#clutch of constables

[grimesgirll]

“fuck, honey. you done yet?”

you shake your disheveled head furiously. “one more, please!”

rick almost collapses right then and there. “did you not cum four times tonight?”

“let’s make it five.” you insist with a kiss.

rick is powerless to do anything but indulge you, knowing you’ll still need more.

“old man’s ‘bout to fall asleep.” daryl chimes in from his spot nearly under the covers next to you and rick.

“just like one more and i’ll be such a good girl.” you plead, all doe eyed.

“fuck.” rick groans and you lift your hips excitedly when you feel him twitch back to life inside of you. he can’t hide the anguish on his face when you slam your hips down onto him, trying to coax him back into pounding you.

“c’mon, rick,” you whine. “ditch the self control for once and fuck me.”

“it’s not self control, sweetheart. it’s a lack of energy.” he reassures you, wincing as you swivel your hips down onto him.

you roll your eyes. this is too slow for you. pouting your lips, your eyes find daryl and suddenly you have an idea.

“fine.” you huff. “guess i’ll just have to hop off and let daryl pound me. if he’s up for it.”

you never had to question if daryl wanted to fuck you into the mattress. it’s a given, which is why rick’s eyes darken and he lets out a sharp breath.

“you sure you wanna start this shit this late at night?”

your eyes widen with delight. you give your naughtiest nod.

“well, i’ll fuck you but you gotta make it up to daryl since you’re dragging him into this.” the constable tells you.

you nod eagerly, offering little resistance when rick and daryl reconfigure you to be perfectly between them on your knees. grinning up at your leader’s best friend, you don’t need to wait for him to free his erection because it’s already at your lips before you even register the status of his bottoms.

taking your time, you kitten lick the girthy cock in front of you. the trail you’re marking with your tongue dips down to the man’s balls. without hesitation, you start your slow ministrations, going back between the two.

“damn,” daryl mutters from above you.

rick spares a glance over top of you to see what you’re up to before finally driving back into your dripping core. the way you’re immediately arching your back forces rick to adopt a more brutal rhythm.

“oh, fuck!” you’re panting.

the man behind you fists a handful of your hair, guiding your mouth from daryl’s balls to the top of his cock again and pushing your head down. “i’m not gonna let you tease, daryl,” he jests, not skipping a beat while you gag on his best friend’s dick in front of him.

daryl just snickers and cranes his head back, enjoying thinking about how he’s not far from coming down your throat one more time tonight.

meanwhile, rick lets go of your head only to deliver a reddening blow to your bottom.

“god,” you moan around daryl.

the brunette rams in and out of your sensitive cunt. you clench when he grazes your cervix. languidly you roll backwards figure eights into him, arching even further into him. you grab a fistful of the slippery sheets in an attempt to ground yourself, clutching them closer when you feel a hand on your clit.

“gonna come all over my cock?”

“of course,” you reply raggedly.

“gonna squeeze me nice and tight?” rick smacks your ass. “i wanna feel you gushin’ on me, honey.”

“yes, sir,” you promise before daryl pulls you back down to bob your head up and down on him.

the bruising grip on the back of your head is your cue.

you finish daryl off as soon as his length is down your throat again. the redneck shivers and buried his hands in your hair right before his orgasm floods your mouth, doing your best to swallow everything as he shallowly thrusts his hips into your face.

“god, you do deserve the pounding, pretty girl.”

once he lets you off of him, you just beam and hold onto him as rick fucks you without abandon.

“you like grindin’ my gears? teasin’ me just so you can get fucked one more time before you go to sleep?” rick punctuates each question with a brutal shift of his hips. “huh, pretty girl?” he moves his hand from your clit to your stomach and forces a hand against your stomach.

“ah!” you bleat at the pressure. “you’re so deep.”

the condescension drops from his tone. “i thought that’s what you wanted, darlin’.”

“i do!” you cry.

“then do what you said you were gonna do and come on my cock.” he commands.

you don’t hold back. the rubber band snaps just right and you keep leaning right into daryl. head against his chest, he and the man viciously fucking you through your undoing are the only things on your mind.

rick’s grasping onto your trembling legs and littering your torso with fingernail marks from how deep he’s digging. the grip he’s maintaining keeps your shuddering body in place when he finally fills you up, tensing and nearly toppling over you.

warm and full, you feel like you’re melting into the soft bed, especially with rick on top of you. he stays like that while daryl is mumbling about a towel and finally getting the hell to sleep. all blissed out, they won’t have to worry about you for at least another few hours.

daryl is the one who jumps to wet a towel and offer the both of you a room temperature water bottle. rick is too preoccupied with keeping you as close as possible. he even stays inside your plush walls until daryl’s almost dragging you off of him to towel between your legs.

“did so good for us, honey.” rick is rasping into your ear, rolling the two of you under the comforter. one of his hands find a place in your hair making you lean into his touch.

“thanks for indulging me.” you express your gratitude with a kiss for rick and a clasp of daryl’s hand, urging the man onto the bed.

“here, put this on,” daryl passes you one of his sleep henleys and a pair of your favorite oversized boxers fresh out of the laundry.

“yeah, and ditch the bra.” rick says in between kisses against your collarbone.

content washes over your face and your bra lands on the floor.

once your top is on and rick’s firmly pressed behind you, you feel yourself start to dissolve into the soft sheet. a hand finds your breast just as daryl gives you a goodnight kiss. you suspect the hand will stay there for most of the night but you don’t mind.

it’s owner nestles his face into your hair, whispering sweet nothings from how well you took his cock to how gorgeous you were, how excited he was to spend his next day off with you.

feeling daryl beside you and rick nearly on top of you has to be one of the coziest feelings in the world.

and you’re right; five orgasms and you were out cold.

#the walking dead #rickyl #rickyl x reader #rick grimes x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #rick grimes smut #rick grimes #daryl dixon #twd imagine #twd smut #rick x reader #not beta read #f/m/m #p in v sex #aftercare #blowy #grimesgirll

[zagreuses-art]

The fine Rank and File (or at least the rank) of the Ankh Morpork city watch! I've been figuring out my designs for them, and I wanted to put them in a lineup to see how they look beside one another. makes you realize how ridiculous the height difference between some of them is

[ID: three digital drawings of the Watch members, against a police lineup background with height marks and an ankh morpork city watch watermark and logo. The featured members are in order of height: Detritus, Dorfl, Carrot, Angua. then Reg Shoe, Visit, Colon, and Vimes. finally, Nobby, Cheery, Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur. they are all wearing variations on the watch uniform of brass colored armor, chainmaille, leather boots or sandals, and a skirt of studded leather straps. end ID]

more detailed description of the designs under the cut

First drawing: standing at over 8 feet is Dorfl. He is a grey-green troll with a very muscled top heavy build, patches of moss on his skin, and angular features. He is wearing oversized armor with pauldrons, one with sergeant's stripes painted on it, and scale mail underneath. the Piece Maker (a siege weapon crossbow) is strapped to his back. second, standing at 7 foot 4 inches is Dorfl, a reddish Golem made out of patchwork clay, with a overall gingerbread man look, and glowing red eyes. he is only wearing a breastplate, and he has his sergeant's stripes painted on his arm. Third at 6 foot 6 inches is Carrot. He is a redheaded white human, with a sturdy build, round face, and a cheerful smile. he has a captains pip pin in the collar of his shirt and his armor is visibly shinier than all the other's. fourth at 6 foot 2 inches is Angua. she is a white human with lots of very light blonde hair and slightly pointed ears. Her armor has straps at the shoulder rather than being one piece, and she is wearing her badge on a collar. (end of first drawing)

Second drawing: first, standing at 6 ish feet is Reg Shoe. He is a green zombie with a hunched posture and several missing chunks and lines of stitching visible, most noticeably the right half of his mouth has no lips, exposing his teeth. he wearing a tattered and patched flow-y white shirt under his armor, which is also the strap style, and there is a red ribbon in his long-ish dirty blonde hair. second at 5 foot 9 inches is constable Visit. He is a brown skinned human, with slicked back 80's business guy hair and a slightly strained smile. He is wearing a very crisp white shirt under his armor as well as khaki pants and a Omnian turtle necklace. he is clutching a bundle of pamphlets. Third at 5 foot 6 inches is Colon. He is a white human with a heavy-set build, a mustache, and a large bald spot. his armor has sculpted muscles in it and he is wearing sandals. Fourth at barely 5 foot 4 inches is Vimes. He is a white human with messy greying brown hair, and a five o-clock shadow, he looks a bit like house era Hugh Laurie. along with his armor he is wearing a red cloak and a sword. (end of second drawing)

Third Drawing: First, standing at 4 foot nothing, is Nobby Nobbs. he is a white-ish human with vitiligo spots, several suspiciously red or green patches of skin, and very scruffy black hair and a five o-clock shadow. he is smoking a cigarette and has several dog ends behind his ear. he has managed to tarnish his armor. second, at 3 foot 4 inches is Cheery. She is a white dwarf with a stocky build, blonde hair and a blond, braided beard. she has some burns on her arms, ears, and forehead, and is missing her eyebrows. she has a full lentgh leather skirt rather than pants. third, at 7 inches is Buggy Swires. he is a brown skinned Gnome, with grey hair and pointed ears. he is not wearing armor, but instead a rain cloak. next to him is his pigeon, which carries his badge and is a foot tall. Finally, at 4 inches, is Wee Mad Arthur. he is a blue nac mac feegle with red hair. he is in a watch uniform with a kilt, and is carrying his badge like a shield on his back, unlike the others he has a dynamic aggressive stance, rather than standing straight up. (end of third picture)

background of all drawings: a lineup height marker background, with the initials AM (ankh) CW and the city seal in the top right corner. the city seal is two hippos on a shield, with a tower between them. they are in shades of copper or bronze, as is the overall color palate of the drawings. (end of ID)

#discworld #gnu terry pratchett #Samuel vimes #nobby nobbs #angua von uberwald #cheery littlebottom #carrot ironfoundersson #reg shoe #detritus #dorfl #visit the infidel with explanatory pamphlets #buggy swires #wee mad arthur #I think i went a little too hard making vimes look like hugh laurie but the idea wouldnt leave my mind #I went full squeaky clean evangelist for visit #and gay french revolutionary for reg #happiest with dorfl he looks exactly how i imagine #also next time ill give angua more hair i swear

[demetris-cocksleeve]

⚠️IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT⚠️

Hey, guys... so I've been writing on here for the last 2 years (almost 3) and while I have loved every second of it I can't do it anymore.

I can't....

...keep Pirate! Bakugo to myself any longer...

Imagine you're running, through shabby alleys and past the cess pools your town calls taverns, weaving through the crowded pathways; a couple of men are chasing you, their angry shouts getting mixed with the hustle of the busy streets. You turn your head to risk a glance at your pursuers- shit, they're closer than you thought.

Just as you turn your head back and go to put once last push into your gait, you slam into something big and solid. The sudden arm in your way clotheslines you and sends you scrambling for anything to keep you upright. Not that you need to- the same arm that sent you reeling now has the front of your shirt, hauling you upright.

"Oi!-" The arm's owner barks out, just to be interrupted by the men chasing you.

"Thank you! This little bitch stole our coin," the shorter of the pair turns his yellowed snarl to your form, still held in the strangers steel-like grip.

"I stole nothing!" You growl back, desperately trying to free yourself. Your nails dig into your captor's wrist, but he remains unfazed.

You finally see his face when he turns to you. His eyes bore into your own as he stares you down. "D'ja take their shit?"

His messy blonde hair casts a scary loom over the top half of his face, almost making his blood reds glow. "I didn't steal anything..." you grunt out, trying to yank yourself free.

"So, you're a thief AND a lia-" The taller accuser snarks.

"Enough," the man holding you says, deadly calm. "She said she didn't steal it, so go."

The men raise their voices, yelling their injustices. The second man makes a swipe at you, trying to tug you away from your newfound savior. In a flash, the man yanks you behind him and clocks him in the jaw, felling him.

The other evidently decides that there are more important things to squabble over because he leaves his companion in the dust, clutching his face.

"Leave." The blonde growls, towering over the guy's pathetic form.

Neither of you moves as he scrambles away, stumbling over himself as he rounds a corner.

Your eyes widen. "Wha-"

Once gone, he turns to look at you. "Where is it?"

"-Don't play games with me. Where is it?"

You huff as you reach into your bra and pull out to coin purse. "How'd you know?"

"Only the guilty run. Now hand it over."

Eyeing his outstretched hand, you contemplate how far you could get if you ran. When he cocks his eyebrow, you relent, handing the bag over. You've done enough running today to last you a lifetime.

"What are you? An undercover constable?"

His face twists into an ugly snarl, "Opposite end o' the spectrum, doll." You watch as he counts out the gold, pocketing a few coins and tossing the bag back to you.

"Don't look at me like that- Pirates don't work for free."

-

Now imagine that each time he comes to port, you end up running into each other. Sometimes figuratively, other times literally (you're very prone to be chased through the streets - it's definitely NEVER your fault, though...).

You've seen him beat people up for looking at him the wrong way, so the confusion never fades about why he decided to help you all those months ago. You've asked, of course, but all you get is a noncommittal grunt or a large palm pushing you away by the face as he trudges past you.

Eventually, the "coincidental" visits turn into gifts- nothing huge, just little trinkets that "I've no use for the damned thing, thought cha might, though..."

Dont ask. I've had this in my drafts for almost 3 years, so I figured I'd just post it, lmao. If there's any grammar mistakes/spelling errors, blame 17 year old me, I didn't proofread this - I just added that first bit🙃

#katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou imagine #fantasy au #mha #my hero academia #mha x reader

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: A Worthless Criminal Condemned

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: grief, panic attack, hopelessness

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Word count: 2600 || Approx reading time: 11 mins

A Worthless Criminal Condemned

Teaser: Undoubtedly, part of the reason Will could not, at that moment, think or breathe properly was that Geoff had his thick fucking hand clamped over his mouth, holding in the panicked bellows for his brother and for the girl who meant more to him than any other in the entire world. And while, logically, Will knew that Geoff was saving his sorry fucking life, he wanted nothing more than to tear his friend apart until there was nothing left.

“Don’t you fucking dare let go of him.”

Although they were harsh, perhaps the expletives and the commanding tone were necessary, given the situation: constables heading straight for the townhouse, Bree clutched in the dirty, covetous paws of Will’s second-most-hated police officer; Jamie being arrested; and Will himself barely able to see, breathe, or think.

“I fucking mean it, Geoff,” Colette said—the last words she spoke before she disappeared, practically vaulting out the window. She didn’t say a word to Will, or mention the way he was being fully manhandled by someone who was supposed to be his friend.

Undoubtedly, part of the reason Will could not, at that moment, think or breathe properly was that Geoff had his thick fucking hand clamped over his mouth, holding in the panicked bellows for his brother and for the girl who meant more to him than any other in the entire world. And while, logically, Will knew that Geoff was saving his sorry fucking life, he wanted nothing more than to tear his friend apart until there was nothing left.

In fact, he hated Geoff more than Baden Hatchett, almost. For Geoff wasn’t supposed to stop him from running. Geoff was supposed to fling himself into the street to save Jamie while Will gave Lenton a good crack across the jaw, grabbed Bree’s hand, and ran. They were supposed to be a team, a family, and families didn’t fucking abandon each other. Not like this. Not ever.

Will had thought Jamie had abandoned him—had even hoped for it—but he hadn’t. So how could he even consider abandoning Jamie?

But Geoff didn’t release his grip— merely held him still while the constables hurried past and then dragged him away when their backs were turned.

Only when they had put distance between themselves and the compromised townhouse did he finally let Will go.

The moment he was free, Will spun around and punched Geoff squarely in the mouth.

It didn’t do much, not his weakened muscles against Geoff’s well-developed bulk. It certainly hurt Will’s knuckles. Perhaps, if anything, it hurt Geoff’s feelings.

“What the fuck, you fucking bastard? Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

Geoff only looked at him in silence, sorrow Will did not want to see waiting in his dark eyes.

“We could have helped them! For fuck’s sake, we could have—”

“Woulda got caught.”

Will hated him. He hated him. Hated him for staying calm, for looking him in the eye and spitting out those miserable fucking words just like that.

“No, they would have gotten away!”

But Geoff shook his head.

The truth, reiterated in that simple motion, flowed into Will like poison, dragging him toward the ground.

He collapsed right into it, and then he couldn’t move—couldn’t sink into the soaking earth and drown there like he wanted to, because his limbs were frozen stiff from the rain. Numb from the cold. Rigid from the way his very bones had turned to solid, unbendable iron. He thought at first he might be freezing from the storm, but then he thought he couldn’t feel the rain at all.

In fact, he couldn’t feel anything, anything, except a single terrible pain, and it was not of his body, or perhaps it was; he wasn’t sure, but it was almost otherworldly, this pain. It gouged holes into the flesh deep in his chest, as if a monstrous entity snapped, snarled, and scratched at his insides until all he could think of was how much it hurt. It hurt. And if he was hurting, standing safe in the ice-cold fucking rain with Geoff, then what of Bree and Jamie? What kind of hurt were they going through—while he was standing safe in the ice-cold fucking rain with Geoff?

While he stood by and did nothing?

How could he do that to them? How? How could he watch while Jamie was dragged away to jail and Bree was sent back to the devil himself?

The blissful, golden days that had graced his pointless goddamn life with a fleeting taste of happiness seemed like some kind of cruel joke. In a matter of minutes, all of it—Bree’s smiles and her hand in his, the warm presence of his family around him once again, the naïve belief that things might go his way for fucking once—it had all crumbled underneath Will’s feet. Jamie was gone, and so was Bree. He’d seen her from the townhouse, panicking, caged in the arms of that snake Curtis Lenton, and now she’d been thrown back to her husband, back to Baden Hatchett, who would not, could not possibly forgive her for all she had done. All she had done for Will, and—and—

Geoff was saying his name, but Will couldn’t answer, because Will couldn’t breathe.

Hatchett had Jamie. Hatchett had Bree. Will was safe. Will wasn’t there. Hatchett didn’t have him. But what the fuck did that matter? If the other two were in his clutches? What was the point of being safe and free if Bree and Jamie were not?

“Will.” Geoff. Speaking. His voice. Quiet. Calm. “Will.”

Will. He was Will. An image flashed in his mind: four letters scribbled in a thick blanket of dust. He was Will. But he’d only been Will to her for a few fucking days, and she was already gone. Why had he waited so long to tell her? Who knew if he would ever hear his name from her lips again? Who knew if he’d ever kiss those lips again? Who knew if he’d ever even fucking see them again, for god’s sake?

“Will. Breathe.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t fucking do anything. To help her. To help Jamie. He couldn’t do a goddamn thing.

“I can’t fucking breathe!” he gasped.

“Breathe. Slow.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I. Can’t.”

Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous that he should fall apart like a weakling when he was the one who was safe, who was far from Baden Hatchett and from jail, when he wasn’t the one in chains—

“Gonna be okay,” Geoff said. Hands on Will’s arms. Calm. So calm. How. How? “You can breathe. Slow. Slow it down.”

But he couldn’t, not with Jamie and Bree taken away and what if he never saw either of them again and just like the first time, he didn’t say goodbye, again, fucking again, he hadn’t known, he hadn’t said a damn thing, and the absence of that single word was going to eat him from the inside out, that goodbye, goodbye, goodbye—

“With me,” Geoff said, and Will wanted to punch him but he couldn’t punch while he couldn’t breathe, and so he tried. He tried. He tried to breathe again.

“Doing good,” said Geoff softly. “C’mon. ’S good.”

And Will could breathe, and he was safe, but Bree and Jamie weren’t, and he wanted to hurt Geoff as much as it hurt inside him, but he didn’t. He just let himself sink down to the ground again, not to drown in the rain, but to breathe and breathe and breathe.

Geoff said nothing. Only the rain pattered around them, a sound that should have been soothing and instead sliced the air like a thousand tiny, shrieking knives.

“What are we going to do?” Will finally asked, and he did not recognize the sound of his own voice.

“Get away.” The low rumble of Geoff’s voice was the same as always, and yet not. Heavier. Harder. Sharper. Precarious, like a china plate teetering on the edge of a table. Ready to fall. Ready to break. “Go from there.”

The plan, Will remembered with a jolt. His stomach clenched, and his lungs tried to squeeze the air out of him again.

“Okay,” he managed to mutter before all his air was stolen again. He stood up.

Geoff’s eyes were distant, but he nodded. “Let’s go.”

*** 

They broke into a bakery once the sun had set.

Not that it was hard; Geoff was the most skilled lock-pick Will had ever met in his life, and he had the back door open in no time. He put everyone else to shame. The man couldn’t read, and sometimes he lost his place when counting things over about fifty, but he was good at a lot of other, more important shit.

“C’mon,” he said. “Still hot back here.”

It was as good a place to hide as any. Colette, Geoff said, would get there when she had her answers. Leave it to those two, Will thought bitterly, to have some secret, silently communicated plan of where to meet.

Except it had been fucking hours and it sure seemed like she should have already figured out what there was to know, which couldn’t be much.

Unless she, too, had gotten busted.

Will told himself it was inconceivable. She was Colette. She didn’t get caught. She didn’t get spotted. That was part of her whole thing. Geoff did the heavy, hard stuff. Jamie did the planning and pretended to be in charge. Colette bossed everyone around for real, and she was the one who sneaked into impossible places on light, stealthy feet. And Will? Will did the easy work that no one else wanted to do, because that was what he could be trusted with.

And for a long time, that was what had worked.

But then he’d been in jail, and with that, everything went upside down and backwards. Suddenly, he was the one who was trusted with everyone’s fates—their lives clutched in his shackled hands, and he’d held fast to the faith they’d had no choice but to have in him, and he’d kept his goddamn mouth shut. He’d fucking done it. He’d kept IA’s secrets. He’d kept his family alive. He was supposed to do the easy stuff, but it was the hardest goddamn thing he’d ever done.

Then there’d been Bree, and easy had gone right out the bloody window.

In fact, Will wasn’t sure he’d been the same old dumbass who called himself Fox for a long time now.

Because everything was fucking different. Even Jamie’s planning skills meant nothing now. He and his dumb fucking big-picture brain were gone.

If Will, who hadn’t even earned his place in the inner circle, was more than just the useless brother of the man who started it all…

If Jamie, after years of working so hard to keep hidden while IA operated in the shadows, was gone and soon to be unmasked…

If Geoff, ever stoic and entirely unfazed by anything life threw at him, was fracturing into pieces before Will’s eyes…

If all that had already changed and gone wrong, what if it meant Colette’s sneaking skills were about to fail, too?

He pressed his forehead into his knees, letting the residual heat of the cast-iron ovens seep into him slowly, banishing the chill of the rain.

What are we going to do?

He was half-asleep when Colette finally showed, looking like a right nightmare: soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and exhausted.

“Holy shit,” he said, the first words that came to mind, “what the hell happened to you?”

She laughed—an ill-natured, soggy, tearful thing, completely devoid of humour or anything close to it. “I chased a fucking wagon across this goddamn city. And then I chased a carriage across it again. I nearly got trampled twice. Do not fucking start with me.”

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat when the apology came out in a whisper.

They let her collapse as close as humanly possible to the ovens, and Will pretended not to hear the tiniest hiccup of a sob catch in her throat.

Geoff disappeared for a few minutes and returned with some burnt heels of bread. Colette took hers without complaint, and she nibbled at it while still lying on the floor.

Impatience burned under Will’s skin. She had intel. She had to. She had to, didn’t she? Why else would she be chasing horses all over the goddamn place, come back so late and so worn out and so drained?

“It’s bad news,” he finally said when he couldn’t wait a single moment longer. Slowly, Colette nodded in confirmation, wincing in pain when she sat back up. Her thick curls were nothing more than matted ropes, glued to her dress and to her neck. The speckles of darkness all over her clothes made Will feel sick. In the gloom, the mud might have been splashes of anything—reminiscent of something else that might stain one’s clothes with grimy black spots.

“Jamie’s fucked,” he guessed again, and Colette repeated her nod of assent.

Burning behind his eyes. Buzzing at the back of his mind.

No. No, he wasn’t going to break down again.

“Bree?” he managed.

Colette’s face screwed up tightly—like she was hiding some emotion she didn’t want him to see. Like she was hiding… No, he was imagining things.

Except he wasn’t.

“It’s not good news,” she said softly.

He swallowed, pretending her words didn’t send heavy, aching prickles through his entire body. “She’s in jail, too?”

Suddenly hesitant, she asked, “Are you ready to hear it right now?”

Will nodded, and all three of them knew he was a liar.

“You promise me?”

Another nod.

“She’s not in jail,” said Colette gently, and something relaxed in his chest.

That was good news, wasn’t it? Why would she preface such tidings with It’s not good news if it wasn’t true? Because anything had to be better than Baden Hatchett’s prison, didn’t it? “Where, then?”

He almost missed what she said, distracted momentarily by the memory of Bree’s teary eyes as she told him about how Hatchett had locked her up in her own bedroom. He pushed aside the ghostly echo of her voice. If that was where she was, it was still better than jail—and it offered significantly more opportunity for busting her out.

When Colette gave her answer, though, Will’s heart screeched to a stop. “No.”

It’s not good news.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Are you ready to hear it right now?

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “You’re fucking lying.”

This was Colette; she should have snapped at him about such an accusation. Should have demanded his respect, because didn’t he trust her information? Did she look like a liar to him? When had she ever given him reason to believe she would mislead him on something as important as this?

She’s not in jail.

Colette simply shook her head, and Will ground his forehead into his knees again, trying to remember how to breathe.

Hatchett hadn’t fucking sent Bree to jail, no. He’d decided he’d punish her another way instead. Why, it was the goddamn perfect solution. It explained everything—the only plausible reason a sweet, proper girl like Breanna Hatchett would ever get mixed up with a piece of shit criminal like Will Wardrew, the fox-thief of Iustitia aecum.

Colette’s hand brushed his shoulder, and he jerked away from her touch. She didn’t try to comfort him again.

Through the storm of furious thoughts, Will heard her ask Geoff how he was doing.

And Will was glad to be hidden in the darkness of his arms and knees around him, for it hid the dampness on his cheeks that slipped free when Geoff gave a wordless answer that sliced right through any armour Will might have thought he wore. It pierced the night, an anguished echo of the turmoil inside Will’s mind, a perfect reflection of soul-wrenching, haunting grief.

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✨ @starlit-hopes-and-dreams | @clairelsonao3 | @gala1981 | @pleasestaywithmedarling | @kixngiggles ✨

#lps the queen of lies #whump #whump story #whump writing #original writing #original story #original content #guy whump #romance #angst #tw grief #tw panic attack #hopelessness

[wistfulcynic]

dance the edge of sanity

PART ONE: 

It wasn’t as though Crowley had never known bad times before. He’d been around more than six thousand years, obviously there had been low points. The fourteenth century, for a start. If ever there had been a bloody waste of a hundred perfectly good years, it was the fourteenth century. Crowley wouldn’t go back to the fourteenth century for anything. He’d drive through a dozen rings of hellfire around London, walk barefoot over miles of consecrated ground, he’d navigate a rainstorm where every tenth drop was holy water before he ever returned to the fourteenth century. 

And yet, on this particular Tuesday as he sat hunched over in a booth in the corner of the grottiest pub he could find, leaning heavily on the bottle of Talisker clutched in his hand and pretending—poorly—to read the newspaper, Crowley found himself recalling those damp and endless years of the fourteenth century with a sort of gentle nostalgia. 

Ah, the fourteenth century, he thought to himself. Those were the days. 

He’d barely even known Aziraphale then. 

A bell over the doorway sounded a cheery little tinkle as the door opened to admit a new patron. Or rather, nothing even remotely of the sort happened because there was no bell over the door. This was very much not the kind of establishment to have a bell over its door, much less one that sounded a cheery tinkle. That was one of its principal attractions, in Crowley’s opinion, the lack of a tinkly bell. Tinkly bells meant something terrible was coming and so when the patron whose arrival it heralded sat down in the seat across from him he did his best to ignore them. 

He failed.

“Good morning to you, Mr Crowley, sir,” chirped the voice of Muriel, former 37th Order Scrivener and current proprietor of the A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop. “Wot’s all this then?” 

“You know you don’t have to keep saying that,” Crowley said. “You’re not actually a police officer and even if you were, they don’t really say that. Well, not most of them at least.” 

“I know, sir, but I like to,” Muriel replied. “And I am still wearing the helmet.” 

“Yesss, the helmet.” Crowley forbore to mention that Muriel was hardly fooling anyone in a pure white version of a police constable’s helmet. That would require far too many complicated explanations with which he was in no fit state to grapple and most of which would sail right over the daft angel’s head in any event. Instead he said, “What news?” 

“News?” echoed Muriel.  

Crowley ignored the throb in his temples. “Yes, news,” he snapped. “The news that you have for me. The reason you are here, invading my space and imposing upon my privacy.” Muriel’s expression remained uncomprehending. Crowley abandoned his quixotic attempt at subtlety. “What’s going on in Heaven?” he hissed. 

“Oh, right that news!” Muriel laughed. “I’m so glad you reminded me. It’s big!” 

“Yes, and what is it?” enunciated Crowley, with particular emphasis on the t’s. 

“The Archangel Aziraphale”—Crowley barely suppressed a flinch—“is returning to Earth! And he’s bringing with him… a friend.” 

“Friend?” Crowley snarled. “He doesn’t have friends. I’m his only—” He clamped his jaw shut before the humiliating words could escape. 

I’m his only friend.

Except he wasn’t, though. Aziraphale had made that very plain. Crowley’s devotion, his loyalty, his—he couldn’t even think the word—none of it was reciprocated. One tiny crumb of approbation from the Metatron and Aziraphale had turned his back on a partnership six hundred centuries in the making. That was all it took. 

So no, he wasn’t Aziraphale’s only friend or indeed his friend at all. But apparently someone else was. 

“What friend,” he demanded, so harshly that even Muriel looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” they said, “but whoever he is, he’s important. Heaven is very keen that he should get a nice welcome when he arrives.”

“Oh I’ll ‘nice welcome’ him, all right,” Crowley muttered. 

“What was that, sir?” 

“I said—oh never mind.” It didn’t make sense even in his whisky-addled mind. “What has any of this got to do with me?” 

“Oh! Well it doesn’t? I suppose? But you did ask me to tell you if I heard anything about Aziraphale. And I heard this! About Aziraphale! So I came to tell you.” Muriel’s brow wrinkled. “Was that wrong?” 

“I did tell you to do that, didn’t I.” Crowley sighed. He really ought to mind what he said whilst deep in his cups, and not to take laudanum in mixed company. Never mind that any company these days was preferable to his own.

He looked over at the kind, sweet, vacant face of the angel sat across from him and said, “Well, thank you, Inspector Constable, you have discharged your duties admirably.” Muriel beamed. Crowley scowled and looked away. Some company was preferable to his own. “Now piss off.” 

“Yes, sir! Pissing off right away, sir!” chirped Muriel, and when Crowley looked up again they were gone. 

-

The “friend” in question was soon revealed to be none other than the Second Coming. Or so he claimed, and claimed it far and wide. Aziraphale claimed it too, and lent all the considerable weight of his new celestial authority to the support of this man and his rapidly increasing ministry, the crowd of half-witted sycophants who began to follow him wherever he went. Crowley lurked at the back of it one afternoon in Trafalgar Square, as inconspicuous as he was capable of being, listening as the man preached a message of hope and peace and tolerance and love. It was inspiring, or it should have been. 

But Crowley was a demon though and through, despite what Aziraphale had once claimed to believe. Human rhetoric didn’t land on him. He was a demon and what was more he knew Aziraphale—friends or not he knew his angel. Knew him well enough to clock the tension in Aziraphale’s jaw and his shoulders, the lines of strain around his mouth and the carefully neutral expression in his eyes. 

When Aziraphale was happy his face was soft, his eyes eager, his smile bright as the sun. Though his posture remained perfectly correct, the movement of his hands always betrayed his feelings. They would flex and wave and flutter and Crowley would watch them, half-listening to Aziraphale’s chatter, just enough to give appropriate response, while the rest of his mind imagined those hands doing things to him that would shock the angel to his very core. 

But now, as Heaven’s anointed prophet preached his message of global harmony, Aziraphale’s hands were still. They hung at his sides, limp and unmoving. Not so much as a tug at the waistcoat or smoothing of lapels. It was downright unnatural. It was wrong. 

Crowley’s angel was so miserable he all but radiated it and though Crowley hated him now—yes, hated, he did—one couldn’t simply spend six thousand years having someone’s back then not care at all when they landed themselves in the soup. 

Or at least, he couldn’t, damn it all. 

AO3

#hello yes i have written an ineffable husbands fic #good omens #good omens spoilers #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fanfic #post canon #crowley x aziraphale #not a fix it so much as a sorting it out #profdanglaisstuff #good omens season two

[marzipanandminutiae]

Who's Rosemary? I wanna hear about that OC!

I mean, hey, give me half an excuse...

Rosemary is the youngest child of Beatrice Sharpe's youngest sister (Beatrice being, canonically, the oldest of Several). She's eight years old in 1902, and her parents and three older brothers died tragically a few weeks ago when an unknown party poisoned their soup. Rosemary, having been sent to bed without supper, was spared- something the old aunt who looked after her during the inquiry proclaimed an absolute miracle.

("First poor Beatrice's youngest, and now you. That's a nephew and a niece I've seen through foul murder. If ever a family were marked for tragedy...") (Poor Beatrice's eldest does not rate a mention.)

But she must have a more permanent home, with someone younger and stronger who can care for a child. How kind of her grown-up cousins to take her into their grand country-house sight unseen! They wrote, you see. She's just misplaced the letter.

Upon her arrival at the front steps of Allerdale Hall, after barely a moment's pause, her cousin Lucille thanks the constable for seeing her here safely and ushers her inside. She doesn't yet know that no child with tattered clothes and fading bruises would have been turned away, even without the letter from their mother to hers that she's clutching like a protective talisman.

The tall man, she guesses must be cousin Thomas. An explanation of the little blonde lady will have to wait, as she's bustled upstairs for a hot bath and something more substantial to wear. Little girls can recieve proper introductions- and explain the murder they absolutely committed, no doubt in any of the Sharpes' minds -once they're wrapped in a warm dressing-gown with a nice bracing cup of tea.

other tidbits about her include:

Rosemary was not her name Before. she chose it herself. her three parents do not know or want to know what her birth family called her, and they picked a middle name for her at her request (Diana)

she falls in love with clockwork and Making Things, becoming Thomas' extremely eager workshop assistant. all her parents, of course, lavish her somewhat haphazard creations with praise. or, you know, as close as Lucille comes to any emotive display that could be called "lavishing"

Lucille is actually the best at the practical realities of child-rearing, of the three adults. after all, she's the only one with experience- even if she was a child herself at the time

left alone with a child, Thomas would be the babysitter kids love and parents hate, who lets them stay up until midnight and eat ice cream for dinner because saying "no" is hard and they're just so cute! Edith is very Oh God How Parent? at first- she expected children, but in the nebulous Future, not right now -but realizing kids are just Small Inexperienced People helps considerably

would the Sharpes be good parents to a normal child, beyond the basic Keep Kid Alive practicalities? probably not. but Rosemary wouldn't get on too well with normal parents, either. so while things aren't perfect, it evens out

Rosemary Loves Dante (the dog, who is NOT dead). Dante Loves Rosemary. this is adorable. you agree.

tl;dr- Crimson Peak OT3 kidfic, ft. the Sharpe siblings' distant cousin who pulled a Merricat on her abusive family. I may never formally write her into a story, but I love to Rotate her (as my friends can attest)

#ask #anon #OC #fanfic #kidfic #child abuse mention #people definitely don't come to this fandom for that sort of content which makes me less likely to write her for real #but I love her so much #I love that she represents a chance for characters to be the saviors they needed as children but never had #I love her for herself- tiny nerd murderess slowly learning how to be A Child and feel safe and loved

[inquisimer]

sometimes it scratches like barbs

an alternate prompt fill for @febuwhump day 9: I love you. Nathaniel has always worn his heart on his sleeve. But Ciel is not Fereldan—now she must manage the fallout of getting involved with one.

read it on ao3 here

Female Andras/Nathaniel Howe | Rated T | 1317 words | CW: self harm, fantasy racism

-

Her hands clenched around his leathers, the smile falling from her lips. Ciel blinked up at Nathaniel. Moonlight hung around his hair and the look he gave her was soft and warm and open.

“What did you say?”

“I love you.” Casual. Nonchalant. Like they needn’t dance around rituals or follow steps. Like there wasn’t a process to such affection. Even when it was possible.

Fereldans.

Ciel dropped her forehead to his chest and squeezed her eyes tight against the emotion welling there. Steeling herself with gritted teeth, she shoved him away.

“You don’t mean that,” she said flatly.

“I do. I love—“

“You don’t. You can’t.”

His expression flashed from surprise to confusion to hurt before it settled on anger. Anger was good, familiar. A parlay they knew well and a tool easily twisted to fix the mistake he seemed bent on making.

“And why is that?” he asked lowly.

“Just one reason will do?”

Nathaniel scowled. “Do not treat me as one of your Banns, Ciel. I am your Constable, at the very least. And your friend, if not more than that.”

He stepped closer, arms outstretched to close the distance she’d put between them. But she held out a palm and shook her head. His hands thudded dully against his sides as they fell.

“Tell me why, then,” he scowled. “I’m a man of reason and logic. If what you speak is true—“

“Would you listen? If I listed the reasons this cannot go beyond a dalliance? Or would you push on, foolishly hopeful?” Ciel shook her head. “This is not a debate, Nathaniel. I do not owe you an explanation.”

“I rather think you do,” he snapped. “And if you won’t give one—“

This time he crowded her against the battlements’ edge, catching her face between his calloused palms and forcing her to meet his hardened gaze.

“Look at me, just like this,” he growled. “And tell me again. Tell me that this—this aching in my heart is anything less than love, Ciel.”

The flat mask of one who’d survived the clutches of the Orlesian Court overtook her face. But her pulse thundered in her throat and she knew that he must feel it against his hands. She clenched her jaw together and glared at him.

This was her fault. He was too new to the Wardens, too entrenched in the oddities of this pocket Order in Ferelden. An intersection of time and fate and happenstance—the rest of the world did not work like this. And eventually, one or both of them would be called away from it and forced to confront a cold, pragmatic reality.

A reality in which humans did not fall in love with elves. In which Fereldans did not love Orlesians. And in which Wardens were not afforded the luxury of love at all.

She knew the cautionary tale of Genevieve. And she knew every rumor about her predecessor in Ferelden and the broken heart that drove her to disappear. Nothing but tragedy awaited a Warden who dared to love. She would not inflict that on Nathaniel, nor would she let him do it to himself.

For once, she broke the stare down first. Within the confines of his grip, she dropped her chin to her chest and swallowed hard.

“You cannot,” she said raggedly. She pushed him away again, but he refused to go. His grip dropped from her face to her shoulders, his fingers digging bruises into the skin there.

“I can,” he insisted. “I do.”

She slapped him. Her palm connected with his cheek and in his surprise he released her. Seizing the distance needed for a clear head, Ciel stepped back and folded her arms over her chest. “Do not be a fool, Nathaniel. Drop this. There is no future in it.”

“No future?” His bitter laugh echoed off the Vigil’s stone. “What future do I have anyhow? You made sure of that, Commander.”

“The Wardens are a future. For you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He jabbed the griffon emblem stamped across her chest plate. “Unless you have very recent news, they’re a future for you as well. They could be a future for us, together.”

“Ten years.”

“What?”

“Ten years, since I joined the Order.” Ciel pulled the blood-filled pendant away from the hovel of her throat, so he could see how battles and time had worn away the leather cord. It contrasted sharply with the fine, black braid around his own neck.

“I’ll be a Blighted corpse in the Deep Roads before the Calling is even a distant tune in your mind,” she said curtly. “You do not want to tie yourself to a dead woman walking.”

“Is that not all the more reason to seize on the time we have left?” Nathaniel asked earnestly. “Love does not care for the woes of the world—if we must suffer such fates, let us have the moments now to make it worthwhile!”

Her teeth clicked together. He didn’t get it. Heartsick, idealistic folly. She would have to be more pointed, more personal. There must be a clean, unequivocal break, lest he squander the time his limited time with what ifs and should have beens.

“You cannot tell me that I do not love you.” His hands caught at hers and he drew her close, despite the reluctant drag of her feet, unwavering against her harsh glare. She cringed at the repeated proclamation. Wasn’t she a wretched little thing, to have led him along so fully? “Because I know that I do.”

There was a catch in his voice. He took a deep breath. “But if you must be so insistent, look at me. Look at me, do not turn away, and tell me that you do not love me. Tell me that, and I will let it be.”

He caught the point of her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Do that, and I will never speak of this again.”

“But—“ he brushed the softest, lightest of kisses over her lips. “I do not think you can.”

Under his hands, she stilled, cold and hard as Tevinter’s finest marble. When he pulled back, the moonlight reflected a dangerous glint in her eyes and, for the first time that night, uncertainty, and fear, flashed in his eyes.

“I do not love you,” she lied. Voice steady and even and calm. His hand dropped to her neck, as if he could catch her in the act.

“I don’t believe you.”

“That is not my concern.” She covered his hand with her own and pulled it away from her skin. When she dropped it in the space she’d carved between them, it hung, reaching, disbelieving.

“I do not love you,” she repeated. A lie was usually easier the second time, the words no longer foreign on her tongue, her mind already cementing them as a new truth. But this one burned her throat as surely as fiery darkspawn blood.

Nathaniel’s face crumpled He pressed his lips together and nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his chin.

“Right then,” he said. “Good evening, Commander.”

As he retreated, Ciel propped her hands against the battlements and exhaled. This post had dulled her skills, that she felt so torn by a child’s exchange of the Game.

Damn you, Alisse. Sending me here.

She pressed down against the stone and the jagged edges of it tore open decades’ worth of similar scars and callouses. Loose stone dust stung the open wounds and she drank in the pain as an alcoholic with a wine skin in hand.

Nathaniel had a good heart. Full of good intentions and passion that would take him far.

She twisted her palms, bearing the full weight of her body and her armor on them to drive the wounds deeper.

He deserved much better than her. And she deserved no less than this.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday9 #my writing #self harm #fantasy racism #oc: ciel andras #ciel x nathaniel #nathaniel howe #dragon age #dragon age awakening #dragon age fanfic #emotional whump #hurt no comfort #new oc fic debut woooooo #also the first fic in the f!andras/nathaniel tag lol #update my standing on the rarepair poll😂😂

[masterofrecords]

Angstober day 2: Anxiety

Wreving

It was late enough that Nate let himself take a swig from the flask he kept in his desk drawer. No one would see – if there were any perks to being chief police inspector, it was getting his own office.

Frankly though, he hardly felt deserving of all that space.

Even the case that had landed him the promotion, the explosion at the University, didn’t seem as resolved as it was on paper. The arrest had been utterly bizarre, and mostly the result of work of that detective woman – and perhaps some other, stranger forces.

Something was wrong with his city – if it was even his – and Nate didn’t know what it was, didn’t even know where to start trying to understand.

Nate wasn’t a superstitious person. He was never one to be fooled by charlatans and magicians, didn’t have his fortune told even for fun. He prided himself on his rational thinking.

But there were strange things happening, things where he felt left out. From his big case being suddenly taken from him once he had the perpetrator in custody, to the persistent rumors of monsters seen in the city and around it, he kept grasping at straws trying to figure out if there was some bigger conspiracy at play or if he was finally going mad after the years of service.

“Inspector Russel?” a young constable cracked the door open, eyes so wide with confusion that Nate forgot to tell him off for not knocking. “Sir, uh, there’s been… an incident.”

“What now?” Nate frowned. “A murder?”

“No, sir, uh…” the constable looked behind him and slid inside the office, hat clutched tightly in his hands. He shuffled closer to Nate’s desk and continued in a lower voice, “We’re getting reports that, uh, all the trains have stopped.”

“In Wreving?” Nate couldn’t hide the bewilderment in his voice. “A strike?”

“No, it’s like… they all suddenly stopped working,” the constable kept getting more and more flustered. “All of them. The Orchis workers are inspecting the ones still on the Wreving station, and if anything happened outside of town, well, I imagine it would take some times for the news to reach us. Because the trains aren’t working. Sir.”

It was tempting to leave this to the Central department. A problem of that size, it was probably up to them, no? But the train station was also in Nate’s jurisdiction, and in all the – granted, not many – years that there had been a railroad in Wreving, Nate hadn’t heard of a single case of a breakdown.

With a sigh, he got up to get his coat. Could it have been sabotage? How many trains did they know for sure were affected? Was the problem only with the locomotives? Were the civilians in any danger?

The door burst open once more, another, significantly sweatier constable stumbling in.

“If this is about the trains, I’ve already been informed,” Nate scolds him, irritated, but the constable shakes his head and takes a moment to catch his breath.

“There are… machines!” he blurted out. “In the university district! Human-like machines! Around Hope Street, but they’re on the move.”

More hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Nate braced himself for more bad news.

Perhaps he should have retired when he still had a chance.

#angstober2023 #masterofrecords angsts #masterofreocrds writes #day 2 #i know i know this is late

[jabbage]

#Letters from Watson #lettersfromwatson

[sloshed-cinema]

Valerie and Her Week of Wonders [Valerie a týden divů] (1970)

You know, the Catholic Church just might be full of scummy people professing to know how you should lead your life.  Valerie is surrounded by pallid authority figures clutching to two things: religious symbols and a fetishization of youth, a long-lost treasure they yearn to reclaim.  Valerie’s grandmother is tight-laced and strict, haunting her home with a rosary perpetually wrapped around her wrist.  A priest, snaggle-toothed ghoul that he is, delivers a sermon to young girls in the village which speaks openly of their sexual awakening, claiming it for himself.  Another clergyman speaks in veiled terms about a possible sexual assault committed by him and his peers on a woman while abroad on a mission trip.  That same man forces himself on the prepubescent Valerie in her bedroom, trying to do the same to her.  To all of these controlling, cruel adults, Valerie’s youthful innocence is something to steal, to drain out of her in order to restore their own complexion to a healthy hue and their bodies to vigor.  She is attacked, bitten.  But even worse, she is minimized: the priest claims Valerie forced himself on her with her feminine wiles and whips the crowd into a frenzy as they attempt to burn her at the stake as a witch.  She tries to have mercy on her dying father, feeding him chicken blood with her own lips, but he abuses this gift and betrays her again.  The aesthetics of Valerie and Her Week of Wonders are dreamlike and frankly campy at points, but there is a chilling through-line calling out the way that organized religion corrupts the experience of sexual awakening all while its leaders practice the actual corruption.

Valerie is victimized here, but she is no mere victim or simple Lolita. We come to learn that she has her own desires and drives which run counter to those told to her. Rather than go to church, she’d prefer to visit with the actors who recently came to town. She gazes longingly at older girls as they frolic in the river, wondering when she will be more like them. These women are sexual, but not in a leering or creepy way (though the fish-boob stuff is… a choice), but rather in a way that makes them seem like the most free characters in the entire story. Valerie’s other primary drive is to help out Eaglet, the rather absentminded young man bound to her principal antagonist, the Constable. She has to save his neck a fair number of times, but that doesn’t stop him from winding up in trouble anew by the next scene. There’s a childishness to him as well: he writes all of his coquettish letters to her in crayon, or with invisible ink. This is secrecy, but in more of a “the tree fort clubhouse password has changed” kind of way than a torrid affair. He too has his moments of betrayal or soft-pedal lasciviousness towards Valerie, his countenance perhaps becoming a few shades paler or his teeth becoming more prominent, signaling a latent desire to pursue the same wicked things the older generation are doing to the girl. But all told he is more of a help than a hindrance to her, guiding her through this strange fairytale nightmare.

Gauzy images and strange, detached sound design help to give this exploration of growing up a dreamlike texture.  But often this dream goes sour.  Men in capes pervade images, consuming young women with them, drawing them into their dark influence.  Valerie is often depicted eating fruit, feasting on these symbols of fertility and youthful indulgence.  The film freely intermingles Christian and pagan imagery, uniting the primordial symbol of Adam and Eve with the more folk-based symbolism of bees.  Wedding ceremonies are attended by masked performers who might fit in better in the climax of The Wicker Man.  Of all things, this feels like an even more abstract version of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me.  That exploration of Laura Palmer’s entrapment and reclamation is replete with pale-faced people covering their faces with masks, protective or dangerous jewelry, and editing choices which demand a departure from literal logic.  It’s an impressionistic take on what it is to grow up and to try and find one’s footing in a harsh and unforgiving world, something that acknowledges hardships and horrors and yet still somehow manages to retain an air of optimism and acceptance.

THE RULES

PICK ONE

Someone says ‘Constable’ or ‘Eaglet’.

SIP

Earrings come on or off.

A creepy pale-faced person appears in a scene.

Daisies!  What is this, a Věra Chytilová film?

A vampire starts to bite someone.

Valerie eats a fruit.

BIG DRINK

Someone says ‘polecat’.

Non-union bird performers.

#drinking games #valerie and her week of wonders #jaromil jireš #jaroslava schallerová #fantasy #sci fi & fantasy #horror #horror & thriller #czech new wave #czechoslovak cinema

[1016anon]

Title: Tainted Love Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma

-5-

"You're lucky," Kate said, running her thumb along the knife's edge, "that they tried to stab your heart.  You'd be dead if they'd went for your throat."

She briefly touched the point of the knife, then set it down.  It was a kitchen knife-- the cook had confirmed  it, face ruddy with tears.  There was a drawer, apparently, with two or three of similarly dull knives set aside to be sharpened.

His Lordship had them sent to the blacksmith over in the next town, she'd said through great sobs.

Kate had merely nodded her head-- Benedict supposed it had been within her purview as Lady of the House.  He was not surprised to hear that it had actually been Anthony who'd decided to outsource the sharpening to a blacksmith, rather than have some hapless boy ruin the knives on a whetstone.  He'd set it up after their father had died and their mother was depressed, unable to keep up her duties as lady of the house.

"Why is this relevant?" he snapped, angry and fearful with a mounting headache from the adrenaline comedown.

Kate ignored him.

"You're sure you didn't see anyone?  You don't remember anything about your attacker?"

"No!  For the fiftieth time, no!  I didn't see anything, I was a bit busy fighting them off!"

"Is this really necessary?" Violet asked sharply, running a comforting hand over his forehead.

She had been hysterical when she saw Benedict, shirt torn and blood down his front, clutching his chest.  His mother's utter incompetence in a crisis revealed itself once more-- she frantically yelled nonsense he couldn't decipher, and managed to make them both stumble and fall in the hallway, Benedict screaming in pain, Violet screaming in panic, the entire house now awake and the only person with a level head had been Kate.

Orders were swiftly issued: the men to carry him to the nearest bedroom; the servants to bring things to clean his wounds and bandage them; the surgeon called for; Colin and Gregory to restrain Violet who was clinging to Benedict and generally getting in the way; Hyacinth to fetch smelling salts; Eloise to stay with Benedict, find some way to distract or calm him until the surgeon arrived; Daphne to receive the constable.

Kate disappeared for a moment to lock Benedict's room and secure the scene of the crime.  It hadn't occurred to any of them to do so, but they were glad she'd had the presence of mind to think of it.  The constable had been both very impressed and very suspicious-- it would have been the perfect opportunity to do something like remove the weapon of the attempted murder.

However, she had four witnesses: Mrs. Gilford, who'd found the sight ghastly and was ordering some maids to remove the bedsheets; the two maids who were in the middle of entering the room to remove said bedsheets; and Hyacinth, who'd passing by, smelling salts in hand.  All four attested to the fact that Kate simply ordered the two maids out before they'd had a chance to disturb anything, told Mrs. Gilford to close and lock the door, then helped a distressed, crying Hyacinth back to Violet.

Benedict honestly didn't remember much.  According to the surgeon, the knife hadn't inflicted too grievous a wound-- whoever had tried to murder him must have been under the impression that the heart was not protected by a cage of bone.  That, combined with the relatively dullness of the knife (Benedict thought it had been plenty sharp) meant it hadn't had a chance to pierce anything too deeply (the surgeon had served in the Napoleonic Wars.  Anything short of an amputation was "not too deeply").

The mess of blood was actually from Benedict struggling, which meant the blade had left all sorts of cuts along his chest.  The greatest threat to his life now was infection, which the surgeon took very, very seriously, issuing all sorts of warnings and subjecting the family to extremely unwelcome, unnecessarily graphic descriptions of healthy, hale soldiers dying in the fever of delirium thanks to what they had deemed 'inconsequential wounds.'  It was exactly what Benedict did not want to hear, which was probably why the surgeon said it.

However, it also caused Violet to break down into yet another fit of hysterics; Colin and Gregory both looked extremely green around the gills; Hyacinth began crying; Eloise, then Daphne had to excuse themselves in the middle of it all-- Eloise nearly threw up, Daphne nearly fainted.  Fran stayed, wide-eyed but attentive and wiping Benedict's brow.  Kate stood by his bedside, nodding along.

The constable, also looking extremely green about the gills but refusing to retreat because he had been bragging about the types of crimes he'd had to investigate while living in Birmingham, took up his questioning of Benedict with zeal.  He left Aubrey Hall, stomping into the rain which had become a downpour, totally unsatisfied with Benedict's lack of coherent answers.

Benedict understood-- in theory-- why Kate was questioning him again.  Now that he'd had a moment to calm down, some details had come back to him, as fuzzy and incomplete as they were.  He'd been able to tell her that his attacker hadn't put of much of a fight, choosing to flee once Benedict disarmed them.

He initially thought it must be a man, but when pressed, he couldn't pin down why he'd made that assumption.  It didn't seem like a crime a woman would commit, but that was his only reason.  He hadn't managed to really get a hand on the person, who waved the knife around-- that combined with the dark made it difficult for Benedict to do anything but react in panic.  "Disarming" was a bit of a misnomer-- it was pure luck that he'd managed to get the attacker to drop the knife.

Did he remember anything about scent, height, maybe even hair?

No, no, and no.  Scent of blood, maybe.  The knife made the attacker seem taller.  He had not noticed hair, had only focused on the hand holding the knife.

Tread of footsteps?  Did they cry out?

He was a bit busy crying himself, and he hadn't heard over his own screaming.

And so on.

But now he was exhausted, in pain, and terrified.  More than that, he felt strangely hurt.  Kate was so focused on digging facts from Benedict's shredded memory that he felt like she had shut herself away in a tower of logic.  Her eyes held calculation, not comfort.

"You're surprisingly resistant to finding your son's attacker, Violet," Kate said mildly.

Gods above, he missed Anthony.

In his absence, Benedict leaned into his mother's touch, grateful for her warm reassurance.

"You were there when he spoke to the constable, Kate," Colin said.  "There's nothing more to be gained by asking him the same questions so many times."

"And surely, we shall all feel better and remember more after we've all had some time to rest," Daphne added, ever the peacemaker and eager to take control of the situation.

Now that the family was somewhat calmer and Benedict clear of harm, his sister's Duchess of Hastings mannerisms reappeared-- mannerisms which grated at Benedict.  The rest of the family, however, seemed relieved Daphne was reasserting herself.  Despite the years Kate had been a part of the family, without Anthony to tether her to them, his mother and siblings would always consider her an outsider-- perhaps even an interloper.

It was times like these that they all acutely felt Anthony's absence.  Murderer or no, he had been the indisputable head of the Bridgerton House, the cornerstone of their family.

Benedict didn't have the energy to try to defend Kate against his family.  The only thing he could do was stare at the ceiling, doing his best not to remember the abject terror he'd felt in those brief moments when time seemed to come to a halt.

She was fighting for Benedict in her own way-- he knew this.  She was fighting for him the same way Anthony would have fought for him: with vengeance.  But his mind shied away from the Pandora's Box now lodged firmly in his brain.

He heard her footsteps and she sat at the edge of his bed.  Kate took a long look at him, her face intense in its focus-- so much like Anthony.

"Very well," she nodded and took his hand.  "I suppose it can wait until morning."

--

"So.  Constable."

The countryside will be restful, his wife had said.  Fresh air and good for your health, his wife had said.  A place to start a family, she'd said.

They should have stayed in Birmingham.

"If you answer all my questions truthfully-- and rest assured, I'll be able to tell-- I'll allow you to live.  And, to show you I will make good on my promise, I'll even let you keep one of your eyes."

Before he knew it, Bill was blind in one eye.  Blood and ocular fluid dripped from his eye socket, a thick texture he'd never felt before.  But what was most horrifying was how much it didn't hurt-- only the twitching of fine muscles trying to blink made him aware that something was wrong.

"Yes.  People are always surprised by that.  Now remember, if you want to keep your other eye, you'll answer truthfully, even if you think I won't like the answer."

Bill yelled as loudly as he could-- gathered as much air into him and bellowed-- as soon as the gag was removed.

Elbow to his face, breaking his nose.

"This will go much more quickly if you cooperate.  If you start screaming or begging, I will cut out your tongue, stuff your mouth with rocks, sew your lips shut, and keep you here while I go take care of my business.  Then when I'm done, I'll come back and the real pain will begin.  Are we clear?"

He didn't dare breathe, but couldn't bring himself to nod.

"If you need even more incentive, I'll go to your house, burn your wife's parents alive in that lovely little place you have in town, bring your wife here to you, and-- did you know she's pregnant?"

Bill whimpered, not trusting himself to speak.  He didn't love his wife, not like everyone in these parts said Lord Bridgerton had been in love with Lady Kate.  Most days, he could barely stand her, but they'd both wanted a family--

"So, I will ask once more, and only once more: Are. we. clear."

"Yes," he croaked.

"Good.  Now,"

The wind should have been whistling, blowing in with these kinds of storm-rich clouds.  But there was only pounding rain, darkness, and Bill tied to a chair.

"Tell me where everyone said they were."

He opened his mouth to speak but only coughed, throat dry and the taste of old blood coating his tongue.

"They all lied, one way or another," voice hoarse.

"It doesn't matter.  Start with the youngest-- Hyacinth."

"Abed.  Said she didn't hear anything unusual, woke up when she heard Lord Benedict scream."

"And the lie?"

"She looked to the side when she said she didn't hear anything."

"Do you think she tried to murder Benedict?"

"No.  But she knows something.  Too eager to make me believe her."

Pensive silence.  Bill wanted to yell for help again, but the idle sway of the knife held his tongue.

"Gregory."

"Abed," he grunted.  "Shook like a leaf when I questioned him, sweating and stuttering.  But it weren't him-- he's got the look of a squealer."

"A what?"

"Squealer.  Someone who got in too deep, regrets it, wants out."

"Any guesses as to what?"

Bill shrugged and regretted the motion immediately.  He'd somehow managed to forget about his dislocated shoulder.

"Either a woman or gambling-- I'd wager gambling.  Would give him a motive for wanting Lord Benedict out of the picture.  Miss Eloise said he and Mr. Colin have been spending a lot of time together."

"Francesca."

He searched his memory, not sure which of the ladies she was.  There were too many of them and they all looked the same.

"Lighter hair, rounded face."

Right, that one.

"Said she was abed and didn't know anything.  She's telling the truth she doesn't know anything, but she wasn't abed."

"How do you know?"

"Said she heard a door open and close in the middle of the night, tried to backtrack and say she's a light sleeper."

"Why do you think she lied?"

"The young Miss didn't want me to become suspicious, I think.  It happens all the time-- she figured I would have made her the number one suspect if she said she'd been awake."

"Do you think she's capable of murder?"

"Everyone's capable of murder, if you give them reason and opportunity," he winced.  He really needed to remember not to move his arms.  "I think maybe someone, but not her brother.  And if she did, she would have done it sideways though-- poison, or the like."

"True," a pause.  "You're very good at your job."

Bill didn't know what to say to that.

"It almost makes me regret blinding you in one eye.  But needs must, you understand."

He did not understand, but knew better than to answer.

"Eloise-- the other dark haired one."

"She said she was up reading all night, said it's not unusual for her.  Heard the door open and close-- looked to see who and said it was a lady with a candle and a pink shawl."

"Did she say she knew who it was?"

Narrow, thunderous eyes pinning him down.

"The Miss said she didn't know, but she was lying about that."  Couldn't help himself:  "Family full of liars, you Bridgertons."

A laugh of menacing happiness, the kind which reveled in graveyards and crypts.

"And I the biggest liar among them.  Was she lying to protect or lying to implicate?"

"She looked like she felt guilty about something.  Wouldn't stop talking though, got worked up and told me just because she had a famous murderer brother didn't mean everyone else in the family was one."

"Famous murderer brother," an amused huff.

"Said I should question the staff instead."

"We'll get to the staff later.  What did Daphne say."

His mind drew a blank.

"She probably introduced herself as the Duchess of Hasting."

"Abed-- didn't hear anything that night but she's caught wind of the killings in Kent and the rumors going around.  Said it must be the same person."

"So certain that it was a person, was she."

"The Duchess seemed embarrassed by the word 'ghost' when I asked."

"Typical."

"You don't have much affection for any of them."

"Like you said, they're all liars and cheats."

"The last one, Mr. Colin.  He said he was asleep, but he stands to gain the most if Lord Benedict died, and in all my years as a copper, money's always been a good motivator for murder."

"Then he's at the top of your list, I take it."

"Among the family.  Have a few contenders in the servants also, especially the ones who don't like the--"

"Don't say her name.  You haven't earned the privilege."

That voice-- it wasn't a voice, it wasn't even a sound.  Just a deep, vicious snarl which shook Bill's very bones.  The rumble of a predator closing in on prey, followed by a sneer and deadly chill which would have made Bill lose control of his bowels if that gaze had stayed focused on him.

"Violet.  Where was she."

It was not a question.

"In her rooms," Bill swallowed convulsively.  "She said she didn't notice anything that night.  And she was still hysterical when I got to the house, so I'm inclined to believe her."

That terrible smile reappeared.

"Well, well, well.  The truth comes out, doesn't it."

Bill looked nervously at the knife.

"The sabotaged carriage, the attempted kidnapping-- all those other little incidents which I know you knew of," knife held right under his chin.  "Who paid you to look the other way?"

"I don't--"

"I'd consider my answer very carefully, if I were you."

The knife, unlike the kitchen knives, was sharp.

The kind of sharpness which, a slight adjustment of pressure would drive the blade through Bill's chin into the roof of his mouth.

"She just wanted to scare her," Bill's voice trembled.

This was where he had to trust in the nonexistent honor of murderers.

"So they all said."

"She said she wanted the-- the lady to leave Aubrey Hall.  Leave England, go back to India.  That's all she wanted."

"Why does Benedict's near-murder justify investigation, but Kate's didn't?"

The tip of the knife was digging in, breaking one layer, then two, then three layers of skin.

"Anthony," Lady Kate put her hand on the ghost's arm.  "Let him go."

"Kate, he would have left you for dead because my mother bought him out."

"We promised."

"Oh, but that's the beauty of being husband and wife, my darling."

The knife traveled, inch by terrible inch, through Bill's jaw, through his tongue, until the ghost slammed it in, embedding it in bone, in the roof of his mouth, Bill screaming but unable to open his mouth, his tongue cutting itself to shreds.

"You promised."

The ghost wrenched the knife sideways, sawing through bone and gums and ripping out teeth.

"I never did."

--

I suppose it can wait until morning.

Morning never came.

Dawn may have come, the sun may have risen, Benedict may have woken up after a sleep made of nightmares, he may have overruled the protests of his mother and Daphne to have breakfast with the family, the rain may have stopped to leave an overcast sky, everyone might have been nervous and jumpy all day, everyone might have been twitching at the slightest sound.

The overcast sky transformed to dark, oppressive clouds which should have carried lightning and thunder, but only brought the terrifying expectation of it.  The house felt like it kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the first strike.

But lightning never came.

Because that afternoon-- the house went cold, like a black veil wove through the very air.  The candlelight vanished, the fires were put out and everything descended into a silent, unnatural darkness where the long, ominous shadows had no source of light to cast them.  Benedict tried to light candles, but only one caught flame.  The wood in the fireplace was soaked through.

When a crack of thunder shook the foundations of the house, everything plunged into complete darkness.

--

You're an idiot.

You love me anyway.

She didn't try to kill Benedict, you know.

I know.  Like I said, my family's full of liars and cheats.

You came back to me.

Of course I did.  I'll always come back for you.

Anthony kissed her, and the world was as it should always be.

Ready, my darling?

Yes.

She took his hand.

He pulled the stiletto knives out of her hair.

I love you.

#bridgerton #kathony #fanfiction #regency horror au

[my-dumb-obsessions]

Prompt:

“You know, I bet you I could make some amazing armor out of that archdemon’s hide.”

“Wade, no.”

“WADE, YES!”

Ladies and Gentlemen, Warden Commander and Enabler-in-Chief, Cariane Amell:

Commander Amell circled the mannequin at the smithy, holding up the silverite chain or brushing fingers over the plate as she went around, pretending to know what she was looking for. Herren had insisted she inspect the first model of the new guard uniforms before Wade began producing the rest of the order, though she thought it completely unnecessary. They were good materials and Wade was a genius, an eccentric one, but aren’t they all? 

Nathaniel watched her intently, doing his best to hide his amusement. The armor was obviously top quality, but Cariane being a mage (albeit one who could wield a sword) clearly had no idea what she was supposed to be appraising. As she crossed between him and the mannequin he touched her waist and bent to quietly offer rescue, “Shall I take over, Commander?”

She smirked and made a face that suggested ‘that obvious, is it?’, but responded generously, “By all means, Constable Howe.”

“This is excellent work, Master Wade.” Nathaniel called out to the armorer before addressing Herren, “You certainly did not exaggerate his skill, my friend…”

She stepped aside and let them discuss the finer points of metalwork, and turned to the courtyard to check on Voldrik’s repair efforts when a sharp sound interrupted her.

“Psst!... Psst! Commander!” Wade beckoned her with a stage whisper, quickly glancing back at his partner before gracing her with a charming smile.

“What can I do for you, Master Wade?” She approached and added, “The armor looks wonderful, by the way.”

A look of confusion crossed his face momentarily, “What? Oh, that. Yes, of course,” he dismissed the compliment. “I was wondering…” he had the look of a child about to ask for an extra cookie, “what did you do with the archdemon’s carcass after Denerim?” 

“The carcass?” The question took her aback. No one had mentioned the archdemon in months, except in the most abstract, heroic retellings of the battle. What does one do with an old god’s carcass, anyway? In fact, she knew exactly what Wade would do with it. “I…well, it was broken up and sent out for study. Wiesshaupt got most of it, I think the some of it went to the University of Orlais-”

“Did you keep any for yourself? Scales, hide, bone, perhaps?” He interrupted, clutching at her wrist with a hopeful grin on his face. “I could make you the most amazing armor from it!” The Commander glanced back towards the shop counter, where Herren was now watching their conversation with concern.

“Why, no, Master Wade…” she answered measuredly, and more loudly than she needed to, “of course not. Why would I keep a blighted dragon’s hide here in Vigil’s Keep?” She gave the armorer a conspiring look. Herren, seemingly satisfied, returned to his conversation with Nathaniel and Dworkin, who had joined them to discuss ways to incorporate explosive shielding into Wade’s pieces.

It wasn’t clear if he had picked up the subtext, “Oh that is a shame.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against his anvil, “What color was it?”

“Hm,” Cariane thought for a moment, “a sort of dark, pinkish violet, you could say.”

“Oh! That would have looked perfect with your complexion!” Wade lamented, reaching out to pick up a lock of her hair, “And with these beautiful brown tresses…like dark chocolate and raspberries!” She shook her head and bit back a grin, taking a spot next to him against the anvil and mirroring his posture. He had absolutely understood her meaning. Wade casually continued his - ahem, hypothetical - probing. “Did it breathe physical fire, or magical fire?”

“Oh, it was definitely magic fire,” she nodded, remembering the black and purple gouts she’d exhausted herself avoiding.

“Excellent!” He exclaimed, under his breath.

Cariane leaned closer and cautioned in a low voice, “Wade, you do know it’s blighted?”

“Yes, I’m aware.” He answered matter-of-factly. “I know how to handle dangerous materials.” He gasped to himself, “Can you imagine? The Hero of the Blight girded in the Blight itself, like an ancient horror out for vengeance!”

His excitement made her smile, “You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?” He only grinned and shoved her playfully with his shoulder.

Nathaniel approached the pair on his way out, “Master Wade, brilliant work as usual,” he declared, shaking the armorer’s hand. He turned to Carie, “I’m sure the Commander would agree.”

“Indeed, this is more than sufficient for our soldiers.” She asserted, “Thank you, Master Wade.”

Nathaniel subtly brushed her fingertips with his, “Shall I await you in your office, Commander?”

“Yes, Constable Howe, I’ll be there shortly.” She answered with a small smile. He nodded to Wade and headed back to the Keep. “Well, Master Wade, I’m sure you and Herren can take it from here,” she announced. “I’ll need our soldiers outfitted in the silverite as soon as possible.”

“At your service, Commander. Master Wade will get right on it.” Herren gave his partner a sharp look, “Won’t you, Wade?” 

Wade sighed dramatically, “Yes, yes. I’m a veritable machine.” Herren rolled his eyes and spared him a snicker before turning back to his inventory. 

When he was out of earshot, the Commander turned to Wade and advised, quietly, “Eastern cellars, second sublevel,” the armorer’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as she continued, “first door on the right.” He allowed himself a small, giddy squeak before clasping her hands and thanking her profusely.

“Wade,” she warned, “this is a side project.” She looked up at him sternly, “Side. Project.”

He beamed and dropped her hands, “Yes, of course, Commander.” 

“My soldiers need outfitting.” She stated plainly.

“Understood.” He nodded, practically buzzing with excitement.

Cariane gave him a fond smile before turning back to the Keep. “Have fun.”

#dragon age awakening #warden amell #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #nathaniel howe #oc cariane amell #amell x nathaniel #wade and herren #prompt fill #mdo answers

[chernobog13]

Shintaro Katsu as Edo-period constable Itami Hanzo, aka Hanzo the Razor.

Katsu-san’s most famous role is Zatoichi the blind swordsman, whom he portrayed in 26 films and 100 television episodes.

Hanzo the Razor, on the other hand, is probably Katsu-san’s most Infamous role.  Hanzo is everything Zatoichi is not: sociopathic, rude, cruel, misogynistic, and determined to do whatever he has to in order to solve a case, no matter who or what he has to destroy in the process.

Hanzo was the star of a trilogy of films - Hanzo the Razor: Sword of Justice, Hanzo the Razor: The Snare, and Hanzo the Razor: Who’s Got the Gold? - that were released between December 1972 and February 1974.  Katsu-san produced the films through his own production company, Kastu Productions.

The trilogy was based on the mature themed manga (known as gekiga) Goyokibe by Koike Kazuo.  Katsu-san would also adapt Kazuo-san’s most famous work, Lone Wolf and Cub, as a series of six films starring his older brother, Tomisaburo Wakayama.

The Hanzo films are exploitation films, making as much use of abundant blood and nudity as they can get away with.  But their most notorious element is Hanzo’s special way of “interrogating” female criminals and suspects.  He is (how to put this delicately?) rather well endowed.  In fact, it wouldn’t be stretching things to nickname him “Tripod.”

Each film highlights Hanzo’s special training techniques to make his "special tool” more effective.  There is also at least one scene of Hanzo in action “interrogating” some female who has fallen into his clutches.  To make matters even worse, all of his female victims fall in love with him after their humiliating ordeal.

Katsu-san has played evil characters before and since (Blind Beast immediately comes to mind), but Hanzo is easily his most vile role.  That’s because he believes he’s a good guy.  Hanzo may be a rouge cop in the Edo constabulary, but he believes he’s the best because everyone else on the force - including his supervisor - is corrupt, inept, or both.  Hanzo is essentially the samurai version of Dirty Harry.  In fact, the opening theme music is all very 1970s electric guitar; if you close your eyes and listen you wouldn’t think you were watching a film set during the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Fortunately, the films are so over-the-top that they come across of parodies.  It isn’t possible to take the films seriously, which I believe was the filmmakers’ intention.

However, that’s not an excuse for Hanzo’s actions.  Despite that he thinks he’s a paragon of justice, and that the ends justify the means, at the end of the day he’s still a rapist with a very large masochistic streak in him.  

The trilogy fall into the “have to be seen to be believed” category.  However, I want anyone interested in seeing them to understand what they’re getting into.

On a slightly different note: I had read somewhere that Kazuo-san killed off Hanzo in the gekiga; he was murdered while urinating in an alley.  I do not know if this is true, as I have not been able to find much information on the original story.  That is a heck of a statement the author is making about his creation, though, if it is true.

#Hanzo the Razor #Itami Hanzo #Shintaro Katsu #chambara #samurai #exploitation films

[yesstaffnurse1]

Student Nurse Mary Gordon and Chief Nurse Moira Patterson

Incident in the Patients’ Garden

The last thing red uniformed Head of Nursing at Southampton Royal Infirmary, Moira Patterson, had expected to encounter as she took Student Nurse Mary Gordon, who was shadowing her, of a tour of of the rarely used patients’ garden, was two balaclava clad youths hiding out in the overgrown and neglected nature area, delightedly examining their bag of ill gotten valuables. Moira took a sharp intake of breath: she thought these youths had made their escape ages ago! She was about to hurry away with her charge and alert the police when one of the youths looked up and gazed at the two nurses, eyes blazing through the holes in the mask. “Dave!” he called out urgently to his friend. Both young men stood up and walked menacingly towards the two women.

“Now you ladies better pretend you didn’t see nothing and just clear off.” snarled Dave, not entirely convincingly. Moira considered briefly, worried about the safety of the student but equally she asked herself what sort of example would it be to the youngster if the Chief Nurse was to let these fellows simply walk away, clutching a bag full of stolen patients’ valuables? She put back her shoulders and said clearly and authoritatively: “On the contrary, gentlemen, I strongly advise that you give up this nonsense here and now!” Even behind the masks, Moira could see the boys smirk - she knew the look, having teenagers of her own. “The police are everywhere, lads,” the senior nurse persisted, adopting a maternal tone, “you know you can’t get away with it.” Moira noticed the thieves glance at each other, hoping they didn’t realise the police presence had dropped to a single woman constable methodically still taking statements. There was a momentary pause and then Mary suddenly piped up. “That’s right!” the girl cried, breaking the tension and stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with the older woman. “You haven’t a chance! You need to surrender now!” The sheer exuberance and confidence of the young student nurse’s intervention seemed to do the trick. Dave and his pal looked at each other again. Dave bowed his head. “They’re right, Charlie,” he said wearily to his mate. “We’re finished.”

Later, as the sun shone gloriously on the patients’ garden an intriguing scene of female victory could be observed as Mary and Moira smilingly tied the hands of the demoralised and unmasked Charley and and Dave behind their backs with Moria’s spare pairs of ladies’ tights. “You see, Mary,” remarked Moira as she tightened the wincing Dave’s bonds, “we women can overcome male strength and aggression if we are firm enough.” Dave looked over to Charley balefully. “This is all your fault, mate.” he snarled at his accomplice accusingly. “You said this would be a piece of cake!” The glum Charley indicated towards Mary over his shoulder with a flick of his head as she bound him. “I hadn’t bargained on running into nurse versions of your mum and your older sister, mate!” Moira laughed at that and once both lads were securely tied, the two women took their glowering captives by the elbow. “Now boys,” the senior nurse smiked, “let’s take a nice stroll in the sun and find that tired looking young policewoman. I think we will be able to save her some paperwork, Mary.” The student beamed and the two women led their disconsolate prisoners away towards the hospital, job done.

[kamreadsandrecs]

Title: The Hollows Author: Daniel Church Genre/s: mostly folk horror, with a bit of what I’d call survival horror in the middle Content/Trigger Warnings: implied child and animal abuse, implied sexual assault, physical assault, kidnapping, human and animal death, gore Summary (from Angry Robot Books): In a lonely village in the Peak District, during the onset of a once-in-a-lifetime snow storm, Constable Ellie Cheetham finds a body. The man, a local ne’er-do-well, appears to have died in a tragic accident: he drank too much and froze to death. But the facts don’t add up: the dead man is clutching a knife in one hand, and there’s evidence he was hiding from someone. Someone who watched him die. Stranger still, an odd mark has been drawn onto a stone beside his body. The next victims are two families on the outskirts of town. As the storm rises and the body count grows, Ellie realises she has a terrifying problem on her hands: someone – or some thing – is killing indiscriminately, attacking in the darkness and using the storm for cover. The killer is circling ever closer to the village. The storm’s getting worse…and the power’s just gone out. Buy Here: https://angryrobotbooks.com/books/the-hollows/ Spoiler-free Review: A pretty fun read overall! The concept’s solid, and while it’s not what most people would think about when they think of folk horror, especially if their first contact with the genre is Midsomar or Wicker Man (the old one, not the remake), it fits in the genre pretty well. It takes a while for the connection to click, but when it does? Whooboy! Also like Midsomar and Wicker Man, I genuinely think this’d make a great movie or miniseries! There’s passages in the book that read as very cinematic, and a part of me wonders if this book was written with the possibility for adaptation into a show or film already in mind. Even if that was the case, I think it’d work wonderfully in a visual medium. Not sure which director would work best on this - I mean, Ari Aster’s the obvious choice because of his connection to folk horror, but there’s aspects to this that make me think another director might be a better fit. That being said: I wish the pace of the narrative was better. There were several chapters that I think could have been more tightly-written; for a moment I thought this was going to turn into survival horror, and I think it was that for a moment, which doesn’t make me happy (not because I think survival horror is a bad subgenre; it’s just not my schtick). But once you’re past that part the story picks up again; I just wish that slow chunk was, as I said, more tightly-written. Rating: Three creepy entities and one half-corpse (three and a half) Thoughts underneath the cut for spoilers

- There were plenty of nods to Lovecraft, particularly where the Harpers are concerned. I don’t know if those nods were deliberate, but there they are (or at least, there I think they are; it’s likely I’m the only one seeing them). - Speaking of nods to Lovecraft and the Harpers, I wonder if the veering away from incest when it came to Paul and Jessica was the author seeing what direction they were going and deciding “Nope!” at the last minute. This is only speculation, and I could be entirely wrong, but given the way that the “no incest happened here!” thing was put forward, I can’t help but wonder if that was the case regardless. - Can I just say that I love how women took care of most of the business in this novel? Not all of them met happy ends, but I’m glad for the ones who did. - Also: the scene where the Harpers were holding Charlotte Famuwiya and her boy hostage? And they said they’d had a noose around Charlotte’s neck? Godsdamn if that doesn’t say “lynching” to me, especially since Charlotte’s mixed-race. - And given the history of the village and the Harpers’ farm and their relationship to the Tatterskins and the old gods: fuck the Normans, and therefore, fuck the French.

#the hollows #daniel church #book review #horror #books #sff

[so-bri-quet]

Doe's Brother.

Teodora summoned a thread from the tip of her right middle finger, willing it to move invisibly across strangers until it linked itself into the cuff of a young red headed man's coat.

She peeked from the corner of the pillar she hid behind, watching the red head as people passed. It wasn't too hard to find the boy, Altair, whom Doe had told her to watch on.

Altair stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd, partly because of his fair hair; which seemed to glow against the murky colors of the bazaar and boring heads of brunets and hats---but also mostly because of the jaunt to his steps, and how whenever he turns, he whirls, as if in a dance. He seemed all too distracted by his joviality that you'd expect him to trip and fall over---though that has yet to happen.

Doe was exactly the same, though he had a record for actually tripping.

"Teo, I won't be coming back for an indefinite amount of days, so," Doe had suddenly told her. "I would not be able to do my important errands,"---before Teodora could get a word in, he shoved a piece of paper to her---"Do look after the place, don't talk to the statues, and don't answer knocks that don't finish the rhythm. Okay, goodbye!" Then he had rushed out the door, with no such luggage for an indefinite amount of days out, leaving a bemused Teodora.

Despite herself, Teodora had done half of his list of "important" errands, which was vague tasks such as "contemplating" or just going out to specific places. One actual errand was "to spy on Altair, the red head", with a full description of the young man.

"He is my brother," Doe had wrote, "Tackle him when necessary."

Teodora continued to do what was asked (doubtful about doing the tackling act) while Altair took his time browsing a stall of some junks of metal.

As she waited she was growing impatient as she watched. Every now and then she would find her eyes away from the boy and look to her surroundings as if to check if someone were watching her as well. Was it illegal to spy on a stranger, even if a Constable had told one to do so? And if it were legal, did it count despite the said Constable being rather.. mental? The man spoke to air, for Mensa's sake---

She felt a slight tug from her middle finger, making Teodora look back at Altair to find he had finally started forward.

She took an inhale before forcing herself amongst the sea of people, as if she was diving back into water. She tried to subtly push through the crowd while also maintaining pace to follow Altair, lest the thread that connected them tear---or in a worst case---he would go too far that the thread would lengthen farther enough to begin unraveling Teodora's entire hand. She was not ready for that to happen.

Ready or not, the tugging abruptly pulled taut, and Teodora felt as though her hand began to do the said worst case---she wouldn't know; she was too intimidated to look down at it to confirm that she was right. Teodora, for the first time in her life, was scared to be right. 'By the Replicas!' Teodora thought in dismay. 'Why is he running?'

She clutched at her right most-likely-unraveling hand to cover from the sight of others before she felt herself jolt forward, bounding across the crowd for Altair.

What followed behind her were shouts of men. Constables.

#practice writing #ocs #ocs' world: #Rats and Thread.