being here rips a bit of the adhesive keeping your cool together away, your eyes feeling hot. You get time for one soothing breath before gunshots ring out next to the door, still left ajar to give you some exposure to the outside.

Luckily the automatic guns hide your small yip of surprise. Controlling your breathing, you stay silent as a short gun fight breaks out. For whatever reason, the office isn’t breached. That is until a sickening crack sounds as a body is flung against the door. From under the desk, you can only see the final moments of a body hitting the floor. 

Whatever luck you have is cashed in as the boots belonging to the men who felled the body now poking through the door move on quickly. Trying desperately to bring your breathing back to some normalcy, you keep your eye trained on the legs of the body before you. He continues not to move, the hallway again returning to its current state of silence. Taking one more forced breath, you crawl out from under the desk. 

The man lying on the floor was decked out in a uniform you had seen John wear bits and pieces of before in pictures. A union flag velcroed to the front of his bullet proof vest. Reaching forward and grabbing his wrist, you could feel the beat of his blood still pumping through his veins. Still alive at least. He must be knocked out then. The purpling of a bruise on his head adding to your theory.

At his side lay his gun, dropped when he lost consciousness. Kicking it aside with your bare foot, you moved closer. While John had taught you a bit about guns, usually after you had asked in relation to some video game or tv show, you still weren’t comfortable enough to touch one. Nonetheless be prepared to shoot it. 

Checking the man over, you were spooked at the muffled sound of voices coming from the man’s ear. His radio! If you couldn’t get out, at the very least you could listen in to what was going on. Get a sense of when parts of the building were clear enough for you to make an escape. Maybe even alert someone that you were still in the building.

Grabbing one of the pairs of scissors, you set to work cutting the man’s vest until you could get the radio. Pulling it out of its position outright might have unplugged its numerous cords. You also weren’t keen on leaving the radio behind if you decided to move. 

Having finally cut the radio free, you took another peak out into the hallway before sitting back by your desk and inserting the earpiece into your ear.

“-rmy assault team is enroute. ETA 2 minutes.” 

“We need a bomb squad,”

“The army is bringing the necessary professionals.”

“Fuck’s sake!”

The back and forth over the radio didn’t quiet your nerves. Guns you could hide from. Bombs? The best you could do is continue to find an exit from the building. Keep an ear out for ticking. 

Facing the doorway, you start moving into the hallway. You were able to clear the hallway easily enough, opening a door to the public area of the museum. Within taking the first step into the main exhibition hall, your feet brush up against the next challenge you’d face.

Glass. Hundreds and thousands of shards of it. Nearly every glass case had been smashed open, now littering the floor with the remnants. To add to the sudden chaos of the situation, you could also hear men talking at the far end of the open hall.

If you went back down the hallway, the door you had just opened would slam shut behind you. That would leave you trapped again. And even if you went back to get your shoes, they were heels. They’d leave you unstable on the glass and make more noise as you walked, the exact reason John had told you to discard them at the first opportunity. Taking a deep breath, you only had one option. 

As soon as your foot was hovering over the floor ahead of you, the radio buzzed to life in your ear. You couldn’t even hear what the new voice in your ear was saying as you squeaked in shock.

Immediately the voices you had heard from the end of the hall got louder as your exclamation was accompanied by your foot slamming down on the glass in front of you. Turning your head in the direction of the men and already seeing their guns aimed and approaching you, you didn’t have a choice anymore.

You run.

Every step hurt. The patches of clear ground that you stepped on weren’t felt as glass became more impacted in your feet. Your only perceived advantage being that you knew this museum better than them. Knowing what paths to avoid to not become stuck in another room. Shots began to be fired as you ran. Your sense to stay quiet was gone as you screamed in response. 

Your feet hurt. 

Your lungs hurt. 

Your throat hurt.

In your ear you heard more voices coming from the radio, but the blood pounding in your ears was impacting your hearing. You were nearly about to rip the stupid thing out of your ear before you finally came to what you were looking for. The stairs.

Only a few flights of them and you were home free. The first set of them was easy enough, but you saw your bloody footprints as you started down the parallel set. However splotchy they were, they still would lead straight to you. A fresh wave of panic and adrenaline filled you as you focused forward. You’d just need to be fast enough to not be caught.

Each flight of stairs intersected with the main area of the floor of the museum. This allowed you to see a tall figure with a gun on the second floor. Whether they were friend or foe, you weren’t willing to wait and find out.

Your bare feet slip a bit on your own blood as you continue down the stairs. There’s shouting coming from behind you, continuing to spur you on. 

But all too abruptly you stop, clinging to the handrail next to you. The stinging in your feet increasing as you try to gain some traction to stop yourself falling on to the man in front of you.

The man pointing a gun straight at you.

“P-please. Don’t shoot me.” Your voice is shot from screaming. Or maybe just from fright. John never mentioned how terrifying it was to have a gun pointed right at you. God, you just wanted him by your side right now. You felt faint now that you had finally stopped running.

The man in front of you looked you over before nudging his gun in the direction of your ear. “Where’d ya get that?”

“I-i took it.” Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck. That’s not what you meant. Well, it was, but not like that. The man’s eyes squinted as he took you in again. His gun didn’t lower and you started panicking. You couldn’t be sure they’d know John, but you knew someone they’d hopefully know instead. “Wait, wait! There’s a station chief I know, Laswell! She goes by Watcher-1! I know her! Please!” Your voice is screeching in fear that the man before your eyes are only narrowing. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG

A scream was ripped from your throat. The sound of shots firing filling the space. For a moment you could’ve sworn the bullets had gone through you. Your head begins to turn to face the direction the bullets had come from until a pair of hands hold your shoulders firmly. The pressure on your shoulders and the presence of the body behind you makes you freeze.

“Don’t look.” A deep voice says. A voice you recognise. “Johnny, lower your gun.” Tears start to well in your eyes in relief. 

“Simon?” You call to the man behind you, not daring to turn around. Your voice still stretched thin. Saliva gathering in your mouth as your emotions continue swirling in uncertainty. The man in front of you still hadn’t fully lowered his gun. Only lowering the barrel of his gun from its original target of your chest down to your stomach.

“Yeah, but call me Ghost here.” You nod shallowly in response. Simon was the only member of his task force John had ever let you meet. Already your body was sagging in relief. The fear of the gun in front of you barely remaining. If John trusted ‘Ghost’, then you’d trust him. He’d protect you.

“LT-” Before the man could keep talking, the radio in your ear buzzes to life. 

“Soap. Ghost. What’s going on up there?” Another man’s voice crackles through the earpiece. Neither Ghost or the man in front of you rush to answer their team mate’s question. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” Ghost sighs, moving forward. He releases your shoulders as he moves. One hand remains on your body, moving to your back, ready to stabilise you. The other hand bridges the gap between him and Johnny’s gun, forcing the barrel down until it's no longer aiming at you. “Price’ll have your head if you shoot her.”

Before you can process what he said, Ghost is lifting his hand to the receiver on his chest. “Floor 2 is clear. Soap’ll check floor 3, but it’s gone quiet.” His eyes flick down quickly to your ear, making sure your earpiece is in before continuing. He must have been able to hear that it was receiving the same feed as theirs. “Captain, got someone here for you.”

Only a moment passes before the radio buzzes once more with a response.

“Was worried you’d say that. She alright?” Your whole face scrunches into a distinct frown as you try and hold back the tears, snot, and sobs that start to overflow from you. The man in front of you, Johnny, softens as he gets a front row seat to your emotions. 

“Needs medical, but she’ll be okay.” 

“Alright. Gaz, join Soap to finish clearing the building. Ghost, bring her down to the ground floor. I’ll meet you at the info desk.”

“Copy.” Ghost says, releasing his radio. He continues to keep a hand on you as he moves down a couple stairs until he’s slightly more at your height. “It’ll be faster if I carry you.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but still waits for you to nod before pushing his shoulder lightly into your stomach. He guides your body to flop over his back and secures you in place by locking his arm over the back of your thighs. 

You hear footsteps that don’t belong to Ghost as he turns so he’s facing Johnny again. A sharp inhale through clenched teeth greets your legs once the other man sees your state. 

“Creepin’ Jesus, her feet…” 

“There’ll be EMTs outside. Head up and finish clearing the third floor.”

“Rog. C’mon Gaz.” Ghost moves to the side to let Johnny and another man follow. The new man, Gaz, you presume, looks back at you as you lift your head to watch Johnny go. He sends a curious look your way before focusing ahead towards the next floor.

It’s disorientating being carried over Ghost’s shoulder. While he walks at a normal pace, being tipped upside down still makes you nauseous. Quickly you realise it’d be better to just close your eyes, only aware of the slight changes in his gait as he goes down stairs and steps over small obstacles.

You end up not needing to see John anyway. You hear his voice as soon as Ghost turns the last corner to the main entrance. 

“Oh sweetheart,” his voice is deep and soft at the sight of you. “Pass ‘er here.”

You start to whimper even before your toes touch the ground. The anticipation of the pain to come causing you to grab at the back of Ghost’s vest as he tries to lower you down. 

“It’s alright, love. Just let me turn you ‘round, that’s all.” John’s hands fit perfectly around your waist as he supports your body weight, only allowing the tips of your toes to touch the ground. With only a slight bit of Ghost’s help, John has you quickly turned to face him. Exchanging a look that goes unseen by you, Ghost’s hands take over from John’s and supports your weight for only a moment. As quickly as John removes his hands from your waist, he crouches slightly and places them on the backs of your thighs, only making a small noise as he hoists you until your faces are level. His upper body leans forward slightly to encourage your instinct to wrap your arms around his neck.

“You do this to all the girls you save?” You sniff.

“Ah, only the pretty ones.” He responds, giving you the quokka smile of his that always comforts you. His smile drops as the radio buzzes, the captain taking over as Soap and Gaz report that the third floor is all clear. He hoists you a bit higher on his body and readjusts his grip on you. This enables him to use one hand to press down on the button of the radio. 

“Soap, Gaz. Either of you in the back offices up there?” 

“Yes, sir. I’m here.” A Scottish voice responds.

“Soap, need you to go into one of the offices there and grab something.” John tilts his head back slightly, keeping his eyes on you as he finishes talking. The stretch of his neck draws attention to the microphone attached to a band around his neck.

“What do ya need me to get?” 

John keeps his finger hovered over the button of his radio as you lean closer to his neck. Only pressing down when you inhale to speak.

“Uh, umm, my bag. It’s under my desk. Oh, um, the desk with the pride flag on it.” If Soap is bothered by your stuttering and absent thoughts, he’s polite enough to not say anything. “It’s a yellow satchel. Oh, c-could you put my laptop and phone in there? They should be on my desk too. Thank you.”

“No problem! You sure there’s nothin’ else I can grab for you?”

“Oh, my shoes! Wait, no. Don’t bother. They’re not important.”

“They heels or flats, lass?”

“Heels.”

“Got it.” You huff slightly in embarrassment as John releases the radio. 

“How’d you know where my office was?” You ask, the adrenaline still running through you was making it hard to fully relax, your brain instead racing for answers for inane questions.

“Just because I can’t respond back doesn’t mean I don’t try and read your messages when I can.” Instead of putting his hand back on your thigh, John brings it to your ear and taps the earpiece. The same one that let you hear Soap in the first place.

“Now where did you get this, love?”

“I, umm. I took it. From another soldier.” You feel flustered as you admit this to John, but you can see there’s a proud sheen in his eyes. “He got knocked out in front of my office, a-and I couldn’t get out, and I thought I could contact someone for help.”

“You did good, love.” The heat in your cheeks only increases at his compliments.

“Soap thought about shooting at her.” You jolted in John’s arms as you twisted yourself to look back at Ghost, forgetting he was still there. “Thought she was with them since she had a radio.” John sneered slightly at the thought of more harm coming to you. Unfortunately for Soap, he chose then to radio in.

“There’s a guy here upset about losing his radio. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would ya, lass?”

“That’s ‘miss’ to you, MacTavish.” John growled back at the scot. Taking a quick breath to calm himself, he continued, “All stations. Prep medical. 141, rendezvous at Exhibition Road exit.” 

Both Soap and Gaz responded in confirmation, even if Soap sounded a little wounded and confused. Once he had received word from his team, John made sure you were secure around his waist before beginning to move out of the museum. He kept his hand on your back as he got closer to the doorway to the noise of the street. His fingers made barely noticeable motions to try to keep you calm. As the afternoon light began to engulf you both, you hid your face in his neck, taking deep breaths of his scent to soothe yourself. John moving his hand to cradle your head.

“It’s alright, love.” He whispered. “It’s over. You did so good for me, sweetheart. My smart girl.” 

You could feel his overgrown beard catch on your hair. The slight squish of his cheek against the crown of your head as he continued to walk. Always the strong pillar to support you and soothe you.

John places you down on a gurney some EMTs have brought forward for you. People beginning to crowd around you as he begins to pull away. 

“No!” You scream. Your throat is so raw. Your voice so weak. Even still, you’re not ready to let your partner leave your sight. John’s eyes soften as he reaches forward to grasp your hand.

“Love, it’s okay. I have to finish my job, and then I’ll come back. Alright?” He must have seen your trepidation, but he doesn’t admonish you for being selfish with his presence. Instead, he turns. The EMTs are kind enough to allow John free movement as he moves closer to your head. They seem to understand after your outburst that they’re not going to be able to do their job of treating you without your partner’s presence or assurance. Crouching to be near your eye level, he points ahead of him. 

“You see them over there? You see Simon?” Following the line of his finger, you see his three fellow soldiers. Ghost stands tall next to the ones you now know as Gaz and Soap, the two of them talking to each other, facing your direction. They stop abruptly once they notice your gaze on them. Gaz waves at you, Soap giving you a crooked smile as he shoves Ghost with his shoulder. Ghost had been looking over the crowd of first responders with his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his attention being elsewhere prior, it focuses on you for a few moments at Soap’s nudging. The man simply giving you a nod of acknowledgement before turning away once more.

John turns back to you in time to see you nod slightly. “I’m just going to be over there. I’ll stay there so you can see me, okay?”

“Okay.” You whimper. John gives you a heartfelt look before leaning his lips down to meet your forehead. Pressing them to your skin, he lingers for a few beats before pulling away. Turning to one of the EMTs next to him, he’s quick to address them. 

“She doesn’t leave here without my knowledge. Understood?” Receiving confirmation that they’d follow his instructions, John moves forward to meet up with his team. The EMTs are quick to take over for him. Asking your name, telling you how brave you were, that you were safe now. None of it really penetrates your brain as you keep your eyes fixated on John’s form getting further away. Seeing no further point in having it inserted, you rip the ear piece out of your ear.

You don’t know if it’s the stress of what happened, if it’s the people poking at your bloody feet, or if it’s just the sudden sadness of watching John leave you again. You don’t know what exactly triggers it, but you dissolve into a crying mess all the same. You don’t scream or whimper anymore. Just heave gulps of air as you become more and more frustrated by the people around you trying to calm you down. You barely feel the individual pieces of glass being pulled from your feet. Only the hot pain of the disinfectant and the rush of blood trying to create scabs. To heal the injuries to your body so you could focus on the injuries to your mind. 

But even through the pain and the crying, you keep your eyes on John. True to his word, he stays in the same area that he had pointed to. Directing his team to move in his stead, give orders on his behalf so he doesn’t move from his position. In the moments he stands alone, he doesn’t turn to look at you. Only talking to someone on his phone.

While you don’t know it, John’s restraint was barely holding. He knew if he looked over at you, he wouldn’t be able to continue wrapping up the loose ends of this whole mess. Ghost seemed to know this. Being the captain’s eyes for him and keeping him updated on how you were faring. In saying that, Ghost never mentioned whether you were crying, but John could feel it nonetheless. His heart was tugging him towards you, but it would have to wait. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could give you his unfettered attention.

“They’ve finished bandaging her feet. Looks like they’re just treating her shock now.” Ghost’s deep voice broke through the countless other voices surrounding him. Looking down, John focused on your things that Soap had left at his feet. 

Your yellow satchel. The one he had bought you after you had graduated university and gotten your first job that utilised your degree. He complained that you couldn’t be carrying around your laptop in a tote bag. You complained that you couldn’t find a cute enough bag for your laptop in your budget. The compromise was this, something cute he bought within his budget. 

Next to it were your black and white heels. Another present that he had enjoyed giving you. Enjoyed seeing the joy on your face when he had surprised you with the very shoes you had said would be perfect to go with your favourite dress. He wondered when you would be able to wear them again. If you’d wear them again. He wouldn’t hesitate to burn both accessories if you said that they reminded you too much of this day. He’d burn everything he had to erase what had happened today. Nothing mattered to him more than you. 

John finished heaving a deep sigh as Soap and Gaz regrouped with him and Ghost. 

“Everything’s wrapped up, sir.” Gaz stated, looking over his captain. While Gaz was still trying to give Price his space, Soap didn’t seem to have the same tact. 

“Well, ya gonna go back to your lady now?” Gaz and Ghost both nudge him on either side of his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, John finally turns to look at you. 

You look so small, wrapped up in a shock blanket. Your feet wrapped up in bandages and your head lolled back against the head of the gurney. And still, your eyes were still on him. Whether you were truly looking at him anymore was another question, but your eyes didn’t stray. Looking back down at your things, he knew he wouldn’t get away from his boys if he didn’t let them say hello. 

“She’ll be fragile… but would you like to meet her?” Raising his eyes, he was met with Gaz’s gentle smile and Soap’s golden retriever glow. Before he could reach down, the scot had already nabbed your bag and shoes, ready to bring them to you. “Well alright. If we’re done here, let’s go.”

They got all of two steps towards you before Soap and Gaz were tag teaming questions.

“She your wife? Your girlfriend?” The Scot asked.

“Girlfriend. Haven’t proposed.” Yet, John thought. You’d probably need some time to heal before he finally asked, however.

“Why didn’t you mention her, cap?” Gaz questioned, barely letting their captain get a breath in.

“Didn’t feel the need to.” Was John’s response.

“Why’s LT met her and we haven’t?” This time Soap hadn’t even given John time to close his mouth before asking his next question.

“Trust he wouldn’t bother me like this.” He answered finally, giving Simon a shared amused look at Soap’s upset at being left out on this piece of his life.

At least the boys had the sense to stop once they got into hearing range of you. John can’t stop himself from jogging the last few steps to you. Gently taking a hold of the hand that you reach out to him as he gets closer.

“Hi, my love.” You try to stop yourself from whimpering, but the noises come from you without your input. You had finally reached some sort of passive calmness, but seeing him was causing the water works to start again. Without missing a beat, John leans forward into your space and is wrapping you up in his arms. He doesn’t shush you or tell you to calm down. Doesn’t minimise your stress. Just holds you and lets you sob into his chest.

When your breathing evens out, he starts letting you go. Not pulling away from you until you’re willing to pull away from him. Your supervising EMT passes John tissues at his silent request and he goes about wiping your face gently.

“There’s my brave girl. I’m so proud of you. You did so well.” And for the first time since the beginning of all of this, you smile. Preening under your partner’s praise. Your feet, body, and throat still hurt - accompanied with a raging headache from your crying - but he’s here. And even with everything that happened, you did the best you could under his silent guidance. 

“Now don’t go being polite to them just for the sake of it, yeah? But my team’s here if you’d like to meet them.” He holds your head in his available hand as he talks, stroking his thumb along your cheek, “but don’t worry if you just want to go home. I can tell them to piss off and we can go straight home, mm?” You giggle slightly at his care for you, his eyes shining at the noise you make.

“I wanna meet them.”

“Alright, love. But just say the word and I’ll send them away.” Straightening up, John gives the hand he’s holding a small squeeze as he faces his team. They had been patiently waiting for their captain to call to them, so as soon as their captain motioned them over, Soap was first to bound forward. 

Gently placing your satchel at John’s feet, after lifting it to show you that he had retrieved it, Soap places your shoes on your lap. “I woulda taken these off too, lass. Woulda made a hell of a sound!”

Before you can respond, John is already cutting into him.

“I don’t think flattery forgives a gun pointed to the face, does it, MacTavish?”

“John, it’s okay.” At the sound of your tired voice trying to mitigate the situation, John huffs, but doesn’t say anything else as you introduce yourself. “Thanks for not shooting me and everything. Bet I looked pretty suspicious.”

“Oh, umm, of course, lass. Uh- miss. Still shoulda lowered my gun.” Soap was turning bashful under your unexpected understanding. And at the captain’s watchful eye making his ears and neck feel hot.

“You would’ve taken off my shoes, I wouldn’t have lowered your gun. Call it even?” 

“Uh yeah. Thanks, miss.” Turning to get out from your and Price’s gaze, Soap turns and throws his arm around Gaz. “And this is Gaz!”

Your excitement gets caught in your healing throat as you exclaim, “Oh! Kyle, right? I’ve heard so much about you!” If Gaz was surprised by your acknowledgement of him, he doesn’t show it. Not skipping a beat as he comes closer to talk to you, shrugging off Soap’s arm.

“All good things, I hope.”

“A bit of both. You know how it is,” Gaz can tell you smile is a little forced, noticing that his captain has also noticed your decreasing energy. 

“Cap never mentioned he had such a beautiful woman waiting for him at home, either.” While none of the members of the 141 would dare say it in front of their captain, you looked adorable when you were flustered. John got lost in that same cuteness for a moment as you pulled the hand that was holding his to your face, hiding behind it slightly. As your eyes darted around in embarrassment, you finally lay your sights on Ghost.

“Si- uh, Ghost!” You call out to the tall man standing at the back of the group. Gaz isn’t insulted by your dismissal of him. From the small comment he heard from Soap about how Ghost reacted to finding you inside, and the near slip of his name you just did. Well, he figured you two had some level of friendship that the two sergeants weren’t privy to.

While his steps start off a bit forced, at the genuine happiness you seem to give off to his presence, Ghost is soon confidently walking forward until his body brushes the gurney you’re on. 

Shaking John’s hand out of yours gently, you quickly replace his grip with Ghost’s. Giving the man’s hand a tight squeeze to portray your quiet thanks to him.

Giving a quick look behind him at his two colleagues, and seeing that they’re the only ones around, Ghost turns back to you. Pulling up his balaclava until most of the fabric is bunched on his forehead, Simon’s eyes are soft as you meet his. 

You gently mouth some words to him. Simon is quick to lean his body down into your space for you to wrap around his neck, allowing you to hug him. 

Price had warned him that you were a hugger when you two first met, but you had always restrained yourself in his presence. Simon figured that this one time he could give in to your hold. You deserved it after the day you had. Plus, he needed to whisper his response to you directly into your ear to make sure you heard it.

Thank you for saving me, Simon.

You saved yourself, kid.

When he pulls back out of your embrace, he’s quick to pull his balaclava back down. He only owed you some vulnerability. No one else. 

However the show of Simon’s willingness to let you hug him brought tears to your eyes again. As they start falling down your cheek, your energy seems to fall with them. Closing your eyes and letting your head fall back onto the gurney. John is quick to take your hand back in his, having his index and middle finger lay over your pulse to make sure it isn’t dropping. The sounds of him and the EMT talking blur as you get weary with exhaustion. If you weren’t already lying down, you were sure you’d faint.

Moving his hand to grip yours properly now that he knew your pulse was somewhat stable, John gives yours a couple of squeezes. When your eyes flutter open, he’s already leaning down in front of you. His eyes dart over your face, doing one last check over himself before talking.

“EMT says you’re free to come with me as long as you’re okay with that. Was thinking I’d bring you back to base with me while I deposit my things and then I can drive us home, hmm?” You’re already nodding before he begins again. He wants to make sure you know your options at least. Make sure you’re not just blindly agreeing because of exhaustion. “Or I can have someone drive you straight home and I’ll be home in a few hours.”

“No. Please. Wanna stay with you…” You’re drowsy as you say it, but it doesn’t warm John’s heart any less as he sees your desperation to stay with him. He checks once more with the EMT watching you two that it is okay to take you with him before he starts moving. He hands your bag and shoes to Ghost before the man steps back to give John space.

“Okay, love. Gonna pick you up now, okay?” Your frail nod only confirms to him that he needs to do this gently. Putting an arm under your knees first, he slowly lifts them to make sure they don’t hit the gurney as they’re moved. Once he’s successfully lifted them up, it’s easier for him to get his arm under your back and hoist you aloft into your arms. The EMT wishes you a speedy recovery as they help tuck the shock blanket around the front of your torso to keep you warm.

Once John has turned back towards his team, you in his arms, he notices first that Gaz is gone.

“Went to get the car to bring it as close as he can.” Ghost offers. 

Second thing he notices is Soap now has your bag and shoes once more.

“Got jealous you gave them to me.” Ghost fills in once more, causing an amused huff to leave John’s mouth and a tired chuckle to leave yours. 

Now leaning your head against the flat of his vest, the velcro hurts your cheek slightly. But the rise and fall of John’s chest as he moves you brings you enough comfort to handle it. Even when you’re gently jostled as he walks towards where Gaz has brought the car forward. You mostly keep your eyes closed as you’re carried, only opening them every now and then to get a sense of where you are. The only time you keep them open is when you’re gently passed to Ghost. John saying something about not wanting you to be uncomfortable when you complain about being moved from his arms.

Watching John taking his tactical vest off and throwing it in the back of the van is enough of a spectacle to catch your interest though. Watching the hem of his turtle neck lift from his trousers as he removes the armoured clothing doesn’t go unnoticed by him. Especially when it catches on the bit of his stomach just under his navel, the hair trailing into his trousers getting covered when he tugs the shirt back down. 

He waits until he’s sat on one of the benches in the back of the transport van before taking you back from Ghost. 

“You need to behave,” John is quick to admonish, moving you slightly so you’re sitting across his lap before continuing. Though he pretends to disapprove, he has a slight smile tugging at his lips as he remembers your gaze. “There’ll be none of that until you’re feeling better.”

You give a weak groan in response, more for his sake than yours. It’s mission accomplished when he chuckles in response as he moves his arm to prevent your feet from bumping against anything during the drive. Taking the shock blanket from your front and wrapping it properly around your back now that you’re in a more settled position.

Soap sits across from the captain in the back while Gaz drives and Ghost accompanies him in the front. Your shoes and bag are placed next to guns and magazines of ammo, given the same importance as Soap makes sure they won’t move or topple over throughout the drive.

Once the van starts driving, it doesn’t take long for you to finally fall asleep against John’s bicep. The men’s quiet conversation creates a safe atmosphere for your brain to finally allow you to rest.

Soap waits a couple of minutes after your breathing evens out to ask if you’re asleep, Price giving you a soft glance as he answers in the affirmative.

“You picked a strong one, huh, sir?”

“Yeah. Yeah I did.”

[samkerrworshipper]

hard times | awfc x reader

arsenal reader struggles with PTSD and new year’s eve is a particular struggle… but the arsenal girlies are there for her even if she doesn’t know she needs them

warnings: PTSD, anxiety, mentions of violence, mentions of guns, anxiety attacks, mentions of childhood trauma

You don’t even notice you’re shivering and tearing up under your duvet.

New Year's Eve for most people is a night of celebration, a night of partying, a night of celebrations. For you, not so much.

New year's eve ranks pretty high up on your least favourite days of the year.

Instead of being fun and full of celebrations it was a night of terror and fear.

That’s how you’d gotten under your duvet, the covers of your bed providing a very small shield from the outside world.

It wasn’t a good fix to stop the current downpour of sound around you, you’d tried it all, airpods, earplugs, music, none of it worked.

So you’d settled for clenching your palms down onto your ears, it wasn’t providing any reprieve from the noise cascading around you, but for whatever reason it felt necessary.

This wasn’t even the worst of it, you knew it was only so long until the fireworks started, and as soon as that happened it was almost a guarantee that you would be thrown into a whole different level of stress.

It had been this way since you were a kid, new years eve was a nuisance, a figment of your worst nightmares.

You wished you could go out and celebrate, that you could be normal and be happy.

But ever since your childhood, since it all happened, loud noises and bright flashing lights have always been a big struggle for you.

So, every year, you go through the same routine of hiding under your covers until it’s all over. Normally, the loud noises coming from London strike up a pretty serious anxiety attack, so you don’t bother with hurting your friends with your presence, knowing that all you will be is a burden for them on a night that is supposed to be fun.

It’s fine, you’re used to it, this year though it’s a little bit harder.

With your transfer to Arsenal in the previous January trade period you had quickly found a new family amongst the Gooners.

It was so hard for you to decline the invite to the celebrations for the evening, especially considering that almost every other holiday over the year had been spent with one or a couple of your teammates.

That was the hard part of being the only person left in your family, it was the reason for your stupid fear.

It all simmered down to one stupid night that wrecked your whole life.

Just as you had begun to become completely absorbed with the thoughts in the back of your mind, you were taken out of your trance by a quiet voice and the mattress you were sitting on flexing downwards.

“Hiya honey, you wanna come out for me?”

It’s Beth’s voice, sweet, kind, lovely Beth who definitely should not be in your apartment right now.

It makes you wonder if you are potentially dreaming, sometimes when you get really anxious delirium is a side effect.

“Beth?”

You reach down to pinch your thigh, hard, and it hurts, enough for you to be sure that you aren’t dreaming,

“Yeah hon, I’m right here.”

Her voice is enough for you to pull the covers over your head, the duvet falling into your criss crossed lap.

Beth is perched on the corner of your bed, a smile mixed with concern and care reflecting back towards you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your words are murmured, and spoken downwards towards your lap, because you can’t quite find it in you to look at your older teammate.

“It’s new years, silly, we couldn’t leave you out of the celebrations, the girls that are in town are in the kitchen.”

It’s said so nonchalantly, like this is some organised plan that has been set in stone for weeks, even though this is the first you’re hearing of it.

Suddenly, a firecracker or something goes off somewhere in the distance and your body is jolting on the bed, fresh tears accumulating in the corners of your eyes as your whole face pinches shut whilst the waves of memories wash over your body.

“I thought you guys said you were going to South Bank to do the fireworks and celebrations.”

South Bank isn’t far from your apartment, a couple of blocks south, unfortunately for you, most definitely close enough for the fireworks to be seen and heard.

“Who needs fireworks? We’d rather hang out here with you.”

It makes your jaw clench and your eyebrows furrow, they’ve cancelled their plans to come to your apartment and you aren’t completely sure why.

“Beth, why are you here?”

It’s blunt, but with everything happening and your body in survival mode you don’t have time to beat around the bush, especially with the ticking time bomb which is leading to midnight.

“Less told us that you really struggle with new years, so we’re here for you.”

You know that all of the girls on the team, whether they mention it or not, know about your past, about what happened when you were a child, what led to you moving in with Alessia when you were 14.

Unfortunately for you, she’s spending her break with her parents in New York, so your normal emotional support for nights like these was unable to make it here tonight.

Something doesn’t feel the same about having Beth, and whoever else she’d managed to congregate being here with you, especially when you were significantly vulnerable.

“Beth, I appreciate it, but I don’t want to worry you guys, head down to South Bank, just leave me be. Tonight’s pretty hard for me and I don’t feel like doing much.”

Beth scoots her body up closer to yours, close enough that she can lift her hand up and set it down on your thigh, it doesn’t go unnoticed the way you slightly flinch away from her, the jumpiness running rampant in your body due to the anxiety.

“We’re not going anywhere, we’ve got you, let us take care of you yeah, you don’t have to do anything, at all, just sit on the couch and relax.”

You want to fall directly into Beth, let her give you a big hug and never let go, but there is still a part of you trying to obtain your self dignity.

“Beth, you don’t understand, tonight's really hard for me, and I don’t want you guys to have to deal with it, it’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”

Beth’s hand moves from your thigh, upwards until it’s gently sitting on your jaw, angling your face upwards so you are looking at her.

“Let us be here for you, between myself, Vivi, Leah, Lia, Kim, Laura, Jen, Lotte I’m sure we can all figure out some way to make tonight a little bit easier for you. You don’t have to explain anything, you don’t have to talk about it, we’re just here to show you some love and help you however you need, celebrations be damned.”

It’s hard to refuse when Beth’s kind, concerned and caring eyes are reaching deep into your soul. Tonight is hard, for you it’s like walking up mount everest, and it’s not exactly like you want to break down in front of your teammates but Beth seems pretty persistent about the fact she isn’t leaving.

“After the break in, after my parents and brother were killed, any loud noises resembling guns make me have anxiety attacks, it’s why I don’t like new years.”

Beth just nods and smiles, accepting the information but deciding to let you do the explaining instead of asking questions.

“That’s understandable, anyone in your position would feel the same, I’m sure it must be pretty tough, especially considering that you are still young.”

You bit down on your tongue, nodding to Beth, it is really fucking hard, especially considering that you don’t have anyone to talk about it with, because how could anybody understand.

“It’s why I freaked out a few months ago when you guys were popping balloons after Leah’s birthday party, I can’t help it, it just sometimes comes over me and I can’t control it.”

Beth nods immediately, feeling the guilt roll into her stomach at the memory of her and Katie popping all of the balloons, Beth now recollecting how you left with Alessia almost as soon as it happened.

“Y’know after my mom died it took months for me to be able to go anywhere near a hospital, Viv had to drag me to the doctors for my yearly check up. It’s funny what grief does to us. You want to know what works best for me?”

Beth is trying to find common ground, praying that it’ll work and exceptionally glad when you give her a little nod with your chin.

“I try to distract myself, whether it’s getting Vivi to talk to me or playing a game or watching the telly, helps take my mind off things, how about we try that and see if it’ll work with you, yeah?”

The idea makes you feel a little bit funny, but you are brutally aware of the fact that Beth is trying really hard right now to help you and you really want to be good for her and show her that you can do that.

“Okay, but I need it to be quiet, please.”

Beth just smiles and nods, her layed back demeanour shining through as she stood up from the bed, extending her hand to you.

Your hand is shaking furiously, but you manage to extend it out towards her, letting her own hand steady your as she pulls you up off the bed and gently tugs you towards the door of your bedroom.

To your surprise, when you exit the room the kitchen and loungeroom of your apartment are fairly quiet.

Lia, Kim and Viv are busy in your kitchen, pouring and distributing drinks and plates of pizza. Leah, Laura and Lotte are seated on your couch, a board game of sorts set out on the table, Jen is also joined in on the game, except she’s sitting on the floor directly in front of the table.

Viv, Kim and Lia all send a big smile your way as you slowly enter the room, it’s a spectacle to you, watching the group happily enjoying themselves in your apartment on a night where they could be doing far more than just lazing around.

“Do you want to go sit down on the couch, I know for a fact Leah will be cheating, you could go keep an eye on her, or stay up here in the kitchen with us, it’s up to you.”

The couch sounded nice, and you were aware of the fact that your body was quite tired and worn down from all the stress of the night.

So you cautiously stepped over to the couch, as soon as Leah saw you walking towards her she opened her arms up big and wide for you.

You didn’t second guess it, practically throwing yourself into Leah comfy and warm embrace, her body acting as a cushion to you.

The joint pressure and warmth from the hug did wonders at lifting some of the pressure off of your chest.

“How ya feeling?”

Leah’s voice is soft, whispered directly in your ear so that nobody else hears it besides you.

“I’ve been better, but having you guys here is nice, you don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

Leah just smiled, taking a break from the monopoly game they were playing to look at you.

“It’s nothing, we’re here for you whenever you need us, just trying to make the night easier for you however we can.”

You nod gently, Leah’s arm wrapping around your torso to give you a big hug and essentially bond you to her side.

“The fireworks are the worst for me.”

Leah nods, her eyes are so understanding, there isn’t any form of humour or disgust in them, just pure interest.

“Just watch the game yeah, don’t think about the fireworks, I know it’s hard, but just try. We could put on a show for you, how about the new episode of Love Island?”

It’s a offer that you can’t decline, so Leah gets Jen to chuck her the remote, turning on the tv and flicking it directly onto your favourite show.

You relax into Leah, your body falling limp against her and using her as a pillow whilst you intently watch the tv.

It’s all going fine, or as fine as it can be until you can distantly hear a countdown coming from somewhere outside your apartment.

Almost immediately it sets off alarms inside your body, your legs and torso jolting up from the couch.

Just as you are about to rush off, most likely back under your covers or into your bathroom, Leah’s arms grab a tight hold of you, bringing you flush against her body. In a matter of seconds, Viv, Beth and Kim are all surrounding you, somehow sheltering you from the noise outside.

You feel like a feral dog, thrashing against Leah, trying to get away from her, from your teammates, from the world.

As soon as the noises hit your ears though, you stop moving, both of your palms crushing down against your ears to try and drown out the cracking and popping sounds booming from outside your window.

Leah holds you tight to her chest, even as you begin to sob and the panic begins to overtake your body, every time it happens you feel like you are going to die, like this time it’ll be the last and inevitably you know that your wrong, that unfortunately you will live to see out the next year, but it doesn’t make the whole process easy.

Suddenly your brain is crowded with thoughts, memories, sounds.

The sound of your front door being broken down, nobody hearing but yourself, giving you the opportunity to push yourself out of bed and into one of the cupboards in your wardrobe.

Then the sound of heavy feet, doors creaking, and heavy, thunderous, cacophonous gun shots.

No matter how many times you relive it, no matter how many years go by that sound will never disappear from your mind, it’s unforgettable and haunts every single one of your nightmares.

It’s all consuming, until somebody is taking a hold of your face, and staring at you directly in your eyes.

“Y/n, listen to me, you’re safe, we’re all here for you, we’re in your apartment, safe inside, nobody is here to hurt you or anybody else, you’re at home and it’s safe here.”

Kim’s captain's voice is both soothing and terrifying, the Scottish players' words are strong and coated in directness.

Once she notices that you are hearing her she continues.

“We’re here for you, we’re safe, breathe for me honey, deep breaths, you’re here, not out there, don’t worry about any of that, just look at me and breathe.”

You nod at Kim, even as the tears are streaming down your face and you are struggling to breathe, you listen to her.

“Good job, keep breathing, remember where you are, we’re all safe in here with you, nothing or nobody is going to hurt you, I swear.”

Kim’s words do wonders to help you, and with her assistance, as well as Leah’s strong hold, Laura’s hands gently massaging your scalp, Viv’s strong fingers drawing patterns all over your arms, Lotte gently rubbing the tensed up parts of your calves, Beth holding the parts of you Leah can’t and Lia and Jen both flanking kim, looking at you with the same care and concern as she is looking at you with.

It’s a team effort, but you feel completely enveloped by your teammates love and care as you come down from the panic.

“Doing so well for us y/n, it’s all over now, you;re safe, we’ve got you, we’re not going anywhere.”

You look out to the window, temporarily removing your eyes from Kim’s and realising that your captain is in fact correct, all the noises, lights and pain has stopped, the world is quiet and you couldn’t be more grateful for it.

Slowly, as you become more aware of the world and your surroundings, one by one each girl gently removes themselves from you, until you’re left with just Leah, Beth and Viv, the three stragglers who are tasked with getting some food and water into you before sending you off the bed.

It’s a easy enough job, you’re spent and pliant, so Viv force feeds to a slice of pizza whilst Beth forces you to choke down some kind of electrolyte drink.

Once the two are done doting, they both leave you with a kiss on the forehead and gentle words whispered into your ear about how proud they are of you.

Leah is the one tasked with getting you into bed, and she does just that, getting you tucked properly on the covers before giving you a goodnight forehead kiss.

It feels weird watching her walk towards the door, like your being deserted, and you’ve been needy enough as it is tonight but you can’t help but reach out to Leah.

“Stay till I fall asleep, if it’s no trouble?”

Leah just nods and smiles like you’re asking her for a piece of gum, the blonde moving onto the empty side of your bed and leaving her hand flat against your back.

“You’re no trouble at all honey, we’ve got you, any time but especially on these nights.”

[eretzyisrael]

This account, first published in JewishNews, is written by an anonymous London-based Guardian employee who has family living on a kibbutz in southern Israel. It offers a look at life in the newspaper’s offices in the days since Hamas’s attack on Israel.

I wake up on October 7 to a text from my brother-in-law: “Thoughts are with your family in Israel. I hope everyone is safe.”

I check the news. Hamas has entered southern Israel. They’re in a kibbutz. My partner’s family is in that kibbutz. His cousin is nine months pregnant. He’s in contact with them; they’re in the safe room. Terrorists are outside.

I check social media. Reports of hostages, maybe three. I check again; perhaps ten.

There has been a massacre at a music festival. I look at the video. Who do I know there? I check social media again; there are videos of hostages. I look at their faces. Do I know them?

We lose contact with family in the kibbutz. I tell myself that the phone lines are down because the IDF are there. I watch Hamas footage as it is coming out. I go on Telegram for the first time in my life and I see a room full of bodies covered in blood. I see children gunned down. I see the bodies of raped women. I see families holding each other as Hamas livestreams atrocities. I look for people I might know.

My partner and I walk 30,000 steps. There’s nothing we can do. Late that evening we hear that his family is safe but their house is gone, neighbors are dead.

I don’t understand. I could have easily been there and part of me thinks I was.

I look at the papers the next day. The newspaper I work for has a tank on the front page: ‘Hundreds die and hostages held as Hamas assault shocks Israel’—victorious terrorists hold a Palestinian flag. The subheading reads ‘Netanyahu declares war as 150 Israelis die. 230 Palestinians killed in air strikes.’

I don’t understand. I know people, Israelis, who were murdered. They did not “die,” as if in some kind of accident. I saw footage of terrorism. It was not an “assault.”

The front page of The Observer, The Guardian’s sister Sunday newspaper, on October 8, the day after the Hamas massacre. (via The Observer)

On Sunday, we get more information about what happened to my partner’s family, about how Hamas set the family’s house on fire when they thought it was empty, how my partner’s cousin screamed for her life when the room filled with smoke, how her husband had to pin her down to stop her cries, how Hamas laughed when they realized the family would need to crawl out of the room, how they refused to leave the burning building. We hear that they somehow survived and walked out through pools of their neighbors’ blood, pieces of dead children littering the street; kids who’d been playing on a Saturday morning.

I’m safe, I’m fine, but I can’t comprehend the color of the sky or the rustle of the trees. I look around at people enjoying their Sunday and I think: Do they not know what is happening? I check the news again and see there are more hostages. I look through the names.

There are still terrorists in Israel.

I listen to the radio, one Israeli interviewee and then one Palestinian. I can hear that the interviewer is struggling as defenders of Hamas justify terrorism. I don’t understand. Is this how they reported the Russian invasion of Ukraine? Did they platform Putin’s people?

I check social media. A friend has posted: “They’ve broken out of jail.” Another has said: “Today is a day of celebration,” and someone else has shared an infographic of “Settler colonialism for beginners.” My old flatmate tells her followers she will be at the demonstration outside the Israeli embassy and she invites people to join her.

On Monday I go to work. How are your family, a colleague asks. When I answer, she squirms. Can’t they just leave, my colleague says. No, they can’t actually.

I look at the morning newsletter for the newspaper I work for. It breaks down the number of dead Palestinian children. It does not mention dead Israeli children.

My group chats are exploding as family and friends work out what has been happening, who is alive. I go back to the news. I type the name of the kibbutz into the wires. Nothing. I read how Hamas invaded “settlements.” They’re not settlements! They’re small, pre-state kibbutzim.

I find out that a friend of a friend was at the music festival and is missing. I’m shaking at work.

I see a colleague who had posted about “decolonization” all over social media over the weekend. They’re laughing with the rest of their team. They’re having a great day. I used to love their podcast, full of hot takes and celeb gossip. Now they’ve evolved into an expert on the Middle East. It doesn’t look like their family is in the middle of it, though.

No one else at work speaks to me about it. I nod my way through conversations about fonts and I stumble home.

I go back the next day. I look at the front page. A photo of Gaza and “violence escalates.” Israelis “dead” but Palestinians “killed.” If they can’t empathize with the Jews now, they never will.

I email the editors. I tell them that my newspaper’s coverage has been upsetting. They tell me that their thoughts are with my family but they stand by the paper’s reporting.

I hear colleagues complaining about the newspaper’s “American readers. They’re always accusing us of antisemitism.” They’re laughing.

I leave work early to go to a vigil outside Downing Street. People quietly weep. Everyone there is Jewish.

I’ve seen on social media that I know people going to a demonstration. Later, I see photos of it: people on lampposts, red flares, Jews hiding inside, the Israeli embassy boxed in. All kinds of people are united in the chant, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” In Sydney, they are shouting: “Gas the Jews.”

On Tuesday, I find out that my friend’s friend at the music festival is dead. I remember the day I’d spent with him on the beach in Tel Aviv last month. He’d gotten back from South America and was excited to travel again. He had been gentle and sweet. I don’t understand.

On Wednesday, I go to work again, and the next day, and the next day. Finally, the pictures from the kibbutz come out. I look at all of them. I rewatch the footage. I bear witness. No colleague asks me how I am again that week.

I go to synagogue at the weekend and cry with my community. The rabbi holds space for pain. I say Kaddish for the boy at the music festival I will never talk to again.

Back at work I see someone pointing to a photo of the Israeli flag burning in the newspaper. They laugh, “This is my favorite picture.”

I remember telling my family that when I next went to Israel I’d lie to my colleagues and tell them it was Spain. I’d lie because my colleagues had said to me of Israel: “You gotta go while you still can.”

Now another colleague asks me what I think of Netanyahu. Do I hold him responsible? I explain that I have protested against Netanyahu but the only people responsible for October 7 are Hamas. She keeps asking me about the settlements. I tell her they’re bad but she won’t stop. “Don’t you think Bibi has a lot to do with this?” I ask her if she has family in the region. She does not.

I’m on social media again. Friends share infographics from Jewish Voice for Peace and heavy-hitting images from the Gaza Health Ministry. I don’t disagree with what they’re posting but they said nothing when October 7 happened. I start unfollowing decades-old friends.

In the days that follow, my synagogue receives a bomb threat, my local rail station has photos of missing children ripped off, I hear of more friends of friends who have been killed. I hear of others who are now enlisted. I hear that a synagogue president in America has been stabbed to death and synagogues all over the world have been vandalized and destroyed.

The newspaper I work for is covering the bombardment of Gaza and I watch in horror. I think that Israel must defend itself. Yet when I say this, people will tell me I am justifying the murder of children. They will tell me it is a genocide.

As the events of October 7 draw on collective Jewish memory of pogroms and the Holocaust, the newspaper I work for will dispel that myth, publishing a piece entitled “Israel must stop weaponizing the Holocaust.” Am I wrong to connect our grief today with that of our past?

In the weeks that follow, I will apply for other jobs and speak exclusively to Jewish friends and family. I will hide myself away from the streets of London and the waves of social media.

I will not forget the photos and videos I saw on October 7, but I start to think about how this day will be marked; how my children’s children will take part in a new commemoration, where we will remember not the Romans or the Persians or the Nazis but Hamas, and how we survived.

Intergenerational trauma has been retriggered but now is not the time to dwell on our historical violent oppression. Now is the time to rise up, speak out, and defend our right to exist. Now is not the time for colleagues to dismiss Jewish pain or publish inflammatory op-eds that will spark more violence.

I will keep applying for other jobs.

[gv80gb]

Sheltered birth

Barbara cleaned the sweat forming in the palm of her hands on her skirt, the stress and nerves giving a physical manifestation through them. It wasn’t unusual for her to be trapped a whole night in a bomb shelter with all her neighbors, in fact it was becoming more common each day, since London was under constant threat of attack since the war started. But this time was different, she had been having intense contraction for around three hours when the alarm went off and she was forced to evacuate her house. Her husband was away, fighting in the war, and she hadn’t wanted to wake her neighbors up, so she had thought that first thing in the morning she would go to the hospital. But apparently, life had other plans for her. They had been in the shelter for around an hour, and with each passing minute it became Moree difficult to hide her distressed state. The contractions were getting closer together, and she wondered how much time would pass before she wasn’t able to hide it anymore. 

A new contraction began to form, Barbara tensed up, feeling her stomach tighten painfully. A small moan escaped her lips. Mortified, she looked around the room to check if anyone had noticed, but each person was to worried about the ongoing situation to pay attention to her. She truly didn’t want to give birth with so many people around her, she didn’t want her neighbors to see her in such vulnerable state. She closed her eyes and silently begged her baby “Please wait until we are by ourselves”. 

Time passed so slowly, it felt like an eternity, but in reality it had only been around an hour and a half. The pains were so much more intense now Barbara couldn’t keep a straight face anymore, and it felt like they were almost on top of each other. The few moments in which the pain wasn’t taking control of her, she tried to make sure no one was seeing her. Suddenly, the most intense contraction she had ever felt took over her body, and it was immediately followed by a loud pop and a wet feeling between her legs. An elderly woman who was sitting the closest to her turned her head towards her and opened her eyes in complete shock “Oh my god, child, you are giving birth”. The only thing she could do in response was clutch her belly and moan and stop her internal fight with her body. 

With her waters broken, the pressure inside her became impossible to ignore. A blinding urge to push her baby out overcame her. Next thing she knew, Barbara was yelling at the top of her lungs and pushing with all her might, the sound of the alarms muted to her ears. When the contraction passed she opened her eyes to find every single person looking at her, some in terror and some in lust, something you couldn’t quite understand. A young woman approached Barbara and touched her leg lightly, “I can help you, I’m a nurse practitioner”, she said softly. She muttered a strained “yes” while a new contraction started to form. The young nurse kneeled between her legs, sliding her wet underwear down her legs and opening them wide for her, and the rest of the shelter to have a better view. The elderly woman sat beside her and grabbed one of her legs so she wouldn’t close them. 

Fingers entered her, and they took her by surprise. “Okay darling, you are ready to bring your baby into the world, with the next contraction I need you to push”, the nurse said. The contraction didn’t take long to arrive, intensifying the pressure between her legs. Barbara pushed with full force, and she began her baby to descend, she felt her core bulge out with the head of her baby. With a new push she began to stretch, a teardrop forming between her legs. “You are doing great, keep going”. Barbara grabbed the elderly woman’s hand and pushed again. The contractions were no-stopping now, and the only thing she could focus on was on the feeling of her baby crowning from her body. 

“AAAAGHHHH!, she yelled, “ I can’t do this” Barbara said, drenched in sweat and fluids. 

“Yes you can” The elderly woman said. “You were born for this, I myself gave both to seven kids”.  She kept on pushing, when she felt the head pass through her skin and into the world. Relief flooded her, but only for a few seconds, since the next contraction came rushing. 

Barbara kept pushing, but the baby wasn’t moving anymore. It was stuck “I’m gonna have to do something that may hurt a little, but the shoulders are stuck and your baby needs to be born now”. She can only nod before she truly understand what she is talking about. The tips of her fingers stretch her skin more than it already is, to impossible limits, and her hand enters her and begins maneuvering her kid. Barbara screams, hurting her own ears, but the pain is unmanageable, a tear slips from her eyes. But at last, the baby starts moving forward. “That’s it, keep pushing”. Barbara gives a final strong push that allows her baby to slip free. The nurse catches it and gives it to her. With her baby finally in her arms, Barbara takes the time to look around, finding a big part of the shelter emptied, she didn’t realize when the alarms stopped echoing, still some curious eyes still lingered on her and her wrecked body. 

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Big news! The US, and right after it, Canada, Australia and Italy, as well as the UK and Finland, have ALL frozen their financial support of UNRWA, following evidence presented to them that some of the UN agency's employees participated in the Hamas massacre.

To add to the news, this is NOT the first scandal involving this agency. UNRWA facilities have been continuously used for terrorist activity, UNRWA teachers and employees have been repeatedly called out for their support of antisemitism and terrorism, the same goes for UNRWA textbooks and schools, where antisemitism and terrorism are encouraged. It's even been asked why UNRWA still exists. Palestinians are the only ones who get their own refugee agency. Every other refugee, from every other country in the world, including ones suffering far greater humanitarian disasters, are treated by the general UN refugees agency, UNHCR. And unlike UNHCR, UNRWA does not look to solve the plight of the refugees it claims to help. If it's not enough that it's unclear why should Palestinians get their own agency, and why does it perpetuate the problem of Paletsinian refugees rather than help solve it, or why is there a separate definition for Palestinian refugees than for all other ones, Palestinian refugees also get more funding (through UNRWA) than any other refugee in the world. Just to highlight the absurdity, celeb millionaires Bella and Gigi Hadid, and their millionaire father Mohamed, are all still considered Palestinian refugees according to UNRWA's definition, despite obviously being well integrated into other countries.

Something I wanna add is about proportions within the UN and UNRWA employment. Globally, the UN says it directly employees 37,000 people. UNRWA's website says over 30,000 people work for it, and most are Palestinians, "with a small number of internation staff." That means UNRWA seems internation and impartial thanks to being counted as a UN body, but in reality, it is a Palestinian orgnization. It could never be impartial, like it wants to appear. But then it gets quoted endlessly by other UN bodies, as if UNRWA's data is impartial and reliable. It's been said more than once that many Hamas members are also employed by UNRWA, and in fact, Hamas has already voiced its displeasure over the funding to UNRAW being stopped. If Hamas is unhappy about it, when Hamas has been killing its own population, that says Hamas has its own vested interest in this organization.

Funding for UNRWA has been frozen before, but then restored. So that's not a solution. This time, the UN should be pressured to dismantle UNRWA, and move Palestinian refugees to the same definition, the same budget and the same kind of care and solution granted to all other refugees under the UNHCR.

Just a reminder that thanks to the anti-Israel demonization, Jews are not safe anywhere. In London, three people were recently attacked for simply speaking Hebrew. So here's your reminder that Hebrew is the native language of Jews, there are many Jews who try to learn and speak it, and targeting people for just speaking Hebrew is by its very nature antisemitic.

A new study shows that about half of the Israeli citizens evacuated from the north are suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. I don't know of a similar current survey regarding the Israelis evacuated from the south, but given the massacre they survived, one can only assume the situation among them is even worse.

These are Lior (right) and his 79 years old dad Chaim Perry (left).

Lior's brother was murdered during the Hamas massacre on Oct 7, and his life long peace activist father Chaim was kidnapped. Lior was asked today what he thought of the International Court of Justice's call yesterday for Hamas to return all of the Israeli hostages, immediately and without any conditions. He said he also calls for the same thing, and it's about as effective.

This is Irena Maman.

She's a resident of the northern Israeli city of Kiryat Shmona, but when most of its people were evacuated, Irena refused to. With her husband's help, she's still working as a tailor, and inviting soldiers who need their uniforms fixed to come see her, offering her work to them pro bono.

These are Aviad (left) and Gideon ("Gigi," right) Rivlin.

Four Rivlin brothers went to the Nova music festival together, Aviad, Gigi, Yochai and Yinon. When the terrorist attack started, they were giving the wounded water. At a certain point, they dispersed, with each brother running in a different direction. Aviad and Gigi did not survive. In an interview, their father said he's stopped asking himself why did he lose two sons, and started being thankful for having gotten two back. Gigi was named after his uncle Gideon, who was murdered by a terrorist from Gaza.

May their memories be a blessing.

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

[cautiousyoungman]

I'm sorry but Gabriel and Beelzebub's relationship is just so damn wholesome and it's also so different from Crowley and Aziraphale.

Crowley and Aziraphale are never on the same page about what the other wants or what the other is trying to say/do. Crowley is an expert at anticipating what Aziraphale wants or needs, but he doesn't have a good grasp on how Aziraphale communicates. Aziraphale can't anticipate what Crowley wants, needs or what he'll do next, but he understands Crowley's words better.

To explain, Crowley knew Aziraphale would love food before Aziraphale had ever considered trying it. It is now one of Aziraphale's favourite things on earth. Crowley went to Aziraphale immediately after the whole ordeal with Job, which to me suggests that he knew Aziraphale would need comforting. He rescued Aziraphale in Paris, 1793, from the Reign of Terror and he rescued him in London, 1941, from the Nazis. When it comes time to talk about Armageddon, Crowley knows the things Aziraphale will miss when Earth is gone. He knows the things that will drive Aziraphale insane in Heaven for eternity. Crowley knows Aziraphale the way people know their first language: it just comes naturally to him. It's been ingrained in him.

Aziraphale cannot anticipate Crowley. Even with Job, when Aziraphale knows that Crowley doesn't want to kill the children, his attempt to stop him feels like he's bluffing. That he isn't 100% confident that Crowley won't do it. He is puzzled and (pleasantly) surprised to find that Crowley didn't even have the heart to kill the goats. But, when it comes to verbal communication, Aziraphale is more in tune. He quickly picks up on when to take Crowley's word seriously, and when not to. We see this a few times, like in Edinburgh, 1827, when Crowley responds (as he often does) in anger to being praised for his kindness, and again in modern day S1 at the old satanic hospital. Aziraphale isn't the slightest bit affected by what Crowley says or does in response to him. He just patiently waits, and almost smiles, as Crowley talks. He isn't afraid of him, even when Crowley slams him against a wall. He isn't off put. He deeply understands what Crowley is saying, why he's saying it, and that it isn't personal. He's just being defensive. And throughout the show in general, Crowley says plenty of hurtful things to Aziraphale that Aziraphale just knows not to take to heart.

In most of the show, these are great strengths for both characters and their collective dynamic. But in their final interaction, it shows that they need to learn the understanding that each of them is respectively lacking.

The entire dispute starts because Aziraphale can't anticipate Crowley. He thinks Crowley will be happy about going to heaven, but the viewers (and, if you ask me, the Metatron) all seemed to know that he would be upset. Aziraphale should know him better than anybody does, including the viewer. But he doesn't. He never learned a fundamental part of understanding Crowley, which leads to...

Crowley takes everything Aziraphale says personally. In the gazebo scene in season one, he is better at taking Aziraphale's hurtful words in stride. But in S2E6, Aziraphale doesn't do a great job of explaining himself or the proposition of them returning to Heaven. And Crowley doesn't have the patience to try and give his explanation the benefit of the doubt. He takes it at face value, so things Aziraphale says - such as saying "Of course you said no to hell, you're the bad guys." when Crowley mentions rejecting hell - Crowley takes that as a personal attack or rejection. He never learned a fundamental part of understanding Aziraphale.

Now I know this seems like I've gotten off topic, but trust me, I'm about to bring it back around.

The difference is, Gabriel and Beelzebub could anticipate each other immediately. I'm sure there's a lot of meetings between the two of them that we didn't get to see in the show. But, with the evidence we have, we see two people who are always on the same page. They say there's no reason for them to meet up anymore, and give each other a knowing look that suggests "but we will continue to see each other anyway." Beelzebub likes a song, so Gabriel (who doesn't even have a grasp on what music really is) plays it on an infinite loop for them. Beelzebub is soft spoken and more gentle with Gabriel than anyone else we've seen. Gabriel buys them drinks and food to keep up appearances, and immediately reassures them that they don't have to consume any of it. Beelzebub brings him a fly, seemingly knowing that things will go poorly in Heaven soon. They have an equal exchange of gestures and communication that works so perfectly for them, its like its inherent. And when it comes down to where they want their future to go, they both essentially say, "I just want to be where my love is." They're on the same page, and that page is just that they want each other.

Aziraphale and Crowley will always try to find the next big thing to make the other one happy. But doing that will always sacrifice the present moment. They both think they understand the other, when in reality, they're hurting themselves - and each other - to comply with rules no one made for them.

Aziraphale thinks Crowley will be happy in Heaven. He thinks he can fix Heaven for Crowley.

Crowley thinks Aziraphale is choosing Heaven over him. He thinks Aziraphale wants to fix him.

They both tried their best. But they don't understand each other. And at this point, it's almost like they're not trying to understand. They're just trying to be right.

Anyway, I hope Beelzebub and Gabriel are very happy together for eternity and if they separate, I don't believe in love anymore.