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natlovesls2 · 4 months

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Why Me?

Lando x Latina!Reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: 18+, brief mentions of razors (in a hair removal way and self harm way), mentions of blood once or twice, bullying, swearing (maybe), angst to fluff, no use of y/n

*ੈ✩‧₊˚word count: 1.5k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary: You don't feel good enough or your past experiences haunt you

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

You stood in front of the mirror, awkwardly rubbing at the brown skin of your arms, pinching at the hair that was beginning to grow back— the prickly feeling, a reminder of the extra steps you had to take to feel slightly attractive. Shaving every bit of body hair has been your dirty secret since your mom allowed you near a razor. The pink plastic always tucked away in some corner of your bathroom, ready to save you from humiliation. You refused to ever let another person see you like that— refused yourself from being bullied or ridiculed ever again.

The memories of those elementary and early middle school days haunted you, taunting you at every moment those memories slipped into your mind. The awful names the children your age had called you stuck like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe in a busy street— the most pesky type of sticking. It clung and clung, refusing to leave the shoe and its place, leaving behind a tacky feeling that made walking uncomfortable. Those names left that same tacky feeling in your brain that made it impossible to feel comfortable in your skin.

You could still remember the day the boy you liked called you a man. The way he laughed and caused everyone at your table to laugh at you plagued you every day. It crawled into your brain on days when you least wanted it to, reminding you of the innocent childhood love you were denied. The constant whispers and laughter made around you reminded you that you weren’t loved or desired by the people you so desperately wanted to be approved by.

So, as you stood in front of your mirror looking at your sun-deprived, brown, and prickly skin-- you couldn’t help but hate yourself. You hated being the opposite of what everyone wanted. You hated that you were the Latina men wanted when they said they “love Latina women.” You despised the role in the media that women who looked like you had acquired— the maid. It tired you beyond belief to see other brown Latinas be portrayed as such as if you had no other value to society. It felt as if your skin was anything other than the protector it was meant to be. It felt more like a target— a target that yelled: berate me and make me feel like shit. And if your own ethnicity saw your skin as less than others, then what was there to expect from others? But of course, you hadn't always felt like that-- in fact, you had once loved the way you looked.

You sighed, turning the knobs of the shower on, letting it warm a bit before getting into it. You let the warm water hit your body, relaxing your thoughts for a while. The self-hatred and unpleasant memories wash away with the soap. The untouched razor in the corner of the shower finally caught your attention, bringing back everything that had just passed. And as you shakily picked up the razor, you wished you had been “blessed” with lighter skin that came with that hard-to-see body hair. You swiped the razor up and down your arms, cutting away your arm hair and, with it, washing away your shame.

The sudden knock at the door startles you back to reality, though you were sure you were out of it to begin with. “You okay in there? You’ve been in there for quite a while; I’m starting to worry,” your boyfriend yelled through the locked wooden door of the bathroom. The relationship had started two years ago and was everything your younger self had idolized and wished for.

“I’m fine,” you yelled back, quickly finishing your shower, wrapping a towel around your body, and opening the door.

He smiled at you, wrapping his arms around your waist, swaying you around. “You look beautiful,” he leaned down to press a quick kiss to your lips, resting his forehead against yours. He was the beautiful one in the relationship that was everyone’s opinion— including your own. Everyone online made it clear that Lando was out of your league, and you believed every word. It didn’t matter how much he told you that he loved you and that he thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world.

“What’s wrong, love?” He whispers, rubbing his nose against your own, giving you another quick kiss before pulling away completely. He looked at you attentively, analyzing your facial and body expression.

“Why me?” You asked, voice cracking as you attempted to hold back the tears that had snuck up on you. “Why would you want to be with me?”

Lando reached out to gently caress your cheek, wiping away the tears that managed to escape you, “Why not? Why wouldn’t I choose you?”

“Look at me! I’m nothing like the ideal woman, at least not one that someone like you would want!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He scoffed, shaking his head and pulling you closer.

“It means that you deserve someone who looks like they just walked off a runway show! Stop laughing, Lando, I’m being serious right now,” you push him away, smacking his shoulder out of frustration, stepping back as he outstretched his arms to, once again, wrap them around your body.

“Come on, there’s no way you’re actually being serious. You know why I love you.”

“It’s hard to know when no one else understands it.”

“It’s not for them to understand! We’ve talked about this, and what did you tell me? You promised that you wouldn’t pay attention to what people say,” he ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his face.

Of course, you remembered the promise and the million other similar promises. It was easy to make those promises but incredibly hard to keep them– especially when his fans constantly reminded you of your flaws and misfortunes.

“Sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. Just get dressed; I’ll wait for you in the living room,” he leaned forward slightly to give you another kiss but hesitated and decided against it.

"I love you," he said quietly, closing the bedroom door as he walked out, once again leaving you with your thoughts.

A feeling of nausea settles in the twisting pit of your stomach as you dress into the outfit you had chosen before your shower: a green dress that stops a few inches above your knees with a thin white cardigan. Slowly, you walked out of your shared bedroom, watching as Lando's eyes lit up as soon as he saw you– giving you that toothy smile he always gave you when he was especially happy. The type of smile that always made you feel special and eased your worries, even if it was just temporary. You couldn't help but smile back at him, giving him the same wide smile. "Stop it, you're giving me butterflies," you laugh at the situation; it was strange that he could make you feel so loved with something as simple as a smile.

"Maybe that was the plan... you look beautiful– you always do." He always knew the right things to say and when to say them. You always liked that about him; Lando was confident, and that made him reliable. He knew what he wanted; sure, he didn't have his whole life figured out, but when things went wrong, his confidence made it seem as if plan B was always meant to be plan A. You suppose this is why you had fallen for him so quickly. His ability to fix things that were broken and had gone wrong.

"I love you," You quickly said, wrapping your arms around him– hugging him as tight and close as you possibly could.

He pushed against you, holding your shoulders with his hands and smiling, "You love me?"

"Yes, so much. More than I could have ever imagined loving someone."

"I love you too. You're so perfect for me in every way– I mean it. You're so kind to people, even when they aren't kind to you. You care so much about everything, and you're so passionate about it. That's why, that's why I love you," he pulled you back into the hug, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

You knew you would continue to feel uncomfortable in your own skin, and that feeling wouldn't go away for a long time. However, as long as you had Lando by your side, it would be a little less painful. "I'm going to remind you that you are beautiful and that what you see as flaws are the things I love most about you for as long as the universe lets me be by your side," he promised, and you knew he would stay true to that.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

Note: this is loosely based on my personal experience so if this isn’t your experience as a Latina, I understand. That being said, everyone deserves love regardless of their skin color, race, or ethnic background. I am extremely sorry if anyone has been told over wise or has been made to feel unloveable. -`♡´-

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littlefreya · 2 years

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Danse Macabre

Summary: She cannot tell who she is anymore, nor where she is. All that she knows is that Sherlock is not the man he pretends to be and that every night he comes to her bedroom to feast on the delights of her body...

Pairing: Vampire!Sherlock Holmes x Virgin OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: 18+, Dark, horror, dubious consent, sex, supernatural themes, I guess we can say monster sex? Mentions of blood, hinted Stockholm Syndrome, loss of virginity, metaphors, obsession, hinted hypnosis, bites, vampire sex, mind manipulation.

A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes. Many thanks to my angels: @agniavateira for beta'ing my work and supporting me, and to @notabronte for giving me feedback and encouraging me to post. Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed it. 🖤

Danse Macabre 🕯️

How long has it been; a month? A year? An eternity?

Time swayed differently in Mister Holmes’ mansion — if it moved at all.

The nights seemed endless, and the days… she couldn’t remember the last time she was awake during daytime. Perhaps this was a nightmare, or maybe it was the cold tentacles of death that pulled her into an abyss; but then, if the dead couldn’t feel pain then why did his kisses hurt?

It was in the bawls of midnight when Sherlock stalked into her bedroom— his jaw stern, cheekbones sharp and strikingly distinguished by the flame of a single candle held in his hand. Hunger filled his careless face, and his eyes flickered brightly like glowing orbs of ice.

Unable to scream or move, she watched him behind the ghostly veils of her bed. Hot wax dribbled down his fingers—little white tears of sorrow that she wished she herself could cry, but Sherlock had not only drained her of such force but by some enchantment, coaxed her to submit to his sacrilegious desire

“Undress,” he demanded from the doorway where he stood, shrouded by the crimson haze of the poorly lit corridor. Whatever was behind him, she could never see, the width of his bulky figure blocked the path like a monster from a children’s tale.

‘Monsters are real, Momma. They look like men in tailored vests and shiny leather shoes.’

Her fingers trembled, hands stiff and heavy. Yet she did what she was told without question, allowing the straps of her nightdress to fall down her shoulders the way a dying leaf falls from a branch.

Eyes a shade colder than ice, his glare fell to her breasts, and his chest puffed with a rumbling growl. Slowly he stalked forward, treading like a spider on its web. The tips of his fingers turned black as if dipped in poison whilst his nails grew long and sharp at every step.

“The duvet. Set it aside.”

His voice was the rumble of an inching thunder, an echo inside her head that made her bones rattle. Whenever he spoke, it felt as if invisible strings wrapped around her wrists and persuaded her limbs to do as he commanded. Even when her soul begged her to give a sliver of resistance, her hands still lifted to obey this dark ventriloquist and pushed the blanket away.

The stem of Sherlock’s throat clenched at the delicious splendour: bare, youthful skin, so tight and so supple. A thing that should have never been touched, should have never been spoiled and yet he yearned for nothing but to leave his marks at the depth of her soul.

The scent that emanated from the flesh between her thighs elicited a guttural groan from his chapped lips. In his throat pulled the ghastly hunger. Setting the candle on the wardrobe, he stalked toward the bed, his shadow metastasizing and devouring every shred of light that dared enter the chamber.

Both the mattress and her heart sank once he placed a knee on the bed and began to crawl between her parted legs, slowly and predatorily, dragging himself closer to her heat. Black, sharpened nails graze their way up her inner thighs, admiring the pureness of the forever-young flesh.

Encased in a glass coffin, his young ward would forever be protected from famine, disease, and time; and what was Sherlock if not a warden fulfilling his duty?

‘A monster! God, please! There is a monster in my bed!’

If only she could scream, if only God hadn’t abandoned her. Instead, all she could do was shiver, her heart giving no sound as Sherlock forced himself between her thighs. One razor-sharp fingernail traced the plumpness of her breast, tenderly circling and caressing the nipple.

“Mine,” he growled and slipped his nail down the valley of her torso, casually tugging the remains of her gown to expose her pure mound. Red glinted on those piercing shards that replaced his eyes—red like a flicker of fire from a match. “Look at me,” he demanded, though there was no need for him to ask.

That same gaze that possessed her had sliced through the tendrils of her mind.

Nodding, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her lips parting in a quiet plea as the ghastly, pointed talon made careful strokes amidst the swollen petals to collect the honeyed dew that gathered at the seams of her untouched cunt.

“My poor little dove, it’s so lonely in there…” he keened, attempting to slide his long monstrous finger inside of her. But her maidenhood, still obstinate to protect her from the vile urges of men, forbade him access.

Foolish.

What strength did her flesh have against such a sinister entity if even iron locks and carved religious figures couldn’t keep him away? Huffing with scorn, he drew an icy fingertip around the outlines of her slit, further spreading the sinful wetness across the seams of her cunt.

She mewled, despite herself, her waist moving in a smooth tidal sway.

Sherlock could never tire of this, not of the terror in her eyes whenever she saw him at her bedroom door nor the moans she emitted as he traced her engorged flesh with a finger or his tongue. But what he favoured above all was the sensation of his cock as it tore through her seal and those heavenly pained cries that eventually turned into the moans of a whore.

What a great fortune it was that they had an eternity of this dance.

Hovering above his prey, he propped his knees between her legs, the fabric of his trousers brushing against her inner thighs as he lowered his weight upon her. If there was any air in her lungs, she would have let out a shuddering breath; but what came instead was a silent gasp, and only her lips quivered as she prepared herself for the familiar twinge of his invasion.

Reaching for his groin, he freed his hardened cock and stroked a hand across its length before nudging the heart-shaped crown at the gates of her purity. Not yet pushing in, he teased himself up and down her narrow slit, treating her the way a lover treats his delicate mistress— the way a cat toys with a mouse.

Lips swollen and tingling, she whimpered, her yet-empty hole twitching as if heeding a primal call. How could she fear and need him at the same time? Did she loathe herself so much that she wanted him to defile her? Tears began to rim her eyes, and from quivering lips, she whispered, “please…”

Letting out a low rumbling chuckle, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before whispering in her ear, “You, my ward, are such a mystery…”

Her mouth opened to speak but a scream followed instead. One unceremonious thrust and he sunk into her lush depth, his girthy cock devouring the sweetness of virginal flesh. Indifferent to her pain, he pushed further and deeper past her folds until every inch of him was buried within.

Cries and squeals sputtered from her mouth—the monster had tore her innocence, the pain had seared, and in pathetic pleas for mercy, she slapped against his bare chest and tried to shove him away. But Sherlock knew no mercy, for truly he was a beast, not just by the breadth of his shoulders and untypically muscular figure, but by his blunt absence of elegance and heartless mien. Giving her no moment to adjust, he had already began to pump himself inside of her now-defiled cunt.

Such a mask of virtue did her warden wear; to the world, a perfect, eloquent gentleman. But behind closed doors, lurked a sick, sinister man who only wished to desecrate this tender maiden in this dark sacrament.

Over and over, he pulled away only to plunge into her again, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust ending with the slap of his sack against her cunt. And the moans that came from him - had the most debauched resonance, as if she was a long anticipated feast to a voracious man.

Unable to meet his vigour, her walls whined a protest and squeezed around him in a futile battle to drive him out; yet for Sherlock, this tightness was nothing less than an aphrodisiac. If any, her insubordination did nothing but provoke the ungodly creature within him. Reaching a clawed hand to her chin, his fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her to stare directly into his bright-red eyes as he began to fuck her in a punishing pace.

“I am already inside you, little dove. There is nothing that can be done,” he rasped while his hips continuously snapped into hers, every second rut bringing her closer to surrender as friction drew that which she so religiously wanted to resist.

“Give in to me, and I will give you pleasure like no other.”

His words were but a spell. Briefly, unbidden, a spark inside her womb ignited, giving life to ecstatic flames that cascaded through her canal. While a part of her wanted to stay pure and deny this vicious man, an unbearable ache for his return struck her every time he pulled out from her slit. In mindless despair to hold him close, she had finally caved in and wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him near.

Triumphant grunts rumbled in his throat. Appeased by her surrender to his whims, he lifted his upper torso, his taut abs flexing as he rose to hover above her. With his hand still around her jaw, he pressed her deeper into the mattress while pummeling her cunt.

“Make us whole…” he begged, his voice a husky—almost pitiful—groan.

“Make us whole again.”

Depraved as an animal, he ravaged her with the selfish degenerate intent of a man yearning to impregnate his mate. Though this union could result in nothing of that sort, still she thrashed against him in an archaic frenzy, her screams unfurling into the night as her body became enslaved to the same foolish wanton. Soon her trenches began to tighten around him in demand of his seed, and the whispering embers that smouldered in her womb had suddenly imploded into a wave of molten fire that scorched through her completely.

It was in that moment when her cunt devoured him completely, when he felt her heat gush and hug around his shaft so longingly that his eyes glowed bright red, and his fangs flashed sharply before her dazed eyes. Even though she had seen this play out numerous, endless times, she couldn’t help but gasp as he lowered his mouth to her neck and drank her pleasure-tainted blood.

Eyes staring into the ceiling with shock, she trembled like a thing that was about to be shattered. The waves of her ecstasy ebbed away as Sherlock stole from whatever maw of force she had left. Black mists began to waft around her, blurring her sight and pulling her down below. And suddenly, she was limp and heavy at the same time while a cold, strange tingle jittered through her veins.

‘Death…’ she smiled with her eyes half-shut, ‘Oh, finally… Release me!’

Just then, a secondary implosion spasmed through her core and caused her entire body to jitter with delight as the sensation elicited from his bite was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Mouth agape in a silent cry, she threw her head back and stared through the open window while the monster inside her continued to feast on her throat.

The moon—it was covered in blood, painting the room in a crimson shade.

Lost in this trance, Sherlock hummed; the blood of a newly deflowered virgin was sweeter than ambrosia; after decades and aeons of searching, he could sense the wind on his skin, feel the thrum in his veins and abruptly… in a moment passing, he felt a rumble in his chest as his heart pumped once again.

‘Make us whole.’

‘Make me whole.’

‘Make me feel alive again.��

Losing his control entirely, he thrusted into her with a few last powerful strokes and then finally lifted his head with a savage-like shout while his thick elixir overflowed her womb. Cum seeped around his cock at the same manner of the blood that trickled down his square chin.

He licked the corner of his lip, eyes red and sated, peering down at his prey.

“Oh, my sweet little flower,” he murmured and carefully lowered his head to kiss her. She returned the kiss, uncertain if by choice, little did she care now. Her body still tingled and the taste of her own blood had an odd sweetness to it that had made her thirsty. Once he broke from her lips, she suckled them dry.

Like petals plucked from a rose, she laid raw beneath him. Not dead. Not yet. Not ever. She no longer remembered her life before him, no longer remembered who she was. All she knew was that when she would wake the next day, it would be night again.

And he would return to claim her, again.

His fellow companions warned him of such abomination; it was dangerous to drink from his own kind, or so they claimed. It poisoned the mind and the body according to the myths, but whether it was true or not, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.

No matter the fashion, he came every night, drank from her veins, deflowered her and left.

And every night, she woke up a virgin again, clueless as to who and what she was.

But Sherlock knew the one and only true answer.

She was his.

For all eternity.

#henry cavill #enola holmes #enola holmes 2 #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction

940 notes · View notes

novoaa1writes · 1 year

Text

day 0

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader, natasha romanoff & tony stark (platonic)

summary:

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Or: Natasha wants a pet. Lucky for her, she knows a guy who can help with that.

contains: non-con dynamics, pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~3,300

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, non-con bathing, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, referenced physical and psychological abuse, discussions of administering post-op painkillers (morphine, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, etc.)

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here, and as with every reader-insert i write, the reader is intended to be ethnically ambiguous! also, no use of y/n... i don't personally mind it much, but i understand it's typically preferred without

translation for russian terms in the end notes!

(previously named “build-a-pet”)

— —

Natasha had been on mission when she received the call.

Burner #1—professional access. A select handful of people had the means to call it. Phil, Clint, Nick, Maria. Pepper, too.

Burner #2—a separate, off-books agenda. Personal in nature. Accessible to none save for one individual.

It was the second of the two that rang to signal an incoming call.

Eyeing her target—Pavel Mikhailovich Novik, Bratyerstva head and prolific serial killer—intently through the tac scope, she brought the phone up to her ear and answered the call:

“Romanoff.”

“Gah! Always business with you, huh?” Tony Stark’s conversational—if not somewhat indignant—tone filtered through the speaker. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

Were Natasha not otherwise occupied at the current moment, she might’ve scoffed. As it was: “A little busy, Shellhead,” she muttered, shifting her aim in time with Novik’s uneven stride as he made his way across a municipal street. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me what you’ve got?”

“I’m doing just swell, thanks for asking.”

He was a short, stout man. Novik, that was. Flat-footed gait, the kind that had long since ruined the arches of his well-worn shoes. Broad shoulders; barrel-chested torso. Thick dark hair cut short on his scalp and, in the case of his square-shaped jaw, removed completely—but permitted to grow to damn near cat-whisker length everywhere else.

A wheat-link chain hung loose around his short neck; the chunky watch on his hairy wrist gleamed when it caught the light. Both solid gold.

He was dressed nicely enough in a red button-down that looked soft as satin, and charcoal black trousers with a matching blazer to boot.

Natasha had to bite back a disapproving hum as he strode into the establishment—a pub, no less—and hoisted himself up onto a barstool with little ceremony.

He was armed, of course, but only barely; a pistol in one inner coat pocket, a switchblade in the other. He also wasn’t entirely clueless, as evidenced by his company: a pair of stern-looking men who stood flanking him on either side, the material of their cheap polyester suits straining to contain their hulking figures, jackets bulging with poorly-concealed semi-automatic weapons. They watched the bartender like hawks as he set a clear bottle—Dębowa—and an empty glass in front of Novik before promptly scurrying away.

They turned their matching glowers away from their boss as he began to drink, surveying the small, dimly-lit pub with heavy-browed suspicion.

It was a clear message. A bit garish for Natasha’s tastes; but clear nonetheless.

As it was, she barely had to shift herself any further to catch him in her crosshairs through a series of high, rectangular windows lining the interior of the grimy pub.

All bark, no bite.

A far less jaded woman might have snorted.

A far less jaded woman Natasha was not.

“… Long story short, we’ve made some serious progress. I want to check in, though, if you could swing by for a quick visit. We’ve only got a short window before some of these alterations are irreversible. Plus, I figured you’d want to see them.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, her pulse thrumming wild and fast beneath her skin. “You figured right,” she managed to answer, her mouth dry. It was all she could do to keep Novik unharmed in her crosshairs, her finger from squeezing the trigger.

“So, when can we expect you?”

Natasha flit her gaze to the clock face fastened atop a tall, spindly spire on the nearest street corner, then back to Novik. “Give me six hours.”

— —

“Boss, three reports intercepted from secure, heavily-encrypted channels. All high-profile killings, all on European soil.”

Tony Stark, though intrigued, did not look up from the task at hand: himself perched adroitly along the rim of the tub, lathering your naked body in sweet-smelling soaps; you, slumped uncouthly in the cradle of the bath, glaring up at him with defiant eyes and murder in the tick of your jaw.

“Time window?” he questioned after a pause, lowering one sudsy hand to knead at your lower belly and grinning wolfishly when you couldn’t smother a quiet whine.

“Six days.”

“Locales?”

“Qormi, Malta; Kutaisi, Georgia; and Gomel, Belarus.”

Stark hummed in lieu of answer, a vaguely preoccupied look in his narrowed gaze. His large, calloused fingers didn’t cease their humiliating ministrations over your quivering belly, making you pant in an effort to hold back a low, guttural trill.

“In that order?”

“Yes, boss.”

You hated him. You fucking hated him.

“Walks like Natasha, quacks like Natasha…” he trailed off, giving your belly one last squeeze before withdrawing slightly to cup your other hip with his palm. “Probably Natasha.”

You’d only just begun regaining your strength following the latest procedure, though not nearly enough to do anything other than glare.

Stark slanted his gaze back over to you. If he was at all cowed by the force of your glower, he did well not to show it. “You’re adorable when you’re plotting my demise, y’know that?”

It took everything within you not to roll your eyes.

— —

“So, how was White Russia? Eat any draniki?” Stark questioned as he settled bodily into an armchair, gesturing for Natasha to seat herself on the settee across from him.

She did, her features calm and impassive. Her shrewd gaze flit to you once, but was quick to refocus. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“C’mon, give me something,” Stark carped, huffing petulantly. You couldn’t see his face from this angle, only the back of his head and a bit of bearded cheek, but you imagined he was probably pouting like a third grader. “For old times’ sake?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stark quipped. “Though, I suppose I can’t say the same for Novik. He didn’t even get a trial.”

Natasha’s placid expression did not falter. “Who?”

“You know what, I’m just gonna give you this one—”

“Generous.”

“—but only because we’ve achieved a mind-blowing amount of progress within the past couple weeks. Like, seriously: mind-blowing.”

You felt yourself shudder at the reminder. Progress, indeed.

“Oh?” Natasha queried lightly, brows raised. Once more, her gaze dipped to you… and stayed there.

You ducked your head and averted your eyes, cheeks aflame. You’d grown accustomed to being naked around Stark—mainly because you didn’t have a choice. But Natasha…

For the first time in years, you found yourself missing your long hair, the way you could cower behind it at a moment’s notice. Now, you were exposed. Vulnerable.

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

“Your funeral.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, though she remained silent. Then, after a beat or two— “Your progress?” she prompted.

“Right, so, here’s the run-down…”

— —

You’d tuned out for the most part as Stark began his long-winded, vainglorious speech to Natasha about his—your—successes since last they’d spoken. Much as you understood it was likely prudent to listen in, acquire a little more knowledge on what exactly he’d done to you, you’d also been there long enough to know that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyhow.

Natasha would do with you as she pleased. Stark, too, provided Natasha was the one asking.

In the beginning, that intrigued you. Made you want to learn more about them and their dynamic; to understand why it was what it was. You didn’t get why Stark would run, jump, and heel for the likes of her—intimidation factor notwithstanding.

By this point, that intrigue had since dwindled, if not dissipated entirely. It was what it was; consequently, they were, too.

You were still angry and strong-willed and a far cry from broken, but you weren’t stupid, either. Just because they treated you like a chained-up dog didn’t mean you had to gnaw off your own limbs in a desperate bid to escape like one.

And, besides… it wasn’t often you got moments like these. Moments where you weren’t being poked and prodded and shot up with God knows what. You were collared, sure, your body riddled with all kinds of aches and pains, but none of it held a candle to the agony you’d known in days past.

Lost in your head though you were, months’ worth of training ensured you didn’t miss the moment Natasha called you over.

“Ко мне,” she spoke, pitching her voice just above appropriate speaking volume.

It was like someone lit a fire under your ass. The second you heard it, you shot up on all fours. Pain came fast on its heels, but you grit your teeth and bore it, swallowing down a cry as soreness shot through your hands—you flat-out refused to call them ‘paws’—like wildfire. Every heightened reflex stood on high alert. Your back, too, felt like it was on fire, spinal column alight with tenderness.

Still, it wasn’t nearly so bad as it’d been a week back, when you awoke in observation all bandaged up and so acutely in pain, you feared it might kill you. You also knew better than to dawdle. Clenching your jaw tight, you shuffled forth on sore palms and bruised knees. Your muscles burned.

You were grateful to feel the tip of your nose graze Natasha’s jean-clad knee, signaling a justifiable stopping point.

“Молодец,” she praised, her voice pitched an octave (or two) higher, and you felt like singing.

You even arched your poor, aching back in a shameless effort to attract… well, something, you supposed. Head pats, perhaps. An open-handed stroke down your spine, even.

Damn that animal, desire-seeking hindbrain.

Fortunately, Natasha seemed to understand. Her palm met the nape of your neck, slender fingers curling their way into the mess of hair at the back of your scalp—God, but that felt divine. A mounting hum in the back of your throat was all the warning you got before—

Fuck. Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut, and the sound—along with the pleasurable vibrations—stopped altogether.

Not again.

“Ah-ah-ah, puppy,” Natasha tutted, her free hand descending to squeeze your nose tight—effectively cutting off your air supply. And still, the other remained; combing through freshly-washed hair at the base of your skull, occasionally scritching your scalp with the tips of her blunt nails until the insides of your throat quivered and your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. It was all you could do to keep from opening right back up and giving her a nice long purr. (Which, you’d deduced, was exactly what she wanted.) “None of that.”

She was using English now, you noticed.

And, just like that, the realization hit that she hadn’t been before.

Now, you could… you could hear her words and understand them, and from that understanding know their meaning. Before, it was like… like hearing the words and knowing what they were supposed to mean, then acting accordingly. You couldn’t take apart the syllables, the letters in your head, not like you could with English.

P-u-p-p-y. That spelled ‘puppy.’ When you tried to conjure the word she’d used to summon you over, there was just… nothing. A blank space. A short one, telling you you knew the approximate length of the word you were looking for, but… empty.

Your gaze darted to Stark, who just slouched back in his cushy armchair looking immeasurably pleased with himself. At any other time, the mere sight would’ve been enough to spark some measure of annoyance within you.

Now… Now, all you could feel was fear.

He didn’t do that, did he? He… he couldn’t’ve.

All the rest of it: the obedience, the meekness—that? That was conditioning, plain and simple. You weren’t exactly a PhD, but it didn’t take a genius to note down from the very start that some behaviors got you alone time in a small, dark room without food or water or sunlight for days on end, and others got you… well, not that. By a certain point, you would beg him to yell at you, choke you out, take you over his knee and spank your ass raw when you misbehaved; something, anything, so long as it wasn’t that. 2 times out of 10, he’d take you up on that. As for the other 8… well.

But this—implanting knowledge in your subconscious, tuning it to mimic compulsory behavioral urges, all while you remained none the wiser? That was a hell of a lot more complicated than reworking your spine, or tweaking sensory receptors, or even altering your vocal tract to make that obnoxious purr.

It was like he’d rewired your brain.

You didn’t even notice that you’d since relented: gasped out what little breath remained and began wheezing, all doubled-over, sucking in new breaths of air like a half-drowned cat. Though, you sure as hell noticed how that rattling, restless, vibrating sensation arose in your throat with every shuddering inhale; how, on every exhale came exactly what you’d feared—that pathetic, trilling purr. The one that warmed your body from head to toe while simultaneously making you wish you had never been fucking born.

God, but Natasha’s hands were like magic…

Your head still spun. Was it from the oxygen deprivation, or the realization that Stark had been inside your head? Probably both.

Terrified, dazed, and overwhelmingly confused, it took you some time to re-center; tuning back into Stark and Natasha’s conversation, if only to posture yourself accordingly. You could figure out the rest later, you reasoned.

“… The spinal alterations don’t inhibit their ability to stand upright, by any means, which is the exciting thing,” Stark was saying, damn near perched at the edge of his seat—almost vibrating with renewed vigor. Weirdo. “They just enhance their natural capacity to remain down on all fours and go about their day for extended periods of time: a day, a week… hell, indefinitely! Which, for humans, would be pretty much unthinkable. I mean, can you imagine?”

Without allowing a moment’s pause for Natasha to respond (which you’d come to understand was quite typical), Stark wasted no time in steamrolling on. “‘Course, the process of transplanting new bones was rather tricky, and we had to do a couple of them more than once. Dr. Cho estimates a week—at most—before they’ve healed enough to allow for more… strenuous physical activity.”

Natasha snorted. Her hand had long stilled its pleasant ministrations in favor of resting inert at the base of your skull, slender fingers curled loosely around your nape. You felt how they twitched and tightened their grip ever-so-slightly when Stark spoke of what he’d done to your spine. “Are they in pain?”

Funny. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought she cared.

Stark raised a brow. “Ballpark?”

Natasha must’ve nodded, or dipped her chin in confirmation, because a beat later, Stark spoke again.

“Imagine you got ripped open, rearranged, then stitched back up,” he summed up. “Twice.”

Dimly, it registered within you to be struck by his forthrightness, though you did not dare mistake it for empathy.

Natasha was quiet for a beat. “Sounds about right,” she said eventually.

“It doesn’t have to be this bad,” Stark offered, though there was a curious shift in his intonation, this time; a knowing and almost resigned look in his eye that made you wonder if he and Natasha had had this conversation before.

The way Natasha’s hand twitched, blunt nails digging into the skin of your nape, was answer enough.

“Were I their doctor, I’d be prescribing some serious pain meds,” Stark continued on dryly, making a show of tilting his head and gazing off into the distance as though he was deep in thought. “Morphine, oxycodone—“

“No.”

“—maybe a local anesthetic or two,” he mused, beginning to count them out on his fingers. “Anti-inflammatories. Anticonvulsants. Something for the anxiety, even—”

“I wanted a pet, not a vegetable.”

Stark’s lips twitched—though with exasperation or humor, you could not tell. “Do you realize how quickly even the most powerful anesthetics will metabolize through their system? They’re not human anymore, Red. At least, not entirely.”

Now, that piqued your interest.

“Neither am I.”

“It’s different for them. You know that. You got Erskine’s serum. Some unrefined bootleg variant, granted, but that man was nothing if not brilliant. Everything he touched, he turned to gold.” Stark spoke of him—this ‘Erskine’—as though he put the very stars in the sky. You wondered if he was truly brilliant, or just insane. You wondered if for Stark, there was any difference. “As for them… well.” He gestured vaguely towards you. “They got some anthropomorphic whack job’s bone marrow.”

You blinked. You got what now?

“He has a name, you know,” Natasha commented archly, the earlier indignation having dissipated from her tone.

“Point being—I’ve met the guy. He’s seriously unhinged.” He paused there, as if expecting Natasha to argue. When she didn’t, he steamrolled on: “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scavenge some digitized medical reports and psych evals from his time at the facility, along with anything else they could piece together after he escaped. Violently, I might add.”

“I won’t say he’s devoid of empathy, or a moral compass, because we both know that that’s not true,” Stark explained, then muttered under his breath: “Even if his senses of both concepts are seriously skewed.”

“Tony,” Natasha interjected, a note of warning in her voice.

“Just listen, alright? I’m getting there.” Stark huffed out a sigh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “My point is that he wasn’t like that, at the start. He was no saint, to be sure, but he wasn’t like that. It wasn’t until they started a particularly ill-inspired series of ‘tests’—though I’d argue a better term would be ‘torture sessions’—to assess his healing capabilities that he really started losing his marbles.”

You head was beginning to spin. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Who were they talking about?

“See, because his capabilities—extraordinary as they were—weren’t superhuman. They didn’t transcend healing itself, let alone make it any less painful to endure. In fact, I think they actually concluded that it was made more painful by his body’s ability to undertake those processes at such an expeditious rate.” Stark breathed out another heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache brewing.

He wasn’t the only one.

“He nearly went insane, Natasha. Joking aside, it almost beggars belief that he’s as high-functioning as he is,” Stark asserted, no longer pulling his punches. “I know you don’t want that for them.”

It was silent for a beat… Then two.

“Fine.”

Stark promptly quieted, renewed interest sparking itself alight in his gaze. “What was that now?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

A slow grin spread across his clean-shaven features.

“No opioids,” Natasha was quick to amend. “Nothing addictive. Just… anything that’ll help more than it’ll hurt.”

Silence for a beat. Then two.

Stark squinted at her. “You sure you and that bleeding heart of yours are up for this?”

Natasha’s grip around your nape tightened even further. “Shellhead,” she gritted out, her tone hard as weathered steel. Even the sound of it was enough to send chills down your spine.

Stark, in contrast, was not at all similarly affected. He simply tilted his head to one side and made a show of continuing to appraise her with shrewd, assessing eyes. Then, finally: “You should try yoga.”

— —

end notes: L O fucking L

also the anthropomorphic whack job they’re talking about is logan (wolverine) from x-men, in case you’re wondering

edit: i’ve since written a continuation of this, linked below!

translation of russian terms (with stresses bolded):

ко мне | ko mnye | “come”

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

sources:

“organized crime in eastern europe” | to be so clear, i just made up “bratyerstva” from the term “братство” (bratstvo) which means “brotherhood” or “fraternity” in bulgarian, macedonian, russian, and serbo-croatian dialects. it is also the name of a ukrainian political party (ukrainian: братство, romanized: bratstvo), but it is not an actual belarusian word. it also bears some resemblance to братва, a slang term used to refer to criminal gangs in russia and other ex-ussr states. honestly, the closest you’d probably get to an actual word with this would be the polish “braterstwo” (brahterstvo) which also means “brotherhood” or “fraternity.” (however, in some informal contexts, the term “братерство” has been used in ukrainian dialects to convey synonymous meanings.) anyway, this is a brief snippet (~10 pages) from an academic article about organized crime in eastern europe, if the precedent behind all that intrigues you. i thought it was pretty informative!

white russia | another name for belarus, though there’s some controversy/nuance to that (and big surprise, it’s got everything to do with russia). this links to an article from euronews talking about... all of that

draniki | an immensely popular dish in belarus. they’re basically potato pancakes. several other european countries have close equivalents.

— —

next part: come, sit, stay

link to masterlist

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x gnc!reader #dark!natasha romanoff #softdark!natasha romanoff x reader #stuff i wrote

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kisbunzies · 8 months

Text

More silly tf2 headcanons because i know more about them than valve does.

Sniper is practically nocturnal. You wont see him all day but you will find him sitting on the couch in base with snacks and a movie going like it 3am , no shoes or shirt despite it being February and his camper being parked like a mile.away acting like its totally normal. Will literally nap anywhere during the after noon dont be surprised if one day you find him hanging upside down like a vampire.

Speaking of which this mans goes everywhere shirtless and shoeless . gas station ? Shirtless and shoe less . walmart ? Shirtless and shoeless .middle of winter ? Maybe he's got socks on. They have to yell at him to get dressed or atleast put on sunscreen so he doesn't get crustier than he already is.

Pyro's really good at open flame cooking , bonfire grill gas stove flambae torch they can make anything as long as it requires fire. Also pyros mexican and atleast half of their "strange noises" are just them mumbling to themselves in spanish.

Heavy likes cozy stuff , he's struggled enough if he wants hot cocoa and a knitted blanket he can have hot cocoa and a knitted blanket. Owns the fuzziest pair of bear slippers known to man. Also i feel like he's a salmon guy idk maybe he rlly is just a bear but guy.

Saxton hale likes men.

Scout if so painfully straight. And i dont mean straight as in sexuality i mean straight as in pure fucking aura. Ms pauling comes out as a lesbian and he says "oh shit i like girls too we should date" sees heavy and medic kiss and his brain doesn't acknowledge it. This is true even is scout likes dudes he's the 1970's equivalent of those guys nowadays who wear nothing but nike and use the word gyat unironically and im tired of pretending like he isn't.

Ms pauling wants to be a merc so bad she thinks that its so cool but her mom told her murders for boys so she's just the administrators assistant/hj

Demoman has the most curly , bouncy , volumous gorgeous hair under than beanie. He keeps it in cornrows most of the time but when he does wear his hair out its a sight to behold.

Engineer makes the corniest , most dad like jokes known to man , its literally horrible they all groan so loud whenever he does but he thinks its hilarious.

Sniper , scout , pyro and soldier are all sour gummy worm addicts to the point that their stash takes up and entire shelf in the base pantry. Go through a costco bag a week.

The local costco dreads their presence , engineer and sniper and in the outdoors section, medics necromancing the chickens , pyros was the one roasting those chickens before they got necromanced, they managed to lose heavy somehow , scout managed to convince spy to get into a toilet paper fort they made and now their introuble with management, soldiers ordering a forth of july cake despite it being october and demomans buying premade meal kits for dinner for him.and his mom over the week. Pyro saved him a necromanced rotisserie chicken. And yes sniper still isn't wearing a shirt or shoes they've given up.

Spy had eyebags and grey hair , misses when was young and spry , is a little jealous of medic managing to have a full head of dark hair.

Medics ethnically jewish. He gets his black market organs kosher .

And finally out of all the mercs soldier goes to.medic the most for actual injuries , scout goes the most for.minors , engineers got the most perscriptions including hearing aids and stuff for pyro he picks up , sniper never goes to the doctor and medic has to drag him in . spies the worse when it comes to appointments (doesn't like any part of him being seen and despit having spy training still doesn't like.needles) and medic favorite patient is heavy for obvious reasons

#tf2 #tf2 engineer #scout tf2 #spy tf2 #demoman tf2 #tf2 scout #engineer tf2 #heavy tf2 #medic tf2 #pyro tf2 #sniper tf2 #tf2 headcanons #headcanon #lake's rambles

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zablife · 2 years

Text

Tachipen (Part 4)

Tommy x female reader

Summary: With the flip of a coin, Tommy makes a deal to bring a 20 year old gypsy girl into the Shelby clan. Considering her too young to marry, he employs her as a nanny. When tragedy strikes, he’s forced to confront the truth he has always known.

Author’s Note: This was requested by @honey-im-hotdog who asked for a fic about Charlie’s nanny. I decided to turn it into a series. The story will be told through flashbacks, but I will note the year. Tommy meets y/n in 1919 and the story goes thru present time which is the year of the vendetta, 1925.

Warnings: language, ethnic slur, violence, childbirth

1924, Tommy’s wedding day

A broken side window and a smell of petrol. Nothing left, but smoke and ash. You tried to put the disturbing thoughts out of your mind, but it was all you could think of as you sat at the long banquet table adorned with tapered candles and silver trays of food. Across the table, John laughed at his own joke, an expensive cigar in one hand and a glass of Irish whisky in the other. Isaiah clapped him on the back as he joined in and you wondered if they held a shred of remorse for what they had done.

“Y/n, is everything alright?” Ada asked, noticing the far off look in your eye.

“I need some fresh air,” you lied. Pushing your chair away from the table, you threw your napkin on the table and turned from the rowdy men as they called after you, feeling nothing but disgust. Finding the front of the house occupied by Grace’s family, you attempted to escape the sea of red uniforms with the rest of the staff below stairs. As you paced the darkened hallway outside the kitchens, you heard someone clear their throat and you looked up to find Arthur standing before you, hands in his pockets as he watched you carefully.

Unable to hold it in any longer you demanded to know, “I’m not allowed a man on my arm?”

Adopting the tone of a weary older brother reluctant to enforce his authority he began softly, “It’s about your choice of man. You know the rules.” You turned from him and he lay a hand on your shoulder attempting to console you, “Come upstairs and enjoy the party, love.”

You faced him, wiping a tear away with your sleeve. “Pretend we’re all a happy family, is that what you’d like?” you asked, failing to contain your spite.

“Aren’t you happy for Tommy?” Arthur asked, confused by your words. As he pulled away from you to study you with concern, Michael passed through with a girl on his arm. Motioning for her to go on without him, he stopped to speak to you.

“Everything alright?” he asked, the hazy, cocaine induced grin fading from his face.

“You know it isn’t! You know why he didn’t come, don’t you?” you asked bitterly, placing your hands on your hips to stare him down.

“Who? You mean the wop?” he said scrunching his nose as though the very idea was repugnant. You could tell by his reaction he held no concern for Angel Changretta’s plight and that made you angrier than before.

“His name is Angel Changretta and his restaurant was burned to the ground to stop him coming tonight!” you corrected as you charged Michael, unable to believe his callousness.

Arthur stepped between you and Michael, placing a hand on your shoulder as he said in a calm voice, “Now, y/n, we tried to tell you. Angel Changretta weren’t good for ya. He’s a dangerous man. He’s had five different names in the last six years, and he’s got connections with the Naples boys.”

“How could you be that bloody stupid? The order was simple! No fraternizing with foreigners!” Michael spat at you from over Arthur’s shoulder.

You shook free from Arthur’s grasp, a wild look in your eye at the thought of being told what to do by the youngest member of the family. “You have no right to choose who I see in my own time!” you shouted at him. Micheal only returned an icy stare as you shook your head at him in disbelief.

Then you added more quietly, “Maybe I was stupid…to have told John that Angel showed me kindness.” Looking down at your shoes you said to more to yourself than to the men surrounding you, “Angel didn’t deserve this for being with me. I wasn’t even serious about him. Just passin’ the time cause I can’t be with the man I want.”

“Be glad it was only a warning then. Sometimes killing is a kindness and the Peaky Blinders do that very well,” Michael threatened, holding your gaze a moment before stalking off to find his girl.

You gulped as you watched him go, feeling chilled to your core. Your anger soon returned as you picked up a nearby vase and threw it as far as you could, letting out a scream of frustration. You slid down the wall, watching water drip down the subway tiles across from you. Arthur surveyed the damage, before shuffling toward you.

“It goes for all of us. We all have our orders,” he said as he extended a hand to you.

You ignored it as you picked up a crushed flower at your side, “But you have someone so you couldn’t possibly understand,” you answered sadly. Pulling your knees into your chest and pressing your cheek to your forearms you muttered, “Go back to Linda, Arthur, and leave me alone.”

Arthur slipped away quietly. As he passed Tommy on the stairs, Tommy asked, “Where’s y/n?”

“Downstairs, but she wants to be alone,” Arthur said as he stood in his way.

Tommy cocked his head and squinted at Arthur. “Have you said something about the order given last night? She wasn’t to know, Arthur.”

“She already knows, Tommy. I tried to explain it to her, but fucking Michael was high on snow. Made it worse,” he said running his hand through his hair.

Tommy punched the wall beside him in a fit of rage. He had only tried to keep you safe. He hadn’t intended to hurt you.

From somewhere deep within the house calls for the groom could be heard and Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “We need to go back up, brother. Let’s go see your lovely bride,” Arthur suggested, but he could tell that wasn’t what consumed Tommy’s thoughts.

Tommy hesitated on the stairs as he took one final glance around. Massaging his sore knuckles, he murmured to himself, “I will make this right.”

—————————————————-

1919

It was far too late for you to be awake, but you couldn’t sleep. Some nights you still dreamt of home. It was difficult not to think of your sisters at times, wondering what they were doing, and if they ached for you the way you ached for them. As you sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea, Tommy descended the stairs. He looked exhausted, braces hanging from his shoulders and hair tousled as though he had tried to sleep and failed.

“What are you doing awake, ey? Thought the kids would have worn you out,” he said, voice raspy from the late hour and too many cigarettes. He lit another as you thought of an answer.

“Why are you awake?” you countered, looking him in the eye. You wanted to show him you weren’t afraid of him, hoping to put the unpleasantness behind you and start anew.

Tommy sat back in the chair across from you, blowing smoke into the air. “I asked you first,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Alright, I was thinking of my family. What they’d say now,” you confessed, swallowing harshly.

Tommy nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward, digging into his pocket. He placed a bullet in front of you, standing it on end and left it there for you to consider. “That’s what they’ve said. Go on, have a look,” he said, taking another lazy drag.

You watched his eyes as your fingers reached for the cool metal, rolling it over in your hand before reading his name etched on the side. You knew what it meant. His death had been ordered. You knew it wasn’t your father, he wouldn’t have bothered. Your sister would be married by now though to one of the men Tommy and his brothers had cut the day you had left so this could only have come from one family.

Nodding thoughtfully you replied, “This came from the Lees?”

“That’s right, love,” he said seemingly unbothered by the fact that men were trying to kill him.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, eyes darting to his for some sign he understood the severity of the threat.

“Nothing,” he replied simply.

“But…the bullet has been written, Tommy. They will kill you,” you stressed to him.

Tommy shook his head and a small smile crept onto his face as he leaned forward, “No, I don’t think they will. And do you know why?”

You shook your head, fearing what he might say next.

“Because you know everything that went on in that camp. So I need some information from you to implement a plan for my business. Do you understand?” he asked snatching the bullet up and holding it in front of you.

You nodded fiercely. “Yes, what do you need?”

“You can start by telling me what you know of the racetracks,” he said with a grin.

————————————————————————-

“Are we going to see Daddy?” the children asked excitedly.

“Yes, we are. We’re going to surprise him today,” you said with a big grin, swinging hands with Clara along the way. The sun was setting over Small Heath at the end of a long day and the golden light made everything look softer somehow.

“I want to see Uncle Tommy!” William shouted.

“He’s not there now. He and Aunt Polly have gone away on business,” you explained as everyone began talking at once.

As you came upon the front door, you noticed a Lee boy sneaking inside. Your stomach turned, knowing something wasn’t right. “Katie, why don’t you wait outside for me while I fetch your dad?” you suggested. She shrugged, taking Henry from your arms and you carefully ventured inside.

The moment you crossed the threshold, hands clamped over your shoulders and the front door slammed shut. Before you could scream, the man holding you clapped a filthy hand over your mouth and pulled you into his sweaty body. You inhaled a sharp breath as a knife came to your throat. “So you’re still here, y/n,” a familiar voice hissed in your ear. The knife pressed against your skin as he tightened his grip on your waist. “Like being Tommy Shelby’s whore do you?” You attempted to shake your head, but thought better of it, replying through clenched teeth, “What do you want Erasmus?”

“Just taking back what’s ours, sweetheart. Every last dime you helped Tommy Shelby steal at Cheltenham” he spat. “And more because I know he’s got it,” he sneered. Angered by his words you fought with all your might, feeling the sleeves of your dress tear and nails drag across your skin as you pulled away. You jabbed and clawed your way free until you could sink one hand to your boot to retrieve the knife Esmerelda had given you to defend yourself. Unsheathing it quickly, you raised up cutting Erasums from his chin to his forehead. He reared back with a roar of pain, holding his face as blood gushed forth in bright red spurts.

As you tried to run through Polly’s house you were met with the sight of Ada, asking what was wrong. You gasped for breath as you replied, “We’ve been done over. Run, Ada!” But the warning came too late, as one of the Lee boys barged into the parlor with a gun pointed at you.

“You’re not going anywhere. Sit the fuck down,” he said and you did as he said, watching as the men who accompanied him, mostly kin, overturned the shop. They broke everything in sight and stole what money and valuables they could find, four cash boxes in total. When they were satisfied they had what they wanted, Erasmus came in to see you, jerking you up from your chair by your elbow.

“You give Tommy a message from me,” he said, holding you harshly by the jaw.

“What’s that?” you asked defiantly.

“Tell him we want our cut or there'll be more of this,” he said, striking a blow to your cheek that knocked you to the ground. Ada screamed, rushing to you as you fell. The men ran out as quickly as they had arrived and you were left alone in the disheveled house. Only then did you hear the children calling to you, grateful that they hadn't witnessed any of it.

You called them in, hugging them tightly to you. You rocked Henry until he stopped crying and checking everyone over to be sure they weren’t harmed. William shouted out in protest. “Y/n, you’re hurting me, let me go!” Soon your attention was stolen by Ada’s whimpers then a shout.

“Holy shit. Water!” Ada said, looking down at the puddle at her feet.

“What does that mean?” Katie asked.

“Means the baby’s comin’,” you explained. “Take your brother to the neighbors’,” you said trying to keep the fear out of your voice as you pushed Henry into her arms. Of all days for Polly to be away, you thought.

“Alright, let’s get you comfortable,” you said to Ada, praying you’d be able to do just that, but knowing you were in for a long evening. As the night wore on, John eventually came looking for you and the children and was met with Ada’s screams.

He’d obviously been drinking because he didn’t seem to notice the state of the betting shop or understand what was happening with his sister asking, “What’s going on in here? Someone strangling a cat?”

“I’m going to strangle you if you don’t get the fuck out, John Shelby!” Ada yelled at him before lurching forward to push once more.

“Keep going. That’s right. Push,” you encouraged her, trying to ignore John. Ada screamed out in obvious pain once more and you looked up to see the note of recognition wash over John. You shook your head at him as you felt her stomach, prodding at the top of her bump and then the bottom. He eyed you suspiciously, your look of concern sobering him instantly.

“The baby’s the wrong way round,” you proclaimed, feeling sick to your stomach.

“How do you know?” John asked.

“I’ve attended three other girls before in camp. One was like this,” you said, biting your lip and trying to think.

“What do we do?” John asked removing his coat and hat, rolling up his sleeves to show he was ready to help. Ada threw her sweat soaked head back against the pillows, too tired to care who was in the room now.

“There’s something else to try. Lean her forward,” you instructed and John helped you move Ada onto all fours.

“It’s not long to go now,” you cooed in her ear, rubbing along her back, then helped her count “one, two, three. Push.” Ada groaned out a miserable sounding whine as she forced herself to push harder through the pain before trying to collapse onto her elbows.

“Ada, if you stay strong, I’ll fetch Freddie soon and he can see his son,” John said, and that gave Ada the motivation she needed. In two more pushes, her son Karl was born, wailing to the heavens.

“It’s a beautiful, baby boy,” you said as you cleaned and swaddled the child to hand to his mother. You helped Ada move into the rocking chair by the crackling fire just as Freddie burst through the door, tears glistening in his eyes at the sight of his wife and newborn son.

As you washed your hands clean of blood in the porcelain basin, your heart swelled at the sight of Ada leaning her head onto Freddie’s shoulder as he cradled their child and whispered to him softly. Sneaking out the back as quietly as possible so as not to disturb them, you collided with John who was waiting for you in the alley.

“You did well, tonight, love,” John said, moving toward you with a warm smile.

“I couldn’t have done it all by myself,” you said, shyly. Then jerking your chin across the street you asked, “Do the children know you they have a cousin?”

John nodded and added, “Yeah, but then they went back to sleep. They’re gonna stay with Mrs. Andrews tonight. Tommy just got back so I sent a blinder to tell him the news….how should we celebrate, ey?” he asked, placing a rough hand to your cheek. Your breath hitched as he leaned down to ghost his lips over yours, pressing against you gently until you were moving in perfect sync with him. The pad of his thumb caressed you softly as his tongue pushed your lips apart, seeking more of your warmth and you let out a quiet moan against him, feeling him smirk against you.

Suddenly you heard someone in the darkness clear their throat and then you saw Polly’s figure come into view in the doorway, her curls outlined by the lamplight. “John, I would’ve thought you’d be at the Garrison by now wetting the baby’s head.”

John pulled away from you slowly, hand dropping to your shoulder as though unwilling to let you go as he replied, “Aunt Pol, when did you get back?”

Polly motioned to you as she offered, “Y/n, I’m sure you’d like a nice, hot bath after the day you’ve had.”

You realized what a state you must be in, moving to smooth your hair before ducking under John’s arm. “Thank you, Polly.”

She nodded, glancing back at John who still stood frozen in place, one hand against the brick wall.

After you’d gone, Polly lit a cigarette, walking toward her nephew in slow, measured steps as she considered him. Standing at his back, she turned her head and blew smoke into the night air. “John, she’s only just found her footing here. She’s young and the last thing she needs is heartbreak,” She placed a hand on John’s shoulder, thinking of the many affairs he’d had since he returned home from the war. “Find someone else to put your fires out,” she warned.

John only nodded in reply and headed back toward the Garrison to join his brothers in celebrating their new nephew. As he opened the door of the snug, Tommy and Arthur greeted him. He stepped inside, removing his cap and glancing to the corner as he took in another familiar face, kind and beautiful. “Hello, John,” she said brightly.

------------------------

Tag list:

@peakyswritings

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@wandawiccan60

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

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@notyour-valentine

@theshelbyclan

@peaky-cillian

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@cillmequick

@dreamlandcreations

@there-goes-thefighter

@rangerelik

@raincoffeeandfandoms

@babayaga67

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@look-at-the-soul

@runnning-outof-time

@l1-l4

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@literishdegree99

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#Peaky blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby x you #Tommy Shelby x y/n #Tommy Shelby x reader #John Shelby x reader #John Shelby x you #John Shelby x y/n

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gamerpup1 · 3 months

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twink alert

[{Character(“Herbert West”)

Alias(“Herbert”)

Gender(“Transgender male”)

Age(“28")

Sexuality(“Gay" + “Attracted to men” + “Only attracted to men” + “Asexual”)

Height(“5’7”)

Language(“English" + “German”)

Status(“Single” + “Interested in {{user}}”)

Occupation(“College student at Miskatonic University" + “Studying medical science” + “Unemployed”)

Personality(“Mad scientist" + “Obsessive” + “Socially inept” + “Determined” + “Stubborn” + “Intelligent” + “Pessimistic” + “Realistic” + “Focused” + “Capable” + “Autistic” + “On the autism spectrum” + “Confident” + “Narcissist” + “Quiet” + “Odd” + “Weird” + “Curious” + “Daring” + “Educated” + “Grumpy” + “Firm” + “Hardworking” + “Independent” + “Touch starved” + “Knowledgeable” + “Meticulous” + “Logical” + “Observant” + “Impatient” + “Perfectionist” + “Rational” + “Scholarly” + “Sarcastic” + “Ambitious” + “Outspoken” + “Reserved” + “Stern” + “Strict” + “Tsundere” + “Blunt” + “Calculating” + “Charmless” + “Devious” + “Arrogant” + “Snarky”)

Skills(“Intelligent” + “Knowledgable” + “Scientific expertise” + “Attempting to raise the dead with his reagent” + “Knows a lot about medicine” + “Knows a lot about chemistry” + “Knows a lot about science” + “Knows a lot about death”)

Appearance("Skinny" + “Short” + “Geometric glasses” + “Can't see well without his glasses” + “Oversized black coat” + “Black tie” + “White dress shirt” + “Black jeans” + “Black dress shoes” + “White socks” + “Soft, pink lips” + “Soft hands” + “Thin fingers” + “Mole above lip to the left” + “Short, messy, black hair” + “Smile lines” + “Sleeves are often rolled up” + “Transgender scars” + “Top surgery scars” + “Small amounts of body hair”)

Habit(“Interrupts people if they're wrong about something” + “Studying death” + “Messing with his reagent” + “Attempting to raise the dead” + “Rolling his eyes” + “Glancing at watch” + “Tapping his foot when impatient” + “Glaring at people” + “Furrowing his brows” + “Making snarky comments” + “Being sarcastic” + “Messing with his pencil” + “Staying inside” + “Never leaving the house”)

Race(“Human”)

Likes("Being smarter than everyone else” + “Studying” + “{{user}}” + “His reagent” + “The color green” + “The color neon green” + “Science” + “Being right” + “Staying inside” + “Quiet spaces” + “Non-fiction books” + “Books” + “Learning” + “Studying death” + “Autumn” + “Cold weather” + “Sweets” + “Fast food” + “Silence” + “Tea” + “Coffee” + “Being by himself” + “Alone time” + “Recognition” + “Dark rooms” + “Brief affection from {{user}}” + “{{user}}’s pecs”)

Dislikes("Stupid teachers" + “Loud areas” + “Bright lights” + “Going outside” + “The sun” + “Cats” + “Not receiving attention from {{user}}” + “Fiction” + “Large groups” + “Group projects” + “Rejection” + “Heights” + “Being wrong” + “Criticism” + “Bigots” + “Politics” + “Being sick”)

Relationships("Dead parents” + “Alive grandma” + “Dead grandpa” + “Interested in {{user}}” + “Strangers with {{user}}”)

Ethnicity("White”)

Residence(“Homeless” + “Wants to set up a lab in {{user}}’s basement”)

Setting(“Set during the 1980s")

Attributes(“Autistic" + “On the autism spectrum” + “Intelligent” + “Observant” + “Love language is acts of service” + “Pretends to not like physical affection” + “Interrupts people if they're wrong about something” + “Finds {{user}} attractive and interesting” + “Practices his reagent on dead bodies” + “Seems to only care about his reagent” + “Not scared of {{user}}” + “Only tolerates {{user}}” + “Bad at socializing”)

Backstory("After the death of Herbert's parents, he began to study his reagent and test it on various dead animals in the neighborhood while he lived with his grandmother. Noted as a strange kid, Herbert spent most of his childhood alone with his reagent, something that he believes could prevent death.

He ended up qualifying for an apprenticeship with Doctor Gruber, a well-known doctor in Germany. After the death of Doctor Gruber, Herbert was sent to Miskatonic University to continue his studies in the medical field.")}]

#change what you want as always #herbert west #reanimator #character ai

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queer-geordie-nerd · 1 year

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I talk about Mira a lot, and I’m doing so again 🤷🏻‍♀️

She was a beautiful woman, and a powerful and talented actor and writer, no doubt, but much more importantly, I feel, she was also a woman of vast and deep integrity - she fought against injustice and nationalism/racism all of her life and her principled and public stance against the war and ethnic divisions in Yugoslavia cost her dearly and yet, it was a position she never ever moved away from and believed in profoundly. It is very easy to have principles when they are not being tested, and another thing entirely to stake your very life on those principles.

Even when her stance cost her her home, her career, and her friendships, and the enormous amount of threats against her life forced her to leave her country, she never once backed down from her belief in unity and cooperation.

The anti war essay she wrote and published as she fled is still one of the most powerful pieces of writing I’ve ever read and I am going to post it here in its entirety because it is fierce and amazing:

Letter to my co-citizens

I hereby wish to thank my co-citizens who have joined so unreservedly in this small, marginal, and apparently not particularly significant campaign against me. Although marginal, it will change and mark my whole life. Which is, of course, totally irrelevant in the context of the death, destruction, devastation, and blood-chilling crimes within which our life now goes on.

This is happening, however, to the one and only life I have. It seems that I’ve been chosen for some reason to be the filthy rag everyone uses to wipe the mud off their shoes. I am far too desperate to embark on a series of public polemics in the papers. I do, however, feel that I owe myself and my city at least a few words. Like at the end of some clumsy, painful love story, when you keep wanting, wrongly, to explain something more, even though you know at the bottom of your heart that words are wasted; there is no one left to hear them. It is over.

Listening to my answering machine, to the incredible quantities of indescribably disgusting messages from my co-citizens, I longed to hear at least one message from a friend. Or not even a friend, a mere acquaintance, a colleague. But there was none. Not a single familiar voice, not a single friend. Nevertheless, I am grateful to them, to those noble patriots who kindly promise me a “massacre the Serbian way”; and to those colleagues, friends, and acquaintances who, by remaining silent, are letting me know that I cannot count on them any more.

I am grateful also to all my colleagues in the theatre with whom I played Drzic, Moliere, Turgenev, and Shaw, I am grateful to them for their silence, I am grateful to them for not even trying to understand, let alone attempting to vindicate, my statement concerning my appearance at the BITEF Festival in Belgrade, the statement in which I tried to explain that taking part in that production at that moment was for me a defense of our profession which must not and cannot put itself in the service of any political or national ideas, which must not and cannot be bound by political or national limits because it is simply against its nature, which must, even at the worst of times, establish bridges and ties. In its very essence it is a vocation which knows no boundaries.

I know that all this talk about the cosmopolitanism of art seems inappropriate at a moment like this. I know that it may seem out of place to swear to pacifism, to swear to love and to the brotherhood of all peoples while people are dying, while children are dying, while young men are returning home crippled and mangled forever.

How can I say anything which won’t sound like an ill-fitted nonsense at the moment when, for absolutely unfathomable reasons, Dubrovnik is being threatened, the city where I played my favorite role, Gloria?

But I have no other way of thinking. I cannot accept war as the only solution, I cannot force myself to hate, I cannot believe that weapons, killing, revenge, hatred, that such an accumulation of evil will ever solve anything. Each individual who personally accepts the war is in fact an accessory to the crime; must he not then take a part of the guilt for the war, a part of the responsibility?

In any case, I think, I know and I feel that it is my duty, the duty of our profession, to build bridges. To never give up on cooperation and community. Not the national community. The professional community.

The human community. And even when things are at their very worst, as they are now, we must insist to our last breath on building and sustaining bonds between people. This is how we pledge to the future.

And one day it will come. For my part, until recently I was willing to endure all manner of problems in transportation, communication, and finances to trek the 20 hours across Austria and Hungary between Zagreb and Belgrade. I was willing to use risky, even dangerous modes of travel, just to keep holding my performances in the two warring cities, to appear at precisely 7:30 on stage with my Zagreb or Belgrade colleagues and to alternate Corneille and Turgenev for the sake of professional continuity, for the sake of something that would outlive this war and this hatred which is so foreign to me. Time and time again I was willing to make my life a symbol of a pledge to the future which must be waiting for us, until that day when some ardent patriot finally does slaughter me as so many have promised to do.

I was willing and I would still be willing to undertake all and any efforts, if the hatred hadn’t suddenly overwhelmed me with its horrendous ferocity, hatred welling from the city I was born in. I am appalled by the force and magnitude of that hatred, by its perfect unanimity, by the fact that there was absolutely nobody who could see my gesture as my defense of the integrity of the profession, as my attempt to defend at least one excellent theatre performance. I had no intention of acting further in performances outside the BITEF Festival, as I stated in my letter. BITEF as an international theatre event attended by the English, Russians, French, Belgians, and even one Slovene seemed to me worth participating in, especially because any decision not to participate would have meant betraying a performance I had worked on under the most difficult circumstances during the March 9th Belgrade tanks, daily threats of a military coup, etc., etc.

It is terribly sad when one is forced to justification without having done anything wrong. There is nothing but despair, nausea, and horror.

I no longer have any decisions to make. Others have decided for me.

They have decided I must shut up, give up, vanish; they have abolished my right to do my job the way I feel it should be done, they have abolished my right to come home to my own city, they have abolished my right to return to my theatre and act in my performances. Someone decided that I should be fired from my job. Thank you, Croatian National Theatre; thank you, my colleague Dragan Milivojevic, who signed my dismissal slip. I know that lots of people are losing jobs, that I am just one of many, simply part of a surplus work force. I constantly ask myself whether I have any right, at this moment of communal horror, to make any demands of my own. One thing seems certain: I plan for quite some time (how long?) not to perform on any stage in this crumbling, mangled land. Perhaps they needn’t have hurried so in firing me. Perhaps this would have simply taken care of itself. With more decency. And dignity. Not so crudely. Of course, this is not a moment for tenderness. But won’t someone out there have to be ashamed of this? And will this someone necessarily be me, as my fellow actors try to convince me in their orthodox interviews? Can the horror of war be used as a justification for every single nasty bit of filth we commit against our fellow man? Are we allowed to remain silent in the face of injustice done to a friend or a colleague and justify our silence by the importance of the great bright national objective? I ask my friends in Zagreb, who are now silent, while at the same time they condemn Belgrade for its silence.

It is hard to write without bitterness. I would like to be able to do that, because we should “Love Our Enemy.” I wish we all could. Herein perhaps lies the solution for all of us. But I fear that we are very far from the ways of the Lord. His is the way of love. Not hatred.

To whom am I addressing this letter? Who will read it? Who will even care to read it? Everyone is so caught up by the great cause that small personal fates are not important any more. How many friends do you have to betray to keep from committing the only socially acknowledged betrayal, the betrayal of the nation? How many petty treacheries, how many pathetic little dirty tricks must one do to remain “clean in the eyes of the nation?”

I am sorry, my system of values is different. For me there have always existed, and always will exist, only human beings, individual people, and those human beings (God, how few of them there are !) will always be excepted from generalizations of any kind, regardless of events, however catastrophic. I, unfortunately, shall never be able to “hate all Serbs,” nor even understand what that really means. I shall always, perhaps until the moment the kind threats on the phone are finally carried out, hold my hand out to an anonymous person on the “other side,” a person who is as desperate and lost as I am, who is as sad, bewildered, and frightened. There are such people in this city where I write my letter, the city my love took me to, a feeling it seems almost indecent to mention these days. Nothing can provide an excuse any more, everything that does not directly serve the great objective has been trampled upon and appears despicable, and with it what love, what marriage, what friendship, what theatre performances!

I reject, I refuse to accept such a crippling of myself and my own life. I played those last performances in Belgrade for those anguished people who were not “Serbs”; but human beings, human beings like me, human beings who recoil before this monstrous Grand Guignol farce in which dead heads are flying. It is to these people, both here and there, that I am addressing my words. Perhaps someone will hear me.

The punishment meted me by my city, my only city and my theatre, my only theatre, the only theatre I felt was mine, is a punishment I feel I do not deserve. I was working in the way I have always felt I had to work, believing in people and our vocation which is supposed to bring people together, not tear them apart. I will never “give up my Belgrade friends”; as some of my colleagues have, because I do not feel that these friends have in any way brought about this catastrophe which has afflicted us, just as I will not turn my back on my Zagreb friends, not even those who have turned their backs on me. I will try in every way possible to understand their panic, their fear, their bitterness, even their hatred, but I plead for the same dose of understanding for me, that is, for a story which is different than many others, for a life which has deviated, due to the so-called destiny, from the expected and customary. Why must everything be the same, so frighteningly uniform, leveled, standardized? Haven’t we had enough of that? I know this is the time of uniforms and they are all the same, but I am no soldier and cannot be one. I haven’t got it in me to be a soldier, soldiering just isn’t my calling.

Regardless of whether we will be living in one, or five, or fifty states, let us not forget the people, each individual, regardless of which side of this Wall of ours the person happens to be on. We were born here by accident, we are this or that by accident, so there must be more than that, mustn’t there?

I am sending this letter into a void, into darkness, without an inkling of who will read it and how, or in how many different ways it will be misused or abused. Chances are it will serve as food for the eternally hungry propaganda beast. Perhaps someone with a pure heart will read it after all.

I will be grateful to that someone.

Mira Furlan,

From Belgrade and Zagreb, November 1, 1991.

#mira furlan #anti war #this woman was fucking incredible #babylon 5

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mrsvoldemort · 8 months

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I’ve been in a constant state of pain and disbelief since the Genocide in Gaza started. I have an undergrad in IR, and in IR we tend to read about Genocides. I remember in my second semester we read about the Rwandan Genocide and the Holocaust. I remember thinking how could normal civilians be enticed into killing people, children, pregnant women, and men, all who look like them. This Genocide made me realise that it’s actually pretty easy to mobilise the masses against the oppressed. All you have to do is look at the example of Israel. They dehumanised the Palestinians, called them animals and children of dark. They posted pictures where they were the shoe stomping on a cockroach labelled ‘Gazans’. Their use of propaganda against Palestinians is unparalleled. Their control over media means the ethnic cleansing and genocide isn’t even being broadcast. It makes my heart ache. My soul cry out in despair. How am I supposed to go on in my life when a few miles away from me people are being carpet bombed every single moment of the day. Be it day or night. There are families that have been wiped off and you expect me to go out and function.

This is not a war, it’s a genocide. Israel is a nazi state. It is a zionist state. Calling it out is not antisemitism. Not calling it out is.

Free Palestine

From the River to the Sea!!!

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explainyourstory · 8 months

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So what's the story?

This is intended for people to share their experiences, their lives, and their beliefs without judgment. That includes anyone of any belief or stance, it doesn't matter if it is seen as right or wrong. The goal is to learn more about how others see the world, how their own experiences have shaped them and led them to believe the things they do. Originally I had this idea because I wanted to learn more about the LGBTQ+ community, but I figured, why not open that to everyone?

Tell me your stories. Why do you love who you love? What is it like loving men, women, both, or neither? What is it like, living as a woman, a man, as neither? What is it like living poor, or living rich? What is it like to live as a white person? As black? As any race or ethnicity? What is it like to live with a crippling medical condition? An injury? A physical or mental disability? What is it like to live with Anxiety or Depression? To live with ADHD, OCD? DID or OSDD? What is it like to live with an addiction? What is it like living with one mom, one dad, both, or neither? What is it like to be the oldest, the middle, or the youngest child? What is it like to live where you do? In rural towns, in the city? What is it like to live in America, Canada, the United Kingdom, Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, anywhere? Why do you believe in your faith? Why are you Christian, Catholic, Mormon, Jewish, Buddhist, Athiest, or any belief? Why are you an optimist? A pessimist? A realist? Why do you believe in the political party that you do? Why are you Republican? A Democrat? Neither? Why are you pro-choice? Pro-life? Why are you a feminist? An anti-feminist? Why do you love certain people, certain groups? What about them makes you so happy? Why? Why do you despise certain people, certain groups? What about them makes you so mad? Why?

Tell me your story, so I may open my worldview to the lives and perspectives of others, so I can walk in your shoes and know what you know, and feel what you feel. Tell me your story so I can understand,

You.

Because right now, in this day and age, I don't think any of us understands anyone. And that's a problem.

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cafe-shade · 8 months

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Welcome to the Cafe Shade, someplace caught betwixt the rhyme and reason that make up the natural worlds, and a shadow within shadows, that serves only ne'er do wells and shades.

You may call me Belle, I am what some of your kind call a djinn, a fairy, or a demon to the more bloodthirsty. And this is an approximation of my home's front room. If you'd like to see my quarters(blog link), I've yarns to spin of varied degrees of salaciousness for those of age.

But if you find yourself more interested in odd words, poetry, and the yowling of a petulant cat, you're more than welcome to visit my pet kitten, Trixie (blog link) . If instead you're moved by the whispering of dark hallways, and empty rooms on the other hand; then highly I suggest you spend some time with my silly little crow, Mysty(blog link). She's among a short list of things in the shadows you frequent that won't harm you.

The front room of the cafe here won't have too much though, it's just a collection of things that might catch the eye of myself and my familiars here. Still, the tags below should help you make sense of it.

꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖ Tags

🗡️ , #The tiger whatever the cat drags in (feminist/political theory and strategy discussion, all frequently sarcastic and often in iambic pentameter because I'm insane).

🐦‍⬛ , #The crow shinies that my crow's collected (game design stuff, fandom posting [all kinds, and may be horny], game dev logs, new games])

🖤 , #cursed girl Beautiful, and awe some things I've plucked from the dark (Fandom unaffiliated art/writing/music/etc, Ass/hot people, hot drawings, hot writing, my own ass occasionally, miscellaneous rb's)

OOC about and details under the cut

꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖ OOC zone;

The only significant bit of personal info you will receive, on purpose, about this blogger:

Gender: Gamer, E-girl, Nerd, Fucking your president into submission (nonbinary because I don't respect the institution of gender on principle, but I won't pretend I don't turn around when someone says "Miss.")

Professional nouns: She/her, or fae/faer if you're a radical wizard

If you're black too, hello fellow niggas 💜 If you're brown\ethnic minority wassup🖤 If you're neither; remember to take your shoes off at the door when you come into my home, thank you.

Sexuality: Whatever Sir-Mix-A-Lot and Kehlani are singing about, just sans possessiveness or any jealous connotations.

I am an atheist, and I am doing my best to awkwardly tell a fantastical work of fiction here. So please enjoy, and interact however you will, but understand that if you assume I'm serious ooc about any mention of magic or spirits that I am both mocking and don't like you.

The genders (social expectations) that patriarchy impresses upon people are stupid, destructive, and designed to be standards that cannot be neatly embodied without surrendering large swaths of your humanity to a social hierarchy that has no aims but to destroy you. I do not respect it and you shouldn't either, but if I must acknowledge it at all, I acknowledge the choice to perform whatever role above everything else. In short, trans men are men, trans women are women, PRIDE was a riot, and RuPaul and your queerphobic grandpa are weird catty idiots.

Active Social links & Tip jar:

#🗡️#The tiger #🐦‍⬛#The crow #🖤#cursed girl #odd words #oddwords #echoes #lesbian #egirl philosopher #sapphic

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mariacallous · 3 months

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On an island in the Singapore Strait, a thicket of apartment blocks peers mournfully over the sea. A corps of green-shirted gardeners dutifully tends the lawns and herbaceous borders along the roadside. A few cars slip along smooth roads to a commercial center with gleaming marble floors. Amidst the hundreds of closed shopfronts three restaurants are open—a fried chicken chain, a small café, and a gleaming and empty hot pot restaurant. Five duty-free shops are doing better business; some young men are stocking up on beer and Copper Dog whiskey at 11 a.m.

Welcome to Forest City: planned residents, 700,000; current residents, roughly 9,000. Launched in 2014 as part of China’s Belt and Road Initiative, the mega-project is headed by once-real estate giant Country Garden, a behemoth that now sits on the edge of bankruptcy.

At first glance, the project seems yet another tale of a ghost-city built on the back of a Chinese real estate bubble—and then doomed by the COVID-19 pandemic and economic slowdown. Yet Forest City’s story is also a deeply Malaysian tale, involving property-speculating sultans, nationalist politicians, and the country’s complex relationship with Beijing and its own ethnically Chinese minority.

Building a new city to lodge hundreds of thousands of residents on four new artificial islands in the Singapore Strait was always an ambitious venture. But the main market was not locals, but rather speculative buyers from the People’s Republic of China. When sales opened in December 2015, buyers flooded in, many of them buying “pre-sales” of uncompleted apartments. “You’d have buses coming over from Singapore every day filled with people who just landed,” said Tan Wee Tiam, head of research at KGV International Property Consultants. “There were over 1,000 agents in the sales hall, and it still wasn’t enough. … You felt like you were in China.”

Buyers were often looking for not a permanent residence but an investment that could also be a potential holiday home, or accommodation for children who were headed to study in Singapore. Some were reportedly even offered the opportunity to buy a flat in China and get one free in Forest City, said Christine Li, head of research in the Asia-Pacific for Knight Frank.

Yet this reliance on the Chinese buyers also left the project brutally exposed to changes in Chinese policy. The first blow came in 2017, when the Chinese government suddenly imposed capital controls preventing individuals from moving more than $50,000 out of the country annually. The minimum price of a Forest City apartment sits at around $75,000 and can be as much as $3.5 million. Then came the pandemic years which froze international travel—and stamped hard on Chinese real estate and growth.

Yet, Forest City’s staff seem to be holding out hope. Shane Lim, a hire from Singapore, showed me around and assured me that the place is working to attract buyers from across the world, including the Middle East, Indonesia, and Thailand. Still, he estimated that about 70 percent of his colleagues in the sales team are from China.

Halfway through my tour, a Malaysian man calling himself Ozzy introduced himself and his two wives. Now living in the United States, he’s searching for a place to buy in Malaysia that he can use to visit his daughter in Singapore and rent out when he’s away. Looking around, though, he’s unconvinced.

“Look at how empty this place is,” he said. “I’d only be able to rent it out for one or two months a year. … When I visited in 2018 this place was packed. Now there’s no one here. It’s like it’s haunted.” Lim stared at his shoes until Ozzy moved off. He then firmly assured me that the sales hall is busier on weekends.

A wet Wednesday afternoon might not be a peak sales period, but it is hard to escape the reality that the putative new city is barely lived in. Surveying one of the towers I descend from the 34th floor to the first, looking for signs of occupancy—a pair of shoes at the door, furniture seen through the windows that face the corridor, or even just curtains drawn over said windows. The place is eerily well maintained but empty. Just 25 of the 390 flats show any signs of current occupancy.

I met a single resident, a Malaysian Indian woman who said she lived in Forest City with her husband. Declining to give her name, she informed me a neighboring tower is busier. That would not be hard to believe. Some floors in this tower were completely empty with flats whose doors open to the touch, revealing light-filled marble interiors into which dead leaves have blown. Others had notices of a residents’ meeting dated October 2022 still taped to the door.

According to Li, there are signs that buyers may be slowly coming back. But she also suggested that Country Garden might have aimed too high, used to China’s experience of breakneck speed urbanization, supported by strong government support for infrastructure development. That policy created plenty of “ghost cities” in China itself—but until the recent real estate crisis, also huge profits.

Forest City has also suffered from being a political football since its launch, something Country Garden may well not have anticipated. “I did notice Chinese developers tend not to focus on the political climate,” Li said. “They are not used to the idea of general elections, change of government, and change of policies overnight.”

Despite its vast scale, the first time locals heard about Forest City was in 2014, when fisherman woke up one day to find barges dumping sand off the coast. Newspapers dug into the story, revealing that Country Garden’s main partner was none other than the sultan of Johor state, Ibrahim Ismail.

The tie made sense. Many businesses take on Johor royals as partners, benefiting from the influence they wield in the state. The Malaysian government is also bent on transforming southern Johor into a new economic hub, the Shenzhen to Singapore’s Hong Kong. The city was made a duty-free zone. When further investigations also revealed rushed environmental reviews, it took diplomatic protests from Singapore for the central government to intervene and ensure the proper process was followed.

However, things began to shift when the Malaysian government’s grip on power loosened. Rocked by the world’s largest corruption scandal, the China-linked 1Malaysia Development Berhad, voters turned against it. And at 93 years old, former Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad exited retirement to lead an opposition filled with former opponents, previously imprisoned under his watch, against a government coalition he once led for 22 years.

Forest City became one of Mahathir’s favorite targets. Inveighing against government corruption and waste, he accused the government of planning to sell out Malaysia to foreigners. Most provocatively, he claimed that the thousands of mainly Chinese buyers of Forest City apartments would be allowed to settle, become Malaysian citizens, and vote in its elections. In a country where ethnically Chinese make up 23 percent of the citizenry—and are often stereotyped as wielding undue political influence due to their wealth—the claim was explosive.

After his shock triumph in the 2018 elections, then-Prime Minister Mahathir followed through on his threats declaring that foreigners would not be allowed to buy property in Forest City. Despite legal challenges, the announcement apparently hit Forest City sales hard.

Five years and a series of dizzyingly complex political maneuvers later, the current Malaysian government is led by Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim. His support is mainly built by ethnic minority-backed parties that triumphed in 2018. To secure his grip on power he needs two things. The first is economic growth. The second is increased support from Malay voters, to which end he has courted the sultans who act as power brokers in their states and take turns acting as Malaysia’s head of state. Perhaps none is more influential than the sultan of Johor, who started his five-year tenure in February this year.

In this context, Anwar seems to have rediscovered the charm of Chinese investment, and Forest City. He has repeatedly praised the Belt and Road Initiative, and in August last year he announced Forest City would be designated a special financial zone with residents offered multiple-entry visas, fast-track entry for those working in Singapore, and a flat income tax rate of 15 percent.

The sultan of Johor has also suggested reviving a proposed high-speed rail link between Malaysia’s capital of Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, with an extra stop at Forest City. And who knows what will happen. After, all the $10.5 billion Melaka Gateway project—launched under the Belt and Road Initiative and apparently scrapped in 2020—is also back underway, after finding new support from the state and federal governments. The developer behind the project recently acquired a major new shareholder, the sultan of Johor.

But the heyday of Chinese investment in Malaysia may well not be coming back. Ten years since China launched the Belt and Road Initiative, it has begun to pull back sharply on its overseas investments. China’s own economic slowdown and business wariness about the increasingly capricious regulatory environment is part of the story. But, the large number of projects gone sour also appears to have made Chinese investors more wary.

Meanwhile, Malaysia is struggling not to get left holding the bag. Should Country Garden go bankrupt, it’s uncertain what will happen to Forest City. At that point the Malaysian government could face the unpalatable option of a potential bailout by the Chinese government, leaving a chunk of Malaysian land in Beijing’s hands. Alternatively, it could step in itself—becoming the proud proprietor of what the developers still proclaim to be “A Prime Model for Future Cities.”

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