#resume building services | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

briefinquiries · 1 month

Text

Tyler Owens x Reader: Say Don't Go

Request: Anonymous asked: “I think your writing is one of the best on here for Tyler <3 i’d love to read your take on the reader sticking out a big tornado with Tyler, i guess similar to the rodeo scene in the movie with Kate but i’d like to read your own take on him just comforting the reader and making sure they get through it <3”

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: Blood & injury mention, tornado, hurt / comfort

A/N: thank you so so much for the kind words :((( absolutely loving these requests & all of the comments / replies to my recent tyler fics. please keep them coming!!

“You could’ve stayed home if you didn’t want to come,” you said to Tyler frustratedly.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to come,” he replied, trailing behind you as you ventured into another store. “I just didn’t realize that picking up a birthday gift was going to entail being at the mall ‘til sun down.”

“I told you I didn’t have anything picked out and that I’d probably have to look around–” you reminded him, stopping in your tracks so that you could turn to face him.

Tyler put his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.”

As soon as he backed down, your gaze immediately softened. “Well I don’t want you to be miserable,” you said as you crossed your arms.

The corner of Tyler’s lip tugged upward in a cheeky grin. “Now how could I ever be miserable when I’m spendin’ time with you?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that crept across your face. “Yeah, whatever,” you said with a smirk. “Why don’t you head to the food court? Once I finish up, I’ll come find you.”

He tilted his head to the side, like a puppy looking for permission. “You sure?”

You nodded, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder. “Yeah, of course. Just, don’t get ice cream without me,” you warned.

Tyler took a step forward so that you were now only inches apart. You felt his hand rest on the small of your back before he pulled you closer and leaned forward. The second that you felt his lips press against yours in a soft, gentle kiss, all of the annoyance and frustration you’d previously felt melted away in the blink of an eye. Even though you and Tyler had been together for nearly two years now, he still had that kind of effect on you.

When he stepped away, a smile lingered on his lips.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured you.

You kept your eyes trained on the back of his head as he made his way from the store, because the truth was– even when he pissed you off, you loved him more than you’d ever loved anything.

Only when he was out of sight did you finally turn and resume your search. As much as you loved spending time with Tyler, you had to admit it was easier to shop around without him constantly moaning and groaning the entire time.

You settled into the silence, taking your time as you made your way through the store. After inspecting all of the assorted knick knacks and smelling nearly every candle in the place, you finally settled on a necklace for your mom’s upcoming birthday.

Once you’d paid, you tucked the jewelry box inside your bag and began making your way out of the store, planning to head straight for the food court to find Tyler.

Except the second you stepped out of the store, you nearly jumped out of your skin at the loud sound of cracking thunder above. It was close– enough so the building trembled. You watched as other shoppers stopped in their tracks too.

And then, to your absolute dismay, you heard the emergency alert systems on everyone’s phones start going off in unison.

You pulled yours out of your pocket and read the message flashing across your screen.

National Weather Service: TORNADO WARNING in this area until 8:30 PM CDT. Take shelter now in a basement or an interior room on the lowest floor of a sturdy building. If you are outdoors, in a mobile home, or in a vehicle, move to the closest substantial shelter and protect yourself from flying debris. Check media for more information.

You swallowed thickly before glancing up from your phone. Gradually, others began doing the same. Then, as soon as everyone had read the warning and realized what was going on, panic ensued.

People began running in all directions– pushing others aside and rushing towards exits. You tried your best to remain calm, but you couldn’t ignore the fear spreading through you.

Instantly, your eyes began scanning the crowd as you instinctively began looking for Tyler.

He’ll come for you, you thought. Tyler will come.

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t meet him halfway. You tried to keep close to the wall to prevent being crushed in the crowd– unfortunately for you though, other people had the same idea. As hard as you tried to keep to the side, soon, you were sucked right into the mass of people. The only thing you could do was move with them and try desperately to stay on your feet as everyone pushed and shoved their way around you.

Eventually, you dared to careen your neck up and scan for him. At first, all you saw was chaos– but people all seemed to be moving in the same direction now. You watched as parents picked up their children and spouses grabbed each other’s hands. Employees ran out of stores and customers dropped bags.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, you spotted a familiar tuft of sandy brown hair– the only person in eyesight moving against the crowd.

“Tyler!” you screamed.

He reacted to your voice, his head turning in the direction he thought it was coming from.

“Tyler!” you yelled again.

This time, his eyes landed right on yours.

But before you could even sigh the breath of relief that was sitting in your chest, you felt something, or rather someone jab into your side. The force was enough to make you stumble on your feet and fall to the ground with a thud. People continued rushing by– feet stepping on you, knees colliding into your back. At one point, you tried to place your hand on the floor to give yourself enough leverage to stand up, but as soon as you did, a white converse stomped right on your fingers, causing you to hiss out in pain.

Panic began creeping up your throat– making it harder to breathe, let alone think of a plan. A dark cloud began clouding your vision, numbing your senses to what was happening around you. Until suddenly, you heard your name being called. The sound broke through the haze. Before you could react, you felt two hands sliding underneath your armpits from behind. And suddenly, you were being hoisted up from the ground.

“I got you,” Tyler’s voice said in your ear. You didn’t even get a chance to turn and look at him before he was pushing you forward. “We gotta move.”

Thankfully, his grip under your arms never faltered, otherwise you were sure you wouldn’t have been able to keep up. But eventually, Tyler pushed you towards the outer edge of the busy mall hallway. Once you were no longer in danger of being flattened by the crowd, he spun you around– hands clutching your shoulders tightly while he blocked the remaining traffic from reaching you.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head. At least you didn’t think you were… But when you glanced down at yourself, you quickly realized why Tyler even asked. Your button down shirt was ripped– presumably from being grabbed, and the tank top beneath it had a few spots of blood splattered across the fabric. You weren’t even sure where it came from.

“We gotta go,” Tyler said urgently.

“The shelter–” you began, but Tyler shook his head.

“Everyone’s heading that way, it’ll be full by now. Plus, we don’t have time– I looked outside and… it’s close.”

“What do we do?” you asked, voice trembling with fear.

Tyler let his arms fall from your shoulders and instead grabbed onto one of your hands. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before nodding in the opposite direction of where everyone else was running.

“The stairwell,” he said.

You nodded shakily. “Okay.”

With that, Tyler was off– weaving his way in and out of the crowd. Luckily, it had thinned out dramatically– most people heading towards the parking lot or the storm shelter on the other side of the mall. Once you broke away from the thickest part of the crowd, Tyler’s grip loosened slightly on your hand.

“C’mon,” he urged, leading you around the corner. At the very end of the hallway was the door that led to the stairwell.

But you only made it a few feet down the hallway before you felt the floor shake beneath your feet. Only moments after, there was a loud bang just as a chunk of the roof was being ripped off the building.

“Tyler–” you yelled.

“Keep going,” he pleaded.

With part of the roof separated, you could hear the winds whipping outside more clearly. The sound was deafening, like a freight train barrelling right for you.

But even above the raging winds– you heard the cries of someone nearby. You looked to your left to see a mother and her child huddled underneath a display booth.

“Tyler,” you said again, tugging on his arm.

He slowed down, turning towards where your eyes were fixated. He hesitated, clearly conflicted on what to do.

“We have to help them,” you said.

His eyes scanned yours desperately before he nodded. “Wait here,” he said, releasing your hand.

You watched as Tyler crossed the hall– trying to avoid the debris now falling from the roof. He called something out to the woman, but you couldn’t hear above the sound of the wind. It was enough to catch her attention though, because soon she was passing her son to Tyler. The poor boy couldn’t have been older than five or six. Tyler pulled him to his side with ease before reaching his other arm out and helping the mother up from underneath the table.

Once she was on her feet, Tyler passed her back her son and pointed towards where you stood against the wall. She tucked her son’s head against her chest and began hurrying forward– Tyler at her heels as they fought against the increasing winds.

“Take my hand,” you yelled. With the arm she wasn’t using to support her son, she reached for you.

You grasped onto her and helped pull her against the wall.

“Go to the stairwell,” you explained. “Get underneath them, as low as you can.”

She nodded, unshed tears glistening in her eyes before she began heading down the hall.

Just then, you heard a deafening crack. You turned to see another piece of the roof being pulled off– causing large chunks of debris to begin falling.

“Get down!” you heard Tyler holler. Using your arm, you shielded your head the best you could and shrank to the floor as the largest piece fell. A cloud of dust enveloped you as soon as it landed and you felt small pieces of debris bouncing against your skin– After a brief moment, you dared to look up.

But Tyler was no longer standing in front of you.

“Tyler!” you screamed. Without thinking, you moved forward, trying your best to stay low. But despite your best efforts, you were still caught off guard by the piece of metal that blew past your head, slicing open your skin– “Fuck!” you yelled, grabbing at your temple. When you pulled your hand away, your fingers were coated in a thick, crimson liquid.

“Tyler!” you yelled again, voice growing increasingly frantic.

“I’m here–” you heard him yell back, causing your shoulders to deflate slightly. As you crawled around the largest pile of debris, you saw him on the ground, moving a chunk of roofing off his foot. His eyes met yours, a flash of concern crossing his face when he saw your head. “You gotta get to the stairs–”

“No, no, no. Not without you,” you shook your head, continuing to move towards him as you felt the blood trickle down the side of your face.

“The storm’s here– you gotta go. You gotta take cover,” he pleaded.

“I’m not leaving you–” you cried, unable to control the tears burning behind your eyes. As they fell down your cheek, they mixed with the blood from your temple. Once you were crouched beside him, you used what little strength you had left to Tyler’s hand and pull him from the small pile of rubble.

When you looked at the short distance between yourselves and the staircase door– you were surprised to see the woman, propping it open with her body and waving towards the two of you to hurry up.

“Move–” Tyler encouraged, pushing you against the wind. “Go, go, go–”

You army-crawled forward, wincing as more debris nicked your skin. But finally– you reached the door. Tyler moved his hand to your waist and guided you towards the staircase.

The woman reached for her son, who was crouched low in the corner. Meanwhile, Tyler moved you towards one of the railings.

“Hold on to this–” he instructed. You wound your arms around the fixture.

"Don't go–" you begged.

But immediately after, you felt the warmth from his body wrap around you. You looked up and saw Tyler shielding your body with his own– his hands gripping the part of the railing just above yours.

“I got you,” he promised. “We’re gonna be okay, I got you,” he repeated. But soon his voice was swept away by the sound of the storm.

The winds grew even louder as the tornado moved closer– the noise of various chunks of debris slamming into the ground around you made you shake. You squeezed your eyes shut– hoping and praying to whatever God might be out there that Tyler was right and you’d both be okay…

You weren’t sure how long the storm raged on. It felt like hours, although you knew that couldn't be right. Eventually though, the winds died down. In their absence, you could hear the sound of the woman comforting her son, along with Tyler’s labored breathing above you.

With a shaky hand, you reached behind you– like you didn’t quite trust that he was still there. You felt the fabric of his jeans beneath your palm and sighed out the choppy breath that had been lodged in your throat.

“Tyler,” you heaved pathetically, voice cracking.

“I’m here,” he gasped, voice equally shaky as he gasped for air. “I got you.”

Nodding, you brushed your hair from your sweaty face and felt Tyler shift. Following his lead, you turned towards him. As soon as your eyes landed on him– hunched over and breathing like he’d just run five miles, you let out a choked sob.

“Are you okay?” he panted.

“Tyler–” was all you could manage to blurt out.

A calloused hand cupped your face– thumb trailing along your hairline. You winced when his thumb passed over a sensitive spot on your head from where you’d been hit earlier. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “We’ll get it checked out.”

You nodded, leaning into his touch as you desperately craved comfort from him. Seemingly picking up on your need, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his chest. “We’re okay,” he repeated, hand moving to cup the back of your neck. You let your eyes fall shut– inhaling the scent of his T-shirt. Even though he was coated in sweat and dust, he still smelled so comforting and familiar.

He planted a kiss on top of your head before panting, “We gotta get out of here.”

You nodded, and forced yourself to pull away from him. Tyler helped you to your feet, eyes studying to make sure you were steady before he turned towards the woman.

“You guys okay?” he asked.

She nodded, clutching tightly to her son, who was still in her arms.

“Alright, c’mon– be careful where you step,” he said, helping them out from the staircase. Tyler led them past you and into the hall before coming back for you.

You desperately tried to steady your shaking legs. You were wobbly on your feet, but with Tyler’s help, you managed to maneuver your way out from underneath the staircase.

As soon as you were back in the hall, your breath caught in your throat at the sight. The entire mall was destroyed– the roof had caved in, creating mounds of rubble everywhere you looked. There was dust all over– and no one else in sight.

“Tyler–” you croaked again. His name seemed to be the only words you were able to form in your shock.

“C’mon,” he urged gently, pulling you along.

You let him lead the way, eyes scanning the debris hopelessly. You stopped in your tracks the moment you saw the first body– it was a woman, probably in her late twenties, just like you. She had a mound of tile stacked on top of her and a trail of blood soaking through her yellow sweater. Her eyes were still open– like they were frozen in fear.

“Don’t look,” Tyler’s voice cut through the fog.

He put his body between you and her and placed his hands on both sides of your face, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Sh– she’s dead,” you trembled.

Tyler nodded solemnly. “I know,” he nodded. “Don’t look, okay? Just keep your eyes on me.”

Tyler wound his arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side. With his fingers digging into the fleshy part of your hip, he led you forward, bearing the majority of your weight. Eventually, he managed to lead you all out of the rubble of the mall.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tyler turned and asked the woman again. She nodded before thanking him and heading off in the direction of an ambulance.

Tyler seemed to have something similar in mind.

“I want to go home,” you insisted.

But Tyler shook his head. “You need to get your head checked out first.”

“Tyler, please–” you whimpered.

He glanced down at you– seemingly noticing the way your voice cracked. His face softened the moment he saw the tears sliding down your cheeks.

“Hey–” he said gently. “Baby, you’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I just want to go home,” you repeated.

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothed. “But your head– I really want them to take a look. Then we can go home.”

You sunk your teeth into your lower lip. After a moment, you nodded defeatedly and let Tyler lead you the rest of the way to one of the many ambulances parked near what was left of the mall.

The paramedic who got to you first was a middle aged man with a kind smile. He told you how brave you were as he shined a flashlight in your eyes, checking your pupils.

When he moved to the wound on your temple, now coating your entire hairline in gooey blood, you grimaced.

“This is gonna need a few stitches,” he said after inspecting it.

Tyler sat beside you and let you squeeze his hand as tightly as you needed while the paramedic stitched you up. He applied a local anesthetic but you felt every second of the needle threading through your skin.

You held onto Tyler like your life depended on it, trying to allow his words of affirmation and comfort to consume you.

“Almost done,” the paramedic said before clipping the remainder of the thread. He placed a clean bandage on the side of your head and offered you a soft smile. “You did great,” he told you.

Although you were feeling detached from just about everything right now, you nodded in response before letting Tyler pull you to your feet.

“Think you can walk?” he asked.

You nodded again, although you didn’t entirely hear him.

“The parking garage collapsed– but Boone’s on his way. He’s gonna give us a ride home.”

“Okay,” you mumbled softly, letting yourself melt into Tyler’s side again.

The road where you met Boone was a short walk, and you were thankfully starting to get feeling back in your legs. But even still, you let Tyler support the majority of your weight as he guided you towards Boone’s familiar, beat up truck. Tyler held open the door and helped you climb inside.

“Christ–” Boone said, turning in the driver’s seat to get a good look at you.

“She’s okay,” Tyler answered, sliding into the backseat beside you. Although he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Boone.

“How the hell did you guys make it through that?” Boone asked as he surveyed the destruction around you. You forced yourself not to look. Instead, you rested your head against Tyler’s shoulder. “The blockade guy told me the entire storm shelter collapsed. I guess too many people crammed inside, so they couldn’t shut the door good.”

You swallowed thickly. If you hadn’t found Tyler, the storm shelter was going to be your plan B–

“We hid under the staircase,” he said as Boone began down the road. “Had Dexter been tracking anythin’ out this way?”

The two proceeded to talk about the sudden impact of the storm and whatever else tornado chasers cared about. Meanwhile, Tyler’s thumb trailed up and down your bare arm soothingly, allowing you to tune it all out.

When Boone pulled down your dirt driveway and put his car in park fifteen minutes later, he turned to face you. “I’m real glad you’re okay.”

You offered him a weak smile. “Me too.”

After thanking his friend, Tyler helped you out of the car and towards the house, his hand never leaving your waist until you were inside.

“Couch or bed?” he asked, shutting the front door behind him.

“Couch,” you murmured. The bed meant stairs, which you weren’t sure you were ready for quite yet.

“You got it,” he said.

Gently, Tyler helped lower you to the couch, where you curled up against the corduroy fabric and sighed.

But your eyes snapped open quickly as soon as you realized that Tyler wasn’t laying down with you.

“Where are you going?” you asked, trying (and failing) to mask the panic in your voice. You shifted and sat up, a sudden wave of pain hit your head, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut. You tried your best to mask it and force your eyes back open. It felt pathetic, but you didn’t really want Tyler out of your sight right now.

He turned around instantly. “I was just gonna get you some water and an ice pack, baby. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you said uneasily. Your eyes remained trained on him the entire time he maneuvered around the kitchen. You could tell he noticed, too. His eyes kept flickering up to check on you.

He was back in less than a minute– but still you sighed a breath of relief. He set the glass of water down on the side table before taking a seat on the other end of the couch.

He handed you the ice pack and watched sadly as you placed it on your temple with a wince.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Will you– will you lay down with me?” you asked him.

Tyler nodded. “Of course, baby.” He opened his arms, making a spot for you to lay between his legs. With your back resting against his chest, Tyler wound one arm around your middle and used the other to hold the ice pack against your head for you.

Using what little strength you had, you gripped his forearm. “Just... please don’t go,” you begged.

Tyler pressed his lips on the top of your head. “I won’t– I’m right here,” he assured you. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

You exhaled a sigh of relief and laid your head back against his chest, finally feeling content.

After a while, you were finally able to drift off in his embrace. Your body ached and your head throbbed, but everything felt more bearable when you were in Tyler’s arms.

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens fic #tyler owens x reader fic #tyler ownes x reader imagine #twisters imagine #twisters fic #twisters x reader #tyler owens twisters #twisters movie fic

1K notes · View notes

reasonsforhope · 9 months

Text

"Cody Two Bears, a member of the Sioux tribe in North Dakota, founded Indigenized Energy, a native-led energy company with a unique mission — installing solar farms for tribal nations in the United States.

This initiative arises from the historical reliance of Native Americans on the U.S. government for power, a paradigm that is gradually shifting.

The spark for Two Bears' vision ignited during the Standing Rock protests in 2016, where he witnessed the arrest of a fellow protester during efforts to prevent the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline on sacred tribal land.

Disturbed by the status quo, Two Bears decided to channel his activism into action and create tangible change.

His company, Indigenized Energy, addresses a critical issue faced by many reservations: poverty and lack of access to basic power.

Reservations are among the poorest communities in the country, and in some, like the Navajo Nation, many homes lack electricity.

Even in regions where the land has been exploited for coal and uranium, residents face obstacles to accessing power.

Renewable energy, specifically solar power, is a beacon of hope for tribes seeking to overcome these challenges.

Not only does it present an environmentally sustainable option, but it has become the most cost-effective form of energy globally, thanks in part to incentives like the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022.

Tribal nations can receive tax subsidies of up to 30% for solar and wind farms, along with grants for electrification, climate resiliency, and energy generation.

And Indigenized Energy is not focused solely on installing solar farms — it also emphasizes community empowerment through education and skill development.

In collaboration with organizations like Red Cloud Renewable, efforts are underway to train Indigenous tribal members for jobs in the renewable energy sector.

The program provides free training to individuals, with a focus on solar installation skills.

Graduates, ranging from late teens to late 50s, receive pre-apprenticeship certification, and the organization is planning to launch additional programs to support graduates with career services such as resume building and interview coaching...

The adoption of solar power by Native communities signifies progress toward sustainable development, cultural preservation, and economic self-determination, contributing to a more equitable and environmentally conscious future.

These initiatives are part of a broader movement toward "energy sovereignty," wherein tribes strive to have control over their own power sources.

This movement represents not only an economic opportunity and a source of jobs for these communities but also a means of reclaiming control over their land and resources, signifying a departure from historical exploitation and an embrace of sustainable practices deeply rooted in Indigenous cultures."

-via Good Good Good, December 10, 2023

#indigenous #native americans #first nations #indigenous rights #tribal sovereignty #solar energy #solar power #solar panels #renewable energy #green energy #sioux #sioux nation #sustainability #climate hope #electrification #united states #hope #good news

2K notes · View notes

star-anise · 5 months

Text

are we talking about broke therapists yet?

I've been out of things for a couple of years now, which is why I'm willing to talk about it, and maybe the pandemic has helped things a little, but holy shit the counselling and psychotherapy field is not equipped to help its practitioners in the gig economy.

Of all my interests and talents, I pursued a degree in psychology because being a therapist is supposed to be a safe, stable, well-paid job. Every therapist I met who was registered before 2008 worked and lived under that assumption. And oh boy are all the fee structures--registration, supervision, continuing education, conferences--set up for that scenario.

After getting my Master's, I struggled like hell to get a job. It was especially bad because to get my license, I needed a supervisor to take me on. To take me on, most supervisors wanted me to already have a caseload and client base. To get a caseload and client base, I needed a job.

Friends: Every single job I heard back on wanted me to have my license before I could even land an interview.

Professors and career advisors and professional development specialists all advised me very earnestly to just keep cold-calling people on the supervision list, and it began to feel a lot like my parents' friends telling me to hit the bricks and hand out resumes. That's what worked for them, right?

I finally got a supervisor who agreed to take me on, and I'd be able to use her clinic for advertising and workspace, and we were doing the paperwork to send in with my registration, when she called me up and said, "Is this job going to be your only source of income? If you're trying to depend on getting clients and building your practice for your basic needs, this is not going to work out. This has to be something you're doing on top of a basic salary. Okay, so you're not working anywhere else right now? I'm sorry, I can't move forward with this."

Even once I landed a supervisor and a job building my own private practice, I struggled. I have ADHD and am not great at self-promotion, so trying to do all my own advertising, scheduling, bookkeeping, billing, and records management (on top of counselling) was an enormous strain. One my bosses, supervisors, and other senior professionals watched with a slightly critical eye, but consoled me about because in their early days, their clinics had had business managers, receptionists, filing clerks, and accountants, and getting used to doing everything online yourself was a bit of a learning curve, wasn't it?

I counted my pennies very carefully, because I had to pay my supervisor roughly $180 for their services every 6 hours of in-person counselling I did. This meant that to break even I had to charge my clients an average of about $30 (plus room rental and service fees) an hour--and my clients, being people with complex trauma, were frequently poor, disabled, unemployed, and had no health benefits, so even $10 or $20 a session was a lot for them.

Maybe it would have been easier if I could have taken some of those nice comfortable organization positions where they find clients and funding for you and you work 40 hours a week and get benefits and a pension, but I had to be disabled into the bargain, so working 40 hours a week just isn't possible for me. I start passing out from stress and exhaustion. Older colleagues gave me serious-faced advice about approaching my employer and asking them for some flexibility and accommodation in my schedule, and I tried to explain across the gap between us that employers simply did not hire me if I made the slightest noise about the workload. They weren't going to invest in me as a person; they were hiring 40 units of work a week, and if I wouldn't do it there were a dozen applicants after me who would.

At one point I broke down enough to email my licensing body because the Annual General Meeting/Professional Development Conference was coming up, and I wanted to attend, but I could not produce $500 to do it with. Was there some kind of way I could attend anyway? I felt ashamed to have to ask, and then absolutely mortified when the response came from the organization president, who needed to personally sign off on me being too poor to attend the single most important event in my profession's calendar year.

I honestly felt so ashamed all the time at how I was apparently failing to be a successful therapist, failing to be rich and successful, and every time I mentioned it around mentors and bosses, I could feel myself shrinking from a person to a problem to be solved. My closest therapist-friends and I have reflected on how much more difficult, poorly-paid and underworked, our various career starts have been than we were ever warned about. About the classmates and coworkers who couldn't get disability exceptions when they fell behind in their registration requirements, or burned out and left the field, or dropped their registrations and took up as life coaches, or moved their whole family somewhere exceptionally remote or rural because it was the only good job available, or worked for some godforsaken app skirting the bounds of malpractice like BetterHelp.

I like those conversations, because I feel less like an absolute fuck-up in them. There's less "Hey Lis, you were so talented in grad school, I really admired you, what are you doing now?" "Oh, I, uh... am professionally disabled, so I get government benefits, and I... sell embroidery patterns on Etsy now."

My own therapist kept asking if and when I felt like going back to being a counsellor, and I finally told him: I don't, actually. I don't want to go back and do it like I was doing it before. It was a profession I loved to the depths of my soul, and it profoundly did not love me back. I can't even imagine what would have to change, in me or it, to make it have a space in it that could fit me.

All of which I was way too scared to admit to at the time, because the more I let people know I was struggling, the more they hinted that maybe I just wasn't in a place in my life where this was a job I could do, and I needed to take a little break and wait to come back until money and disability just weren't issues for me anymore.

Eventually my cups of doubt and exhaustion did overflow, and I quit. I'm here now, living a much different life. And at the very least, all my years of helping people in bad life situations set me up perfectly for my own. I already knew what form to fill out for financial assistance, which student clinics to access for mental health support, and which government agency would, if pressed, cough out pharmacy coverage for the genuinely destitute. It gave me that much.

I hope this is just me being in extraordinary circumstances, sitting at the intersections of a few different shitty life situations that most people skip right past. Because it's on one level comforting, but another deeply infuriating, if I'm not, and I've just missed it or we've just all been too afraid to admit it to each other.

#staranise original #therapisting

601 notes · View notes

workersolidarity · 2 months

Text

[ 📹 A number of children are brought in to a hospital in Gaza after an Israeli drone bombed the children on the roof of their home in the Al-Bureij Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip on Saturday. 📈 The current death toll in the Gaza genocide now exceeds 38'919 Palestinians killed, while another 89'622 others have been wounded since October 7th. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

GAZA GENOCIDE DAY 288: ISRAELI OCCUPATION PRIME MINISTER BLOCKING NEGOTIATIONS WITH HAMAS, WHITE HOUSE CONSIDERING SANCTIONS AGAINST BEN-GVIR AND SMOTRICH AS ICJ ACCUSES ISRAELI OCCUPATION OF VIOLATING INTERNATIONAL LAW, GENOCIDE CONTINUES UNABATED AS MASSACRES OF CIVILIANS ESCALATE

On 288th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 4 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 37 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 54 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or whose bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

The Zionist Prime Minister of the Israeli occupation, Benjamin Netanyahu, refuses to authorize his negotiating team's return to Doha, Qatar, to resume negotiations with the Palestinian resistance movement, Hamas, in order to finalize a ceasefire and hostage exchange deal that could lead to an end to the genocide in the Gaza Strip.

Reporting also stated that Netanyahu is hesitant to ratify any deal prior to his planned trip to the United States, where the Prime Minister is scheduled to give a speech on July 24th to the American Congress, and will meet with US President Joe Biden.

This comes as pressure builds on Netanyahu to sign a deal with the Hamas resistance movement, which has resulted from increasing diplomatic isolation for the Zionist entity, while dozens of families of Israeli hostages being held in Gaza continue to demand the Prime Minister ink a deal to return their family members as quickly as possible.

The families, along with other groups of Israeli activists, have organized regular popular protests in Tel Aviv and elsewhere, demanding the Netanyahu regime reach an agreement for a ceasefire and hostage exchange deal, while Netanyahu has accused the Israeli security establishment of imposing the US President's proposal on his government.

In a meeting Netanyahu called on Friday, the IOF Chief of Staff, Herzi Halevi, demanded that he sign an agreement for a hostage exchange deal, after which, the Prime Minister ended the meeting.

Earlier last week, the Israeli Prime Minister said in a press conference that "for months there has been no progress (in hammering out an agreement in Gaza), because the military pressure was not strong enough."

In response, Halevi demanded Netanyahu apologize for his comments during a security conference attended by the heads of the Shin Bet security services and the Mossad intelligence agency, telling the Prime Minister that "These statements are serious. I demand that the prime minister issue an apology."

In other news on Saturday, US President Joe Biden's White House are considering issueing sanctions against National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir and Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, two openly fascist Israeli cabinet ministers, during a meeting of the National Security Council on Wednesday covering how to respond to Israeli attacks on the occupied West Bank of Palestine, and the deteriorating situation there.

Israeli colonial settlers have regularly attacked Palestinian communities in the West Bank, largely sanctioned by the Israeli government and backed by the Israeli occupation army, while the government has continued a policy of expansion of illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank, while holding up the tax revenues belonging to the Palestinian Authority.

According to reporting in the American media outlet Axios, the Biden administration is "deeply frustrated" with the Netanyahu regime's continued policy of settlement expansion and the weakening of the Palestinian Authority, noting that the more extremist members of Netanyahu's coalition have openly allied themselves with fascist colonial settler groups and militias.

Axios says the meeting was called after yet another surge in violence by Zionist colonial settlers against Palestinian communities, while the Netanyahu government has announced plans to build another 5'000 housing units for Zionist settlers and to legalize five illegal outposts.

On Friday, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) at The Hague determined the Israeli occupation's practices and policies "violate International law" and that the occupation is violating Palestinians right to self-determination in the occupied West Bank, and further accused the occupation of violating the Geneva Conventions.

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation has continued its genocidal war in the Gaza Strip, killing and wounding dozens of Palestinians, while decimating the few remaining housing units, facilities and infrastructure of Gaza.

On Saturday, sources with Al-Awda Hospital in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, reported that doctors with the facility succeeded in saving the fetus of a pregnant woman who was killed after the Israeli occupation forces bombed her home in the camp during the early morning hours.

The woman was immediately transferred to the hospital, where doctors in the Operating room managed to remove the fetus, which was born alive, before being transported to the Nursery at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in the city of Deir al-Balah.

According to Palestinian sources, Zionist warplanes bombed several residential homes and a gathering of civilians in the Nuseirat Camp, killing at least 6 Palestinians and wounding several others.

The Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) said it's rescue crews recovered the bodies of 4 Palestinians killed in the occupation's strikes, after Israeli warplanes bombed the home of the Al-Tawil family in the Nuseirat Camp, before recovering two more dead bodies after a bombing that targeted a group of civilians on Al-Rashid Street, a coastal road west of the camp, transferring the dead and wounded to Al-Awda Hospital.

In another atrocity, occupation artillery detatchments shelled the vicinity of the community college in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, southwest of Gaza City, after which, PRCS paramedic crews transported the bodies of 6 martyrs to Al-Ahili Baptist Hospital in the city.

The war crimes of the Israeli occupation continued when Israeli fighter jets bombed a residential apartment belonging to the Ayyad family in the Mari' Abu al-Amin area of the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood, north of Gaza City, killing 6 Palestinians and wounding more than 10 others.

Zionist warplanes also bombed the Al-Sharahi family home in the New Camp area of the Nuseirat Camp, killing 4 civilians, including citizen Yassin Al-Sharahi, his wife and his children, and wounding a number of others.

The Israeli occupation army then went on to bomb a residential house belonging to the Abu Sidra family in Camp-2 of the Nuseirat Camp, near the Al-Talaa Mosque in the central Gaza Strip, killing and wounding several Palestinians.

The occupation's atrocities and war crimes continued when Zionist fighter jets bombed the Abu Jasser family home in the Al-Alami area of the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip, resulting in the martyredom of 4 Palestinians and wounding a number of others who were transferred to Kamal Adwan Hospital in the camp.

Occupation warplanes later bombed a residential home belonging to the Al-Batran family in the Al-Bureij Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, resulting in the deaths of 3 civilians and wounding several others, while another bombing destroyed a populated house near the Martyr's roundabout in the camp.

The crimes of the Zionist Army continued with an occupation drone strike that targeted a civilian riding a bicycle on Street-5, north of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing the Palestinian resident who was taken to Nasser Hospital in the city.

Reports also state that the occupation army continues to bomb and shell neighborhoods west of the city of Rafah, in southern Gaza, in conjunction with artillery shelling of residential neighborhoods east of Khan Yunis.

In yet another violation of International humanitarian law, IOF fighter jets bombed a residential house belonging to journalist Mohammad Jasser, killing the journalist, his wife and two children, all of whom were transferred to Kamal Adwan Hospital.

The Israeli occupation army followed up their horrific crimes by bombing the home of the Al-Sabbagh family in the Al-Zarqa area, north of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of two Palestinians and wounding several others.

Occupation artillery and airstrikes also continue pummeling the Al-Da'wa neighborhood, north of the Nuseirat Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, while near non-stop airstrikes and shelling have also been targeting various neighborhoods of Gaza City, as well as northern and southern Gaza, killing more than 25 civilians since dawn on Saturday, with the majority of victims being children.

The attacks continued into the evening, when Zionist army fighter jets bombed a residential house belonging to the Siam family, west of the Yassin station, in the Saftawi area north of Gaza City, while victims of the bombing were transported to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in the city.

Another occupation bombing targeted a residential building in the Nuseirat Camp, resulting in the martyredom of 3 civilians and wounding a number of others who were transferred to Al-Awda Hospital in the camp.

Later on Saturday evening, an Israeli occupation drone targeted the Araba area, north of Rafah City, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing two Palestinians and wounding others, while four Palestinian children were wounded by an occupation drone strike that targeted the children on the roof of their home in the Al-Bureij Camp, in the central Gaza Strip.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing war of extermination in the Gaza Strip, the death toll now exceeds 38'919 Palestinians killed, including more than 10'000 women and well over 15'000 children, while another 89'622 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

This brings the official total number of casualties to 128'541, or the equivalent of 5.58% of Gaza's 2.3 million Palestinian residents.

July 20th, 2024.

#source1

#source2

#source3

#source4

#source5

#source6

#source7

#source8

#source9

#source10

#videosource

#graphicsource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

269 notes · View notes

marsxcutie · 4 months

Text

Fixation│Jonathan Crane x Reader

Part two here <3

Fixation Masterlist

A/N: This is a TEST, PLEASEE interact if you're interested in this story line and I will gladly continue. This is my first fanfic so I'm just publishing this first part to see if there's any positive feedback! Suggestions are welcomed!

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Synopsis: (Y/N) is Arkham's new lead psychologist in the developing acute pediatric unit. Dr. Crane soon becomes fixated on the pretty young doctor. Is she just as fixated on him?

Warnings: no warnings in this part, planning on it becoming a little dark if that's what the people want hehe

Dr. Crane's eyes scanned over the email, his brow furrowing in confusion. Arkham decided to build another wing for an acute pediatric unit? Who in their right mind allowed this? Yes, there was a desperate need for children's psychiatric services, especially in Gotham, but to put children in the same building as psychopaths and murderers? Even Dr. Crane had the common sense to see how bad of an idea this was. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, this was not a change that he had been anticipating. He shut his computer off, deciding to be done for the day. He had much more pressing matters that needed his attention.

Your eyes scanned over the email, eyebrows raised at the seemingly amazing opportunity presenting itself to you. You had just checked your emails to see a new message from a job recruiter.

"Hello (Y/N),

Arkham Asylum is opening up an acute pediatric unit and is currently accepting applications for various positions. I got ahold of your resume and found it very impressive. Please take a look at the open positions and let me know if you were interested in applying for any of them.

Hope to hear from you soon.

James"

Attached to the email was a link, that took you to all the open positions and their job descriptions. Scanning over all of them briefly, one in particular caught your attention:

LEAD PEDIATRIC PSYCHOLOGIST

TWO WEEKS LATER

The sound of your kitten heels clacking on the pavement stopped suddenly as you were met with the front of the large ominous gate. You looked up at the building beyond the gate, a knot beginning to form in your stomach, this place looked a lot scarier than you had remembered. You let out a breath that you seemed to be holding and looked around for a buzzer or something that could someone of your presence. You jumped at the loud creaking noise that came from the gate as it swung open slowly.

"(Y/N)! Nice to see you made it in one piece."

A man stepped out from the opening of the gate, extending his hand. "I'm Rick, Arkham's executive director. I'll be showing you around and getting you settled, we're happy to have you here." His voice was gruff but his eyes were quite kind. You took his hand in yours, giving him a warm smile, "Nice to meet you Rick. I'm happy to be here." He gave you a smile and turned, gesturing you to follow him.

You followed him, taking in your surroundings as you walked. The grey overcast made the large vast building look like something out of an old horror film, the tall weeds poking out in the cracks in the cobblestone really added to the creepy scene laid out before you.

Rick led you inside, giving you a quick tour of the building. "I'll show you to your office now and let you get started with your training." Rick led you up a flight of stairs and down a hallway stopping at an office door. "So uh, since we haven't exactly finished building the pediatric wing, your office will temporarily be over here." You nodded, "That's fine by me."

He brought out a key from his pocket, turning the lock and opening the door for you. You stepped into your new space, it was a good sized space, with a large white desk, a couch, and some bookcases.

"Feel free to make yourself at home. I will let Dr. Crane know you're here, he will be doing most of your training with you. His office is actually right next to yours so should be pretty convenient for the two of you." Rick gave you a smile and nod and closed the door behind him.

You let out a small sigh, looking around the room, even though this was only your office for a short while it was still a good way to envision all your ideas for a cute and cozy space for you and your patients.

A loud knock on the door broke you out of thought, your head turning to the now open door. Your mouth unintentionally dropped open a bit at the sight of who you assumed was Dr. Crane. You were honestly expecting an old man not someone like Dr. Crane. His dark hair framed his handsome face perfectly and his intense eyes were the most perfect shade of blue. Your eyes flickered to his lips and you'd be surprised if he didn't notice the blush that covered your cheeks.

"You're (Y/N) I presume?" He smiled softly at you, extending his hand to you. "Y-yes, nice to meet you, Dr. Crane." You took his hand in yours, feeling silly at the flutter in your chest. "Call me Jonathan."

#Jonathan Crane x Reader #Scarecrow x reader #Jonathan Crane #batman

123 notes · View notes

kitasgloves · 2 months

Text

"A Secret for the Stars"

— ♬ Fyodor was a regular at the tavern you work at. But behind every polite smile and gesture, was a different man he'd rather not show you...yet.

— ♬ Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader, SFW, 1920s AU, fem-bodied reader, Fyodor is kinda lowkey obsessive and unhinged on this one (I mean, when is he not?), 2.4k words, no beta

— ♬ hello, yes, I have returned to serve my first bsd fanfic and it's this russian rat, hope you guys enjoy though

The evening was particularly colder than yesterday. People occasionally strolled by in the streets, pulling their coats tighter and rubbing their palms to produce warmth. Pitiful beggars were reaching their dirty hands out to every passerby, their pathetic countenance left unseen by others, making it impossible to extract a little bit of sympathy. In rare instances, someone would look at a beggar's face, but it's either with unconcealed disgust or sheer sympathy. A man represents the latter, his gloved hand digs into the pocket of his coat and gives the beggar five coins worth of money. The beggar's face lights up significantly, eyes watering with heartfelt compassion at the male stranger as he thanks them silently with a weak nod. He nods back before resuming his walk.

He takes each step with confidence and certainty. Anyone who lands their gaze on him can tell he's a man of rationality. A man who knew how to form foolproof plans and had success etched on the palm of his hand. His ebony peaked cap rests comfortably on top of his dark head, his complexion rivaling the snow, and his slim but tall build utters grace. He had on a black coat with a dark waistcoat underneath, his white dress shirt and red tie peaked out. His charcoal trousers and boots were cleaned and polished. One would take him for a nobleman or someone with great importance.

Deep violet eyes scan the old tavern ahead, it was a place he frequented in after his daily 'affairs'. From the sufficient light through the windows, he deduces that the tavern was packed with drunkards this evening. Nonetheless, he enters. The scent of alcohol and tobacco filled the atmosphere, he merely gags. He strides to his favorite spot, near the back where nobody bothers to occupy. He removes his hat and takes a seat. His observant eyes watch the sea of drunkards hollering and insulting each other during a game of cards, a few were slumped over on their tables smoking, and some had managed to pass out on the disgusting wooded, beyond intoxicated.

Amid the chaos, he hears soft footsteps approach. He holds back a smile for he recognizes the owner of the footsteps. He carefully turns his head and his eyes meet the warmest [Eye color] orbs he has ever encountered.

"Good evening, Fyodor! May I fetch your usual?"

"Please, of course, my dear"

Fyodor replies with familiarity. You and Fyodor only knew each other by name and face, you two didn't have any conversations but only polite greetings. You worked as a waitress in this tavern. Amongst the rough faces available in the place, yours by far are the most comforting. Fyodor found you fascinating. He couldn't exactly point his finger at it but it had something to do with your indifference in your environment. You've served him the same drink for months to the point a routine was formed and became familiar.

An educated man such as he knows how to pay your service with the right amount of money and a polite smile, unlike most of the hounds that occupied the tavern. Fyodor could barely hide his disgust at seeing drunkards stretch out their arms in an attempt to snatch you into their laps, their greedy and dirty hands testified to their perverted minds. However, you remained unshaken. You avoided their attempts at snatching as you ignored their whistles for a 'pretty young lady' to come over.

If Fyodor were to be a lesser man, he would've agreed with those perverted drunkards. You had a gentle face and complexion. Your eyes glimmered like the stars in the midnight sky while your smile resembled the sunrise. Your body suggested a healthy shape. And your movements weren't one of a graceful swan, but rather, a woman who knew what she was worth. Fyodor had an assumption of your hidden intelligence, you must be one of the fortunate ones in this poverty-stricken city to have learned how to read and write. Though, he would like to understand why you have chosen this occupation. For your good looks, you could've become an actress at the local theatre, it could've landed you great opportunities to travel overseas if you performed well. Or you could've, like any beautiful maiden, been married off to a wealthy man and lived your life with effortless luxury.

But he thinks he preferred you this way, serving him his vodka. When you returned with his drink, you didn't wander off, instead, you stood there as if waiting for him to speak up. Fyodor's lips curl up into a smirk at this.

"Thank you, [Name]. How is your day?"

"It's as equally as exhausting as the previous days, but it is nothing I couldn't manage"

"Hm, I admire your resilience. After all, how is one to strive in an environment like this?"

Fyodor gestures to the wild atmosphere at the tavern, you only laughed and waved your hand off.

"It's only necessary for me to try and strive here. I cannot afford to lose this job"

"And why's that? Are there no other opportunities?"

"I'm afraid no, my friend. You see, I have an unfinished education and a massive family debt I am responsible for helping to pay off"

"I see, how unfortunate"

This was the first proper conversation Fyodor has had with you and he immediately absorbs all of the information you have unconsciously given him. He greedily wastes your time in thirst to know more.

"You look famished, my dear. Would you like to take a seat for a moment?"

"Oh, only for a brief while"

You accepted his offer and sat across from him. Fyodor keeps the conversation alive by inquiring about more about yourself through innocent questions. He's both surprised and amused that you're answering his questions truthfully. He realizes you weren't bashful or meek. He recalls encountering women and seeing them with tinted cheeks and silently batting their eyelashes at him, hoping he'd be the first to speak or to fall for them. How absurd! Yet you have never batted your eyelashes at him, from what he gathers from your mannerisms, you only view him as the only peaceful regular at this wretched tavern. His eyes narrowed when one of those stupid drunkards called you to serve him another bottle of alcohol.

"If you'll excuse me..."

You say to him as you flutter away from his presence. You haven't returned to his table for a while and it's making him impatient. Fyodor was determined to stay until you came back, watching and enduring you get constantly harassed by those foolish men. It was nearly midnight when the tavern usually closes, you ushered every drunk customer out before you began to clean up. Fyodor was the last to remain, on purpose. While you haven't graced him with your attention since you left the conversation, he has finished scheming.

"Have you gone tipsy, my friend?"

You asked him when you finally approached his table. Fyodor shakes his head and smiles.

"Oh no, I am not drunk, my dear"

"Well, that's a relief! I'm afraid you have to leave for the tavern is about to close"

"Is that so? Oh, I have not realized how late it was! But how will you walk home at this late hour?"

You chuckled as he perfected the feigned concerned expression on his face, it had seemed to effectively fool you.

"I am comfortable with finding my way home alone, Fyodor"

"Nonsense, a lady without company at this darkest hour isn't safe. May I accompany you at least until the end of the street?"

"How kind of you, my friend! Yes, but let me finish cleaning up first"

You turned to tidy the tavern, completely missing the cunning smirk on Fyodor's face. He selfishly watches you move around the tavern, cleaning tables while humming a tune and bending over to pick up the fallen chairs. His violet eyes gleamed with greed as he etched each movement into his memory.

"Are you finished, my dear?"

"Yes, let us head out"

Both of you exited the tavern, a cold breeze greeting you. He watched you pull your worn-out coat close to your shivering figure as he walked beside you. The street was dimly lit, it was sufficient to hide the satisfied look on his face. Suddenly, you looked up at him with curiosity.

"May I ask what job do you have, Fyodor?"

"I am involved with the government"

There was a look of surprise on your features. Of course, Fyodor's reply was neither the full truth nor half a lie. He needed you to think highly of him.

"No wonder you dress with importance! I did not know one of our regulars was a famous man"

"I am well-known in some parts of the city, but I'm far from famous, my dear"

"Well, then you must receive a lot of invitations and love letters every day!"

You beamed at him, Fyodor admits that he adores your natural curiosity of him. He doubts he'd be willing to show you who he truly was. Because he was more than that polite customer you serve vodka to almost every evening. His acquaintances and enemies regarded him the same way; he was a cynical man with a skill for scheming. He's selfish when it comes to his personal goals. His name has caused the destruction of many that have dared to stumble in his way. But he chuckles and replies to you.

"How insightful you are. I indeed receive a lot of invitations and love letters, but I only respond to letters with important affairs"

"I hope you're not the kind that burns love letters to keep his bath warm"

You remarked as you gazed forward. Fyodor merely freezes at what you said. He knows he has no room for romance in his life. Rationality doesn't require emotions. He could choose to laugh and tell you that he does burn love letters but he doesn't use them to keep his bath warm. Though the love letters were sufficient enough to keep his bath warm, he sees no form of use for them. They are nothing but unreciprocated affections sprawled on paper.

"No, my dear. That would be heartless"

"That's a relief. I do not think you're a cruel man, Fyodor"

Oh, how quick you were to accept that false answer. Fyodor preferred you to perceive him as a harmless man and leave this pristine image of him unstained. You were talkative, and it was the first mistake you'd ever made, if anyone who knew him saw this, they would warn you. One shouldn't be at ease to open up to a man like Fyodor, he's the kind of man to use anything you tell him against you. However, you weren't an enemy and he wasn't planning on making you one. He liked what he had with you now, for the time being.

Halfway down the street, Fyodor thinks how he would like to suck the life out of you. The way you babbled on and on about the most trivial parts of your life gave an impression that you were begging him to ruin you. The pure nativity and innocence you displayed in your eyes made his throat dry. Behind the smile he's giving you was a dark thought, he was prepared to use you in any way he could. It was surprising how effortless it was to manipulate you.

As you both reached the end of the street, you peered up at him with a smile. The street was divided into two; the path you stood behind was filled with bright streetlights while the one on his side had faded lighting.

"Will I see you again tomorrow at the tavern?"

"Of course, you will, my dear"

"Thank you for walking with me"

There was a different form of a smile on your face, it looked tender, and it almost reminded him of someone's mother. Fyodor had always watched you for a long time, he'd seen every expression you had to offer but this smile was new. And something that wasn't part of his scheme, occurred: you have reached to the tips of your toes to place a chaste kiss on his left cheek. For a moment, his contemptuous thoughts of you vanish. A terrifying warmth blooms in his chest. Fyodor stares at you unblinking.

"Goodbye, Fyodor"

He couldn't open his mouth to reply as you walked down that street on your way home. What in God's name was that? With a gloved hand, he reaches for his left cheek and recoils back like he's been burnt. Why did you do that? Fyodor furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. How disgusting! Yet his skin kept tingling. His mind replayed every smile, every laugh, and every moment he'd shared with you. He shakes his head. Pathetic! He thinks. However, he imagined you sharing those moments with somebody else morphing his hands into fists.

Fyodor grumbles as he makes his way down the dimly lit street. His eyes stare up at the sky towards the stars. Those glimmering stars only reminded him of your eyes and he scoffs. The stars perhaps have an idea of the feeling forming in his bosom. The stars have witnessed every cry of a man filled with despair and every confession of a man filled with love. But in this instance, Fyodor would tell the stars a secret instead.

A secret of his desire to obtain you. They would know how he wanted to pull you by the hand and run his hands through your hair. They would know how he would inhale your scent and steal your innocence. The stars would know how Fyodor has fallen captive under the mysterious spell that has got him determined to have you. He would rather pluck his eyes out than fall on his knees in front of you. No, he would never beg. Fyodor knows better than to beg, to beg means to admit defeat. But if God decides to take you away from him, well...he must be prepared to be a heretic.

Only the stars know now of his cunning plans for he has muttered it up to the midnight sky. Fyodor knows that stars burn up and die in the end so his secret would be safe for as long as he's alive. He laughed to himself as he continued to walk down the street.

#— ♬ with love; kitasgloves #bungou stray dogs #bsd fanfic #fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #bungou stray dogs fyodor #fyodor fanfic #bsd fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor x y/n

69 notes · View notes

octuscle · 1 year

Text

Sustainable changes

Nicolas had just been promoted to Senior Product Manager. But the condition was that he had to take a foreign assignment for two years. He had reckoned with Germany, the USA or maybe Japan. India would also have been okay. But he was supposed to go to Turkmenistan. His employer had just bought a large agricultural cooperative there, which was now to be converted in the direction of ecological and sustainable agriculture. On the one hand, this sounded like a completely unknown field of work. Nicolas had previously worked more in the consumer goods sector. On the other hand, anything that bore the label "sustainable" was naturally a career driver at the moment. So he took a cautiously optimistic approach.

Once Nicolas arrived at his new workplace, the optimism quickly evaporated. He had arrived somewhere in the middle of nowhere. There was no office building, there were only barracks. Mostly not air-conditioned. He had expected to be put up in some hotel. But he had been given a room with a farmer. Toilet in the yard. Bathroom was an outdoor shower served from the cistern. He felt infinitely silly in his outfit.

In the first service meeting, a colleague asked him if they could tweak Nicolas's resume a bit for the presentation to the workers. It might be good for his credibility if they could give him some local roots. Nicolas was tired. The trip had been exhausting. He remembered his parents' Russian gardener. A picture of a man. Former combat swimmer. And of the Turkish cook. So he answered, one may mix in there with pleasure something Russian and Turkish. The main thing was that he was allowed to retire now.

The night had been hell. It smelled like a pigsty in his room. And he could hear the pigs too, as if they were sleeping in bed with him. There was no hot water to shave with. And company policy forbids the use of shower gels containing microplastics without functioning wastewater treatment for environmental reasons. So all he can use is a bar of curd soap. When introduced to the staff, he looks appropriately a bit bedraggled. One of his colleagues asks Nicolas to say something in Russian. He has to think a bit. His grandmother sometimes spoke to him in Russian. But it's enough for a "I'm happy to be here and look forward to working with you. The employees cheer for their new boss.

Before Nicolas takes a shower the next morning, he drives the pigs out of the barn. If he's going to share the roof with them, he might as well make himself useful. His hosts invite him to breakfast. The conversation in Russian is still a bit bumpy. Nikolai hasn't spoken his father's language for years. And his host family, of course, actually speaks Turkmen. But with hands and feet it works. And so it goes on in the office. The team meeting was supposed to take place in English. But the interpreter dropped out. With every hour it gets better. The memory of his father's language comes back.

At breakfast, Nikolai realizes that he understands Turkmen better than he thought. It definitely works out that his hosts ask him in their native language. But he prefers to answer in Russian. Nikolai speaks it again as fluently as he did when he lived with his father in the Sevastopol army barracks. At work, they discuss the tasks for the next few days. Nikolai considers the projects for preventing soil erosion and unused surface water runoff to be urgent. Everyone passionately discusses the possibilities of transforming agriculture to get by without artificial irrigation. But Nikolai realizes that it will be difficult to irrigate only naturally in the desert.

The next morning, Nikolai surprises your host family with a few words of Turkmen. With his fluency in Russian and Turkish as his mother's language, it's not that hard for him to learn the language. On the job, they speak almost only Turkmen anyway. Today, his job is to drive the fields and inspect and document the environmental damage. Nikolai doesn't even need to shower for that. It will be hot anyway. And air conditioning is only for wimps. The point is to save energy wherever possible. In the afternoon, he gets a call from headquarters. They are very pleased with his work on site. It is clear that the project would not make an economic contribution. But the advertising impact is enormous. Whether he is interested in accepting a junior director position at the headquarters in Paris.

Nikolai turns his camera, bares his left breast and says in broken French that his heart beats for his new home. He won't leave until the desert blooms again.

#male tf #muscle tf #chronivac #tank top #race change #male transformation #muscle transformation

579 notes · View notes

writingwithfolklore · 4 months

Text

Answering your Questions/Concerns about Free Editing

Thanks for sending in your questions about my free editing service! Here are some of the ones I've gotten so far:

I feel like I’d be taking advantage of you because it’s free:

I don’t like the assumption that I’m a pushover. Okay just kidding, I appreciate this instinct, but you’re not really taking advantage of me given I’m offering the work! I also ask you to trust me that I can set my own boundaries and let you know if the scope of the project is too much for me to take on.

Of course, if you’d really like to give back to me in some way I always accept tips, Instagram follows, or reblogs of my editing post/recommendations to your writing friends, but none are necessary!

Okay but what do you get out of it?

Experience—I can put ‘freelance editor’ on my resume and back it up with examples. I can also log my hours as volunteer hours which will help me get scholarships to pay for my schooling. Lastly, I hope to build strong community bonds with you all and genuinely just want to help out—I’ve been very lucky to have formal training and mentors throughout my writing career, and I hope to provide that to those of you who haven’t had the same opportunities!

Will you look at fanfiction/non-original work?

Of course! As long as it was written by you (and not AI-generated).

How do I know you and I will click style-wise?

I work with writers of all different styles in my regular job, so editing styles that aren’t my own is something I have a lot of experience in. If you’re really worried about it, I will let you know right off the bat if I think I would be a good editor for you or if you should try someone else.

What if you hate my work?

I won’t tell you, and I can still do my job as an editor to improve it without tearing it apart. I believe good editors can take any piece of writing and see its values and what it’s doing well in addition to its flaws. My job is to bring out what’s already working in your piece. Essentially, I promise I won’t be mean to you or your work no matter what I think about it.

Can you help me get published?

I can certainly help guide you through starting the process, but I’m not an agent and can’t reach out to anyone for you. However, if you’d like to send me proposals or queries to look at, I’m happy to edit those as well!

Can you help promote my work/blog?

I’m happy to reblog or share any of your projects or writing that I’ve helped you out with, for sure!

What if my work isn’t good enough?

No judgement here! I’m happy to look at your first draft, your final draft, and every draft in between. The whole point of editing and getting another set of eyes on your work is to improve it, so send me anything, no matter what state it’s in!

Check out the guidelines here:

#writing #creative writing #writing community #writers #screenwriting #writing inspiration #books #filmmaking #film #writing advice #free editing #free feedback #feedback #offering feedback #fanfiction #feedback needed

63 notes · View notes

castieltrash1 · 1 year

Note

soft domming officer K WHO SAID THAT????? i did. sorry.

switch!officer k x gn human!reader; smut, established relationship, handjob, slight orgasm denial/edging, me adding too many world-building details ♡

It’s always cold -- perpetually raining, in fact -- and the makeshift Moebius complex heaters are notoriously shoddy, but it’s the warmth of your touch, its stark contrast to the biting chill of K’s apartment, that makes him shiver. He can feel something hot brewing inside him as your fingers bypass the hem of his shirt, intent on taking it off even though he’s just put it on. Most of the time he doesn’t bother redressing at all after his shower, but work had been tiring and he knew he didn’t have the energy to take care of you the way he normally enjoyed doing.

“Sweetheart,” K murmurs, his calloused hand grabbing your wrist. Your eyes flicker to meet his, and where he expects disappointment, he finds gentle understanding instead. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, jaw tensing a bit as a wave of guilt washes over him.

“Can I help you relax?” you ask, not moving but not pulling away either. “I was just gonna focus on you, that’s all.” It’s an odd statement, one K has to replay in his head a few times before it makes sense. He’s not entirely sure what being on this side of the equation entails. He, and all the other replicants, were built to service in one way or another, and the idea of a human actively pleasing him feels wrong. Suspicion gnaws at his gut and he almost tears himself away from you entirely.

“Please, K?” Your soft words are paired with a gentle kiss to the scruffy part under his ear, and he remembers the first time you told him he was more to you than just a Nexus-9 model. He was real, in all the ways that mattered. To you, at least.

He finally nods, swallowing heavily when, instead of resuming your path up his stomach, your fingertips breach the waistband of his pants. Your other hand busies itself undoing the button and zipper at the front, and K can feel your smile against him when you notice he’s already half hard. It never takes long for him to get aroused, and by the time you wrap your fingers around him, he’s pulsing against your palm.

Part of a moan escapes his mouth before K bites down on his bottom lip, stifling the unexpected sound. He only lets go when you lean in, his eyes fluttering shut as you draw your tongue over the fresh indents in his rosy skin. For a split second, K’s glad you can’t see the flush steadily spreading across his cheeks, but the thought becomes a distant memory when the sweet taste of you hits him, and he reaches up to grab your jaw and move you closer. At first, you eagerly match his movements, tilting your head to ease the glide of your lips against his, but then you’re pulling back, and K’s groan of disappointment is far from quiet.

“Shh.” His brows furrow and all he can do is stare at the swollen and glossy state of your mouth, which he imagines somewhat mirrors his own. He faintly wonders if the disheveled sight of him pleases you the way yours does him. It must, since soon you’re lowering your head and letting a line of spit drip until it connects to his cock, gathering on the tip before gravity pulls it down the rest of his shaft. K’s breath hitches at the sensation, body stilling as your hand resumes its earlier motion with half the friction. “Better?” you murmur, making sure to twist your wrist a little with each stroke.

Besides a shuddering exhale, K remains quiet, immediately pulling you back into a kiss. You’d planned on talking him through this with some reassuring praise, but he doesn’t let you inch away for anything more than a quick inhale, barely remembering your need to breathe with the eagerness he has to feel your mouth on his. You do your best to blindly please him, squeezing the base of his cock and rolling your palm against the tip with every few strokes, but the rest of your touches are languid and met with slow rocks of K’s hips.

He knows sex doesn’t have to mean anything, not every time, at least, but in moments like these, he understands why some call it a connection. A fusing of bodies and souls. For once, he’s not sure where imitation ends and real begins.

Your rhythm steadies and you increase your pace little by little, working K closer to the edge. You’ve watched and felt him cum enough times to recognize when he’s close and, with his fingertips digging into the back of your neck and his cock twitching in your hand, it’s no surprise when he pulls away to shakily tell you. “Gonna cum,” K grunts, and you brush his nose with yours, slowing your movements until they halt completely.

“Hold it,” you breathe, fingers wrapped around the thickest part of him. While you expect a verbal objection or groan of disapproval, K doesn’t speak or move, with silent obedience underlying both. He waits for what feels like minutes but is only seconds before your fingers drag back up his spit-slick skin. “There you go, baby,” you soothe, feeling him immediately thrust needily into your open palm. “Let it out, it’s okay.”

You barely reach the head of his cock before he cums with a soft moan, dripping over the back of your palm in thick white pulses. His orgasm sears over his body and he clings even more desperately to you as you ease him through it, kissing the side of his face and slowing the motion of your hand until it ceases entirely. Even then, you don’t pull back just yet, humming softly to yourself as K catches his breath, the splotchy color in his face evening out.

“Better?” you repeat, and K doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the smug smile on your face.

“Much.”

gosling sleepover sunday

#officer k x reader #blade runner 2049 smut #officer k smut #officer k #ryan gosling #blade runner 2049 #t: writing #mutuals: f1nalboys #answered

323 notes · View notes

mi6-cafe · 2 months

Text

08.04.24

The B team really pulled through and saved the day. Their undercover agents were able to sneak back out of the STARFISH lair with the cure. Around the world, espionage agencies from MI6 to SPECTRE began to shake off their slumber. The Big Snooze was over. In the following days, the A team resumed their duties and fully dismantled STARFISH. If a few villainous agencies also happened to deploy destructive teams in STARFISH’s direction, well, for once their goals were aligned with those of MI6. The scientist in charge of STARFISH’s sleepy reign was a casualty of those efforts…one hoped. (When someone made regeneration their life’s work, anything was possible.) The A Team also acknowledged the B team and their incredible efforts while being grateful for the first proper rest they had had in years. “Is this what waking up after a full night’s sleep feels like?” Q asked, amazed. “I think we should be given a month’s sleep-leave every year,” Moneypenny commented. “You all have done a valuable job holding MI6 together with the equivalent of duct tape and twine, and we are deeply indebted to your bravery and steadfast resolve,” M said. She also handed out paperwork. “Don’t say anything to anyone about this. Or else.” In the halls of SPECTRE, a lone intern who had kept all of the sharks alive and well-fed throughout the month got promoted, partly because the sharks no longer accepted food from anyone else. And hey, now they get dental insurance! Now it is time for the B team to rest. Some of them go back to their non-secret service jobs, others return to retirement, and some just get back to work doing the less stressful jobs that they are actually comfortable with. Whatever they do, they do it with pride at a job well done. Secretly, they saved the world. Congratulations! Despite the perils of RL and the challenges of creating and community-building, we pulled together and reached over 80% completion on all of the goals set this month! Well done, everyone! Thank you for coming on this adventure of trying a new Fest format with us!

#HQ memo #007 fest #007 fest 2024

35 notes · View notes

heavencanbeaprisontoo · 6 months

Text

The Sun and The Moon

(Prologue: Meeting By the Sea) Alfie Solomons x Shelby!OC

Summary: In early November of 1917, you are over a year into your service to the Crown as a volunteer nurse. Following a hollow victory, you make your acquaintance with one Alfie Solomons. WC: 3.1K Warnings: Mentions of war, death, g-re, v-mit, foul language, angst, psychological distress, etc.

November. 7, 1917.

You know you need to hurry. It's almost nightfall; you won’t have much light left to write in. Yet you cannot help but linger at the sight of today’s victory. Before you, there is an ocean. It is a vast sea of gray, thick, and cold. Unfeeling and joyless. An ocean of standing water, crumbling buildings, and miles upon miles of mud. The buildings once housed people, but now they resemble the ruins of a bygone era. A necropolis.

Rolling clouds of dirt and gunpowder float just above the ground like phantoms. It’s the only piece of this that reminds you anything of home. Beckoning to the fog and soot that rolled in the early mornings when you would walk with your brothers to Charlie’s yard. Behind you, white tents flap in the wind, and cloth clings to metal rods that hold the structure in place. A field hospital. The only taste of civilization left for miles.

Rings meant to fasten the flaps down rattle like windchimes against the winds. A sudden updraft carries the stench of decay from the trenches up to where you stand. You press a cloth into a small bottle of peppermint oil. Quickly, you put that cloth on your nose. One of the first things you learned after joining the VADs was to keep your feet dry and to have plenty of peppermint oil on hand. It wards off the smell of rot, both in the living and the dead. The first time you smelled it, you vomited. Now, you barely gag. Still holding the cloth to your nose, you turn back to the field hospital.

Your name is Maeve Shelby, and you are twenty-four.

It’s warmer inside the tents. Uncomfortably so. The warmth is from all the bodies; most lay about in cots; the rest are your fellow VADs and doctors. Humidity mixed with stagnant sweat and all the bed pans that ever come clean enough to be rid of acrid remnants. To save yourself from having to sit in the midst of it all, you set aside a chair for yourself at the mouth of the field hospital. It is a plain, simple wooden chair with one leg shorter than the other three. Beside it is a stack of empty ammunition boxes. You have a small lantern weighing down an unfinished letter. With a sigh, you sit down and resume your writing from earlier that day:

Dearest Aunt Polly, Ada, and Finn ,

I know once my letter finds you that this will be well-known, but the Allies have finally claimed victory here in Ypres. The soldiers say we are nearly finished ousting the Germans from Passchendaele. Only a few remain. Too injured to retreat. It won’t be long before we can claim this as ours. Still, we have yet to celebrate. It’s strange. All these months we spent fighting, and this doesn’t feel like a victory. So many lives were lost. There are too many to even try to count.

My work keeps me busy, but it is at night when my mind is most busy. Even with the fighting stopped, it has been difficult to find the dead and the wounded. I do not know where these men will be put once they’re found. We have hardly any beds left to offer. I have taken to sleeping in a chair by the entry to the main tent. Partly to free a bed for those that need it, partly to keep an eye out for any soldiers still trying to make it back.

For so long, all I’ve done is race from place to place. Now all I do is change bandages, sooth the restless, and listen for the wounded who remain stuck in the trenches. Those still well enough to fight are sent out to recover their comrades. It’s hard work. Idle bombs and lurking landmines are all still out there. Some men come back worse than they left.

I know that the boys aren’t out there, but still, I strain to listen for them. John, Arthur, and Tommy. In my dreams, I do hear them. Just as I know, you hear them in your dreams too, Polly. It makes me wake with such a fear in me that my feet carry me forward before I’m fully awake. I rush toward that ocean of muck and blood, and I stop only when my fingers pierce the earth; the feel of it under my fingernails brings back my senses for some reason.

I wonder if all the victories we’ve won felt like this. I wonder if, when all is said and done, any of this will amount to anything at all. Does anyone remember why we’re even here? Who will take our bodies home if none of us survive?

“God,” you say, taking your pen and scratching out the last line. Then, you scratch out the last paragraph. You cross out line after line. They don’t need to read this. This madness. It was good of Ada to back out of volunteering. Not just because of this lonely sea of mud and blood, but for little Finn, too. With you and the three eldest men gone, someone needed to take care of him. Mom has been dead for almost five years now. Father may as well be dead; he felt like a ghost when he was home anyway. Aunt Polly was holding up “the business,” from what you could gleam from Ada’s letters back to you.

In the year you’ve spent out on the fields, you have yet to receive a letter from your brothers. Not that you blame them. All of you are on the move. What you know of their state comes from Ada, or Polly. Arthur and Tommy are together, which somewhat soothes you. You think of John often. He’s in France with Danny and Jeremiah. I think you joined so that you could look after your brothers. It’s been years since you’ve seen them in person. Who knows what state they may be in? There are men behind you who will never be whole. Broken bodies, shattered minds, and more scar tissue than flesh. Are your brothers as you remember them? You hate to linger on the thought.

You fold your ruined letter three times and rip it in half. The give-and-take of it feels good somehow. It reminds you of something you read once about children being destructive to gain some form of control. You can’t control how long this war lasts, when you can come home, what home you return to, or what state you find your brothers in, but you can control this paper. So, you rip it again. And again. Each tear becomes more jagged and childish. You throw up your hands, and the bits of paper fly away in the cold November winds.

‘Snow from Birmingham to Belgium,’ you crack a small smile.

You once dreamed of journeying across Europe. It was a lovely fantasy filled with long train rides and French pastries. Winking at handsome strangers while hiding your smile behind a lacy white glove. Now, you feel like you’ve seen too much of it. When all this fighting is over, maybe you’ll take a holiday to Margate. Clean your memory with a long look at an ocean of water instead of this hellscape.

“Shelby!” Your head turns sharply to see Nurse Burgess charging towards you. Her round face was blotchy as always, her thin lips drawn down in a harsh frown. “Miss Shelby, you are needed in the back.”

Tucking your scented hanky back into your apron, you ask, “Is someone in throes?” Some men, in the throes of despair, couldn’t always tell the difference between a nurse and a German soldier.

Her meaty hand takes you by the upper arm and says, “No, I need you to keep an eye on someone.” Nurse Burgess drags you through the maze of malaise swiftly, despite the growing night. The nurses have navigated this place in near darkness many times now. You could probably make it from one end to the other, blindfolded. Tonight, the field hospital was quiet aside from the moaning. Nurse Burgess guides you deeper inside the field hospital with a hoarse, “It’s Captain Solomons; that bastard won’t lay still, and I haven’t the time to keep on him.”

You try to keep your voice low as soldiers in their cots roll over to follow you and Nurse Burgess’ mad dash. “Captain Solomons? I thought he was sedated, heavily!”

Nurse Burgess, on the other hand, has no such qualms. She hollers, “That man is a bloody bear. We keep trying to give him more, and he shoos us off. Now, he won’t stop trying to get out of his cot... with a blown-out leg!” Two soldiers sat on their cots with a barrel between them. They played cards under the glow of a flickering candle on their shared nightstand. As you passed, they snickered.

“I can’t imagine he would be able to move much; Doctor Gill said he nearly lost that leg,” you noted wearily. Burgess was nearly done with her escorting or you; the back of the tent was not far off. You stepped over a pool of what could have been rainwater, bile, or piss. There is no point in stopping to check.

At the back of the field hospital lay two specific sorts of patients. Those who could not move and those who absolutely should not move. Captain Solomons was in the former category. Days ago, he sustained a bullet to his shin that nearly shattered it. He had been under strict orders, and a heavy dose of sedatives, to stay right where he was. Each cot in this back section has its own privacy curtain. When you first joined, you thought it was for the nurses to sleep and change in. The other nurses had a good laugh about that. When she comes upon Captain Solomons’ curtain, Nurse Burgess lets you go. S yanks back the curtain, shielding the Captain from view, and lets out a deep grunt.

You peer around her shoulder and sigh. The captain sits on the thin cot with a sterile sheet pushed down to his legs. His back is raised from the metal headboard, and he has his body turned with his good foot nearly touching the ground. Still on the bed rests his wounded leg. It lays at a stiff, awkward angle. You know he must at least be aware of its precarious state. In the dark, it’s difficult to make out all of his features.

“Captain!”

He’s a big man, with broad shoulders and heavy muscle on his back and arms. You can see it pushing against his long-sleeved undershirt. What strikes you most about him is not his mass or his leg, but his grin. His cheeky, cheeky grin.

Captain Solomons keeps on that grin as he says, “Hm, it appears I have been caught, right?” His accent is thick. You know very little about Captain Solomons aside from the most basic of details. You know he’s from London, you know that he’s Jewish, and you know that he can be difficult. The Captain’s tone remains glib as he remarks, “And you brought a friend, ‘ello there.”

“You are to be resting, Captain Solomons!” Based on her tone, you can imagine Nurse Burgess is turning purple about now. Captain Solomons gives her a boyish shrug and stays upright in his cot. That alone makes Nurse Burgess turn to you and hiss and say, “Keep him here so he doesn’t rip his bloody stitches, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you hum. She leaves you there in the parted curtains with Captain Solomons. He regards you for a moment, then restarts his attempt at standing. You let out a sigh and hurry to him before he gains enough traction to hurt himself. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you try to ease him back into his crib. “Captain, you really must follow the doctor’s instructions.” You feel him push against your palms.

“Fuck the doctors; pardon my verbiage, but I’m about to go mad lying about this miserable lump you call a bed,” he says, putting his hands around your wrists. You are taken aback by how easily his hand wraps around your wrist. If he wanted to, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to just shove you aside. “I need to take a walk.”

Politeness doesn’t seem to work on him, nor does roughness. While you weren’t tough like John or ruthless like Arthur, you were clever with people. You could get a sense of how someone’s mind ticked quickly. You hoped you could catch on about Captain Solomons too. “And when your stitches rip and you’ve lost your leg, what cot would you like me to move you to?”

He stops pushing against you. His chest is still heaving, and his hot breath fans your cheeks. You swallowed thickly; you really underestimated how close you were to him. This is a is a big, big man. One who had rumors of a violent temper that took very little to agitate.

“You have been injured and are lucky to be alive. And you still have all your parts, Captain. Why are you risking that just to go on a fucking walk?” He stares you down with a furrowed brow. For a moment, you worry you’ve poked the bear a bit too hard. “If you refuse to take the doctors seriously, what do you think the men who answer to you will do? They’ll all be trying to walk about despite their pain and end up injuring themselves for pride.”

Solomons puts you at ease when he sits back on the cot, releasing your wrists. “I can’t just lay about like this. I’ll lose the rest of my marbles waiting around for those doctors to get these stitches out. There’s not a single thing a man can do to occupy his mind in this place. It smells of piss, rot, and pus. If they would give me back my knife, right? I could cut out a little window in this tarp behind me and get a whiff of fresh air. But they won’t. Where’s the respect, hm?”

You cross your arms and ask, “So, you’re bored?”

He stiffens. Oh, you hit the nail right on the head with that one. You can’t exactly blame him. The longer you stand still, the faster all your fears catch up with you. All those ugly things you’ve seen and heard find you. That’s why the soldiers play cards and the nurses trade that single copy of ‘Frankenstein’ and ‘A Room with a View’ back and forth. Distraction. “If you can stay still where you are, I can try to get a book or a deck of cards. Would you like that?”

With a sweeping gesture to the darkness, he says, “Can’t exactly read a page or play a hand in the dark, now can we love?”

Shaking your head at his childish attempts at derailing your little plan, you take out a matchbox from your apron. With your last matchstick, you bring life to a lantern by his bed. You turn to face him, a warm orange light reflecting on your face. In the dim lighting offered by the lantern, you can see the Captain’s face. He’s young for a man of his rank. And handsome, you can admit as much in your own mind. His eyes are bright, and his features are deeply masculine. A hard jawline with a prominent brow and pouty lips. Most soldiers, regardless of rank, are required to be clean-shaven. This is not true for Captain Solomons. He has a well-maintained moustache and beard, cut close to his jawline. You heard from somewhere that Solomons was an exception due to his faith or his demeanor. Captain Solomons is looking up at you, too. His expression was all aglow. Bright gray eyes stare at your face. Confused almost as they regard you.

“Do we have a deal, Captain?”

He’s still staring at you, his brow furrowed as he studies your face. Finally, he says, “If you can get ‘Frankenstein,’ I’ll stay put. That’s a piece of fiction I can sit with for a good bit of time.”

You beam at him and take the chance to push his healthy leg under his blanket. Solomons grumbles, “Easy now, easy. I’m injured, remember?” He allows you to gently move him safely into his cot.

Finding the nurse who had taken possession of the book was no easy task, but she was quick to give it to you when you informed her a captain had asked for it. When you came back with the book, Solomons was still in bed. You thanked a God you no longer believed in and handed him the book. Just as you attempted to leave, Captain Solomons made an admission: “My eyes, yeah, they don’t pinch up the written word so easy these days. If there’s not a grisly scene out there for you to attend to, might you do me the service of reading this aloud for me?”

For a moment, you think about refusing. You never know when you’ll be called away. But then again, you’re the one who came up with the idea to get him a distraction anyway. Settling down at the edge of his bed, you take the book from his hand and begin to read. Captain Solomons leans back against the metal headboard, listening to you begin reading the preface. What you didn’t know was that this was the start of a near-nightly ritual. Captain Solomons would attempt to slink out of bed to go'stretch his leg(s)’ until you would rush over to distract him with another book or game of cards. He became a welcome distraction for you as well. A friend, almost. Perhaps more than that, if the way he kissed you one cold night in late November told you anything.

His lips were as soft as they looked.

Whether it was friendship or not, it lasted for about a month. Captain Solomons and his men were removed from the area for transport to the west. You and your fellow VADs would go north. He didn’t stop to say goodbye to you, which bothered you. The morning after he kissed you was the day you found out about the move. And he was already gone.

In one year and three days, the war would be over. You would return home to find that all your brothers had survived. But they weren’t quite themselves anymore, and neither were you.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders x oc #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x shelby!oc #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x reader

78 notes · View notes