#Father Thames

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Caricature published in Punch on 21 July 1855 (page 27) in response to Michael Faraday's letter "Observations on the Filth of the Thames", published on 7 July in The Times and commenting on the deplorable state of the River Thames.

[multitudeofmuses]

RIVERS OF LONDON SERIES by Ben Aaronovitch

~~ FANCAST ~~

Father Thames | Genius Loci / Old Man Of The River

"

Father Thames aka Baba Thames rules the Thames inland of Teddington Lock, and inhabits the Thames Valley. He is sometimes also referred to as the Old Man of the River. Like Mama Thames, many of his tributary rivers have Genius loci that manifest as his 'Sons'. He has the gift of prophecy because of his immense age, however Oxley warns Peter not to ask Father Thames questions directly as his insight often comes with a price.

"

Father Thames appears as a vigorous seventy year old man of short stature with a pinched face, Roman nose, and heavy brow. He dresses like a traveling showman and--like Mama Thames--has an extremely alluring glamour. Peter describes his vestigium as being redolent with beer, skittles, horse manure and walking home from the pub by moonlight. His power comes from the earth and weather in contrast to Mama Thames who draws her power from the ports and ocean. Before becoming Father Thames he was a Pre-Roman priest living in Londinium with the name Tiberius Claudius Verica. Peter encountered this version of Father Thames briefly during the final events of the Rivers of London. According to Mama Thames, when he was a young man he to stood on London Bridge and made a promise to the river much like herself.

SUGGESTED CASTING:

JEREMY IRONS ( 74 years old ) TIMOTHY SPALL ( 66 years old ) JOHN RHYS-DAVIES ( 79 years old ) BILL PATERSON ( 78 years old ) BILL NIGHY ( 73 years old ) CIARÁN HINDS ( 70 years old )

[almondcroissantsandink]

don't let these silly little drawings fool you! I just watched the last episode and my stomach hurts so bad!!!

[mariocki]

A Bullet Is Waiting (1954)

"I hope you don't think that I'm taking your side against Mr. Munson. All those nice things that you did, like taking care of the lamb and getting supper ready, I saw through them easily. You're probably everything that Mr. Munson says you are."

"Oh, I'm a very bad character."

[suguann]

an. part two of this | masterlist

You tell him you broke up with your boyfriend while he’s away for work, bunked up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere with shit reception, hearing your words as clear as day as if they weren’t the chopped-up version coming through his burner phone.

“It just…didn’t work out.”

It didn’t work out.

He pretends his stomach doesn’t pleasantly twist because he’d expected it to happen eventually. He’s not happy about it—although it does make the desert heat more bearable in his heavy tactical gear—and tells Soap to fuck off when he comments on it.

It was a one-time fuck because Simon doesn’t date. He’s tried in the past before he met you—the flowers, the late-night dinners—but with him being gone almost every other month (sometimes longer, shorter if he’s lucky), it never works out in the end. Sleeping with you twice would fall under that category, the quasi-relationship kind, and make everything messier than it needs to be. 

Just some fun, no strings, those are the words he promised.

If only he believed them.

He does, for all of two weeks until he’s home again, and it’s summer, so you’re wearing a flowy dress that shows off the long expanse of your legs. 

(He’s a goner—not even sure why he tried to think otherwise.)

That one time he’d promised turns into a second, both of you stumbling into your apartment after a night out. The music from the pub still thumping loudly underneath your floor as he pushes you against the front door, hands in your hair—on your waist, underneath your skirt, down your thigh to hitch it over his waist—teasing your mouth open with a swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip.

You make this delighted little noise in the back of your throat, arching into him, and his hand spans down your stomach, beneath your underwear, to nudge your messy clit with his knuckle, wanting to hear all the sounds you make now that he has you alone. 

A whiny cry of his name rewards him—jeans tightening around his waist at the sound—when his fingers go down, down until they press against your tight little hole, one finger pressing inside slowly. "If I make you cum, I get to fuck you here.”

You smile prettily, and it disarms him. “If you make me cum, you can fuck me however you want.”

Neither of you makes it to the bed, falling asleep on the living room floor instead, the blanket from the couch draped haphazardly over both of you with his arm curled over your waist.

That night had been a slip of judgment, a product of wanting something warm and soft after several months of only having his hand for company.

It happens again and again, and he keeps letting it happen until there’s no more hiding under the guise of just fun because it somehow turns into a lot more than that.

Simon can’t explain how it happens—maybe becoming something he can touch and hold and think about often—but he finds himself in an exclusive relationship with you that isn’t exactly a relationship because he’s unsure of the ins and outs that they entail.

(Always has been.)

His father was a shit role model, and it was always easier finding someone new who didn’t know his name or care about his scars and only wanted a nice fuck. There had never been any point in shooting for something serious when it was always out of the question for him, until now, that is.

He takes you to that over-rated restaurant overlooking the Thames Marcus never brought you to. A picture of you and him with the sunset in the background—your smile almost blinding in the photo—becomes his home screen, and he finds he doesn’t care when Soap has something to say about it.

He lets you do nonsensical shit, like buying small plants for his house that are surely going to die from him being gone before he comes up with the great idea to give you a key. It’s just a key.

(It’s more than just a key.)

Simon finds himself asking if he can come over more often throughout the week, which slowly moulds and shifts into nights filled with things other than sex—sleeping after a long day of work, cuddling on the couch, cooking together, going to the movies—he doesn’t try to make a big deal out of it because you used to hang out all the time without sex. 

(Somewhere, there’s a but in there.)

There’s still no label to whatever this is, and he wonders if you want him to be the first to say the thing you’ve both been dancing around for a little over…he can’t remember, but he knows it’s been long enough for your things to mix in with his at his house. 

Be with me because I’m yours, and you’re mine, that’s what he’s trying to say, and it’s never the right time. Men like him—a little broken, rough, and jagged around the edges sharp enough to cut—aren’t good with words like that.

(That’s what he thought.)

If he hadn’t seen you talking to a guy at the pub, eyes crinkling in that same sweet way whenever Simon makes you laugh, he wonders if he would’ve been the first to break from the start. He knows it’s your job as a bartender to be nice, but his jaw clicks at the sight of the guy leaning over the bar and into your space, almost too close.

The feeling doesn’t go away until he has you spread out on your mattress under him—clothes haphazardly peeled out of the way for him to put his mouth on you—your lips pursed tight around two of his fingers to give you something to focus on as his other hand works between your thighs, pressing down on your tongue when gurgled little sounds slip out.

He teases you with a small, pink vibrator he found inside your bedside table, your legs kicking out and toes curling into his calves.

“Mine. This is mine, love,” he groans, pressing you further into the bed with his weight. “Do you understand?”

You nod, tears pearling and leaking from the corner of your eyes.

“Lemme cum,” you whine, words muffled. “Simon, I want to cum. Please.”

He won’t lie that he’s close after jerking into his fist to the sight of you writhing on the sheets—swears he can feel his heartbeat throbbing against the back of his fingers—takes in your surprised expression when he pushes forward, impaling you on the first few inches of his cock.

His stomach twists from the squeal that escapes your throat, and fuck, your cunt, so hot and tight with little pulses that drive him crazy, only growing tighter when he turns up the speed on the vibrator.

“‘Mm, gonna cum. I’m—”

He grits his teeth as you start to flutter around his cock once he’s rooted inside you. “Go on—fuck—go on, love. Let me feel it.”

You look so perfect like this, like a dream: lips parted into an enticing little O with his name tumbling out in breathy mewls, tits hanging out from the bra he shoved to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused. 

“So fucking pretty.” He kisses your throat, panting into your sweat-slick skin, and it’s not long before he’s falling over the edge with you. 

Next time, he’ll have the courage to tell you: that you’re not someone he calls for a meaningless fuck on the weekend, that Simon misses you when he’s gone and can’t wait to come home, that he wants to try with you—except not when he’s balls deep and trembling inside your heavenly cunt.

But the smile he feels against his shoulder makes him think that maybe…

Maybe you already know.

[darklinaforever]

Lockwood who offers his childhood bedroom to Lucy.

Lockwood who offers Lucy to call him whatever she wants, as long as it's Lockwood or Anthony, knowing that only his parents called him by his first name.

Lockwood refusing to get medical treatment / care from the ambulance until he made sure Lucy was okay, when he got hit by a ghost and could have died within an hour.

Lockwood giving his sister's necklace to Lucy.

Lockwood holding Lucy's hand as he jumps off the roof into the Thames.

Lockwood who, thanks to Lucy, manages to be more comfortable and friendly with people.

Lockwood doing an unlikely jump to stop a ghost from hitting Lucy.

Lockwood telling Lucy he would die for her.

Lockwood who says no one comes close to Lucy in terms of ability.

Lockwood whose suicidal impulses worsened after Lucy left for 4 months.

Lockwood telling Lucy that he missed her.

Lockwood who searched for 4 months for a way / an excuse to bring Lucy home.

The Belle Dame who attracts Lockwood by taking on Lucy's appearance.

Lockwood who gives Lucy her mother's necklace that her father gave her as an undying devotion.

Me :

And again, I must have forgotten things ! Feel free to add them !

[fairyhaos]

Ꮺ cold ice, cinnamon smiles // lee seokmin

dokyeom x gn!reader, 1.6k words

tags: 1800s britain au, christmas au, ice skating, fluff, meet cute, strangers to lovers, seokmin is the 3 c's: cute and clumsy and chivalrous

warnings: none

notes: merry christmas everyone ^_^

summary: winter is a harsh time of the year, cold and merciless, but what happens when you meet a boy who has a smile warm enough to melt the coldest of ice?

When the weather gets cold enough, sometimes the river Thames will freeze over.

It’s utterly delightful, because it allows you to take out your skates, dress up as warm as possible, and spend several hours on the ice that had once been the river, breathing in the bitingly cold air and sighing in content.

This year, it's right on Christmas Eve, so it means there's the gentle, warm scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the air from the Christmas fairs set up along the river, as people skate over the recently-frozen surface, spending some time before their cherished holiday out on the ice.

There’s the chatter of children as they slide delightedly over the ice, the laughter of teenagers as they slip into each other, even the fond chuckles of adults as they help each other stay upright.

Your parents are out on the river somewhere, too, skating hand in hand, in their own world away from the shrieks and laughs of the public. 

It’s sweet.

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back, gliding effortlessly across the river, cheeks stinging with cold but your mind feeling blessedly content when—

“Oh, do watch out!”

Your eyes fly open just in time to see a flurry of brown wool collide with you, and your hands shoot out almost instantly, staggering back a little to catch the person who had barrelled into you.

The stranger yelps, stumbling into your hold, and it’s a good thing that you’re a decently good skater because otherwise this person would have sent you both flying across the ice.

“Sorry, sorry, oh good Lord, I’m sorry,” the person apologises profusely, leaning out of your arms as soon as he gains his balance, brushing his hair out of his face with a finger, eyes wide and earnest and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to just slam into you like that.”

You smile, ready to brush away his apologies, because really this could happen to anyone, but as you look properly at the stranger, your breath hitches in your throat.

Dark, soft hair falling into big, gentle eyes. Warm twinkles in his irises and winter-ruddy flushes of red on his cheeks that make him look like some sort of delicately crafted doll, and when he smiles shyly, it's like a ray of white gold light spilling over the grey landscape of winter.

This man is beautiful.

And he’s still apologising, over and over, and he’s brushing down the sleeves of your coat, checking that you’re okay, and you want to laugh a little because goodness, it seemed that this stranger was cute and beautiful.

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” you say, resting a hand on his arm to stay his fretful movements, smiling. “It’s okay, I’m completely fine.”

The man pauses, looking at you with worried eyes. “Are you sure?” he says. “You’re not hurt anywhere, are you?”

He goes back to patting you down again, and if it were any other man, you’d feel outraged at how he’s touching you so easily like this, but his hands are nothing but a gentle pressure over your arms, your shoulders, and the concern emanating from his touch.

“I’m okay, truly,” you say, laughing a little. “I’m strong,” you add, when he looks at you disbelievingly. “My mother has been teaching me to skate since I was little girl. We have a lake in our estate, you see, and in the winter, it always freezes over.”

His eyes widen at your words. “E—estate? Are you—oh, dear, which Lord is your father?”

He looks panicked, eyes widening even further and face falling in fear that he’s damaged the precious child of some haughty and terrifying aristocrat, and it’s so painfully adorable to you that you laugh again, shaking your head.

“No, no, nothing like that. My family and I are just… reasonably well-off,” you say. He still looks like he doesn’t believe you, though, so you stick a hand out. “I’m Y/N. Just plain old me, no fancy titles or anything. I promise.”

The man looks down at your hand, and then up at your face again, and something about your faintly smiling expression must convince him you’re telling the truth, because he grasps your hand firmly, eyes shining.

He doesn’t shake your hand, however, and adjusts his grip to delicately hold your fingers, bending down, making your eyes widen.

Gently, his lips brush against your knuckles, and he looks up at you with golden eyes. “Lee Seokmin,” he introduces, voice soft. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Heart in your throat, you can hardly take your eyes off of him as he smiles, a warm curling of his lips, warmer than the warmest cinnamon scent, glowing in the dim English winter light. Speechless, you watch as he straightens, still holding your hand, and he opens his mouth to say something before suddenly his eyes widen, and he tips backwards, a startled cry leaving his mouth.

Almost in slow motion, you feel yourself tug forward too, and the entire world falls to a hush as you collide into his chest, falling, falling, falling to land right on Seokmin as his back hits the cold ice of the Thames.

Seokmin blinks up at you, and his hair is a feathery soft mess around his head, the white ice giving him an almost angelic glow, and when his lips part around a soft “oh” you can’t help your gaze unintentionally flicking down towards the soft pink of his mouth.

And then everything hits you at once—especially the fact that you’re lying on top of him, in public—and you hurry to scramble off, cheeks flushing with more than just the cold.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, face heating up horribly fast, “I—Are you okay?” You hold out a hand to him, and after a moment of rapid blinking, Seokmin takes it, shakily getting to his feet with the help of your steady hands.

He really is rather wobbly on his skates. You wonder why he’s out here in the first place.

“No, goodness, I’m the one that’s sorry,” Seokmin says, and his cheeks are red too, redder than they were before the fall. “I’m so sorry for pulling you down with me.” He rubs at his cheeks, the action bashful and adorable as you worriedly brush ice flecks from his coat. “I really am rather terrible at skating.”

He looks down, embarrassed, looking rather like a dejected puppy, and you resist the urge to lean over and ruffle his hair.

Instead, you just hum, looking him up and down to avoid lingering to long on at the small pout forming on his face, lest you suddenly lose all self-control and try to kiss it away.

“I could teach you?” you offer. “Because luckily for you, I am rather good at skating myself.”

It’s honestly rather adorable how quickly he perks up at that, beaming. “Really? Oh, are you sure?”

You laugh at his eagerness, nodding. “Of course. We can’t have you colliding into any other people here, can we?”

Seokmin flushes, but his irises are shimmering awfully mesmerisingly, and as he smiles at you, you can’t help but do anything but smile widely back.

You’re about to say something when there’s a shout of your name in the distance, and you look behind you to see two familiar figures, waving and calling for you to come over to them. 

“Y/N, dear, it’s getting late! We ought to go home now,” your mother calls, and your heart sinks.

Seokmin seems to hear them shout too, because he chuckles a little regretfully, face falling, and he looks so sad that your heart squeezes painfully. “I suppose you need to leave,” he says. “It’s a shame I won’t be able to have my much-needed skating lesson from you.”

You turn back to Seokmin. “Wait, Seokmin—”

Before you can say anything, he grasps your hand gently, his fingers unusually warm despite the freezing temperatures that you’re currently standing in. And then he leans down (carefully, this time) and kisses your knuckles again, feather light.

“I hope to see you around, Y/N,” he says, and begins to shuffle away.

He doesn’t get far before you glide over and grab his collar insistently, almost making him fall over yet again.

He doesn’t, though, because you’re holding tightly, bringing his face close to yours.

“Meet me again,” you say, almost pleading. “Will you—will you please come here again tomorrow? I know that it’s Christmas Day tomorrow, and you’ll be spending time with your family but do you think you could? I… want to see you again.”

Seokmin’s eyes widen, and his face is so close that you can see the way his eyelashes flutter slightly, warmth spreading across his cheeks.

“Besides,” you add, flushing yourself, “I still need to teach you how to not fall for anyone else.”

It makes Seokmin laugh, a bright, ringing sound that makes you feel oddly giddy, and his face is crinkling into the most beautiful smile as he nods, still laughing.

“Of course,” he says, that gorgeous smile lighting up his entire face. “Of course, I’ll meet you here. You can teach me to fall for you only.”

It makes you blush, but when Seokmin leans in, tilting his head and pressing a brief kiss to your cheek, it has you blushing even harder than you even thought possible, eyes widening as the pressure is there and then gone, replaced with Seokmin’s bright eyes and his bright smile and his bright voice, gradually moving further away.

“Tomorrow,” he promises as he begins to shuffle away again. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”

You watch him go, giving him a shy wave, before finally he disappears amongst the crowd of people. Heart beating unusually fast, you turn to go as well, and the ruddiness of your cheeks is not just from the cold.

Giddy, you think of Seokmin’s lips on your cheek and your knuckles, of his fingers holding yours.

It makes you smile. Looks like you have a Christmas date.

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @thedensworld @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @sakufilms @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @amxlia-stars @raevyng @isabellah29

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

I Can’t Stand It

Rosie’s tantrum in the park, reminds Sherlock of his own childhood. It’s strange that so much of what the little girl says and does resonates with him.

“She’s not yours,” several voices inside his head tell him.

Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of being something more to her than just…what is he exactly to her? She calls him Lock; he calls her Watson. He desperately wants her to call him something else, which he only allows himself to think about when he’s alone.

“I can’t stand it, daddy!” Rosie exclaims and stomps her feet.

“But, sweetheart,” John tries to reason with his four-year-old daughter. “You were perfectly fine eating this last week.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and throws her arms in the air. Sherlock can see that John’s mouth twitches slightly as he’s supressing a smile. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice filled with delight in his mind.

“She’s so much like you sometimes, darling.”

“There are big pieces in it,” Rosie explains to John. “I want smooth ice cream.”

John looks over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has long ago decided to never lie to John again. He shrugs apologetically and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John inquires, his tone exasperated now.

“It’s quite normal for children her age to change tastes and react to new textures. I was the same.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not…”

“I know, John!” Sherlock snaps. “You and everyone we know keeps telling me that.”

He turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the park. Behind him the two Watsons call after him, begging him to come back but he can’t. Sherlock can live with everyone else claiming that he’s not Rosie’s father, but it hurts when John joins the choir. Of course, Sherlock knows he has no biological connection to her, but he’s raising her together with John, isn’t he? She comes just as willingly to him as to John. 

“Protect your heart, brother mine,” Mycroft told him after John and Rosie moved to Baker Street, and not for the first time. His brother knew that Sherlock’s heart belonged to John and had for a very long time.

***

Where are you? I’m sorry, Sherlock. We need to talk. Are you coming home soon?

Sherlock’s heart races in his chest when he reads John’s text. He barely registers the apology. All his brain is capable of is trying to deduce what John wants to talk about.

Are they moving out? Does John want him to spend less time with Rosie? Won’t he be allowed to do children safe experiments with her anymore?

He pulls his hair in frustration. Why is it so hard to figure out what John wants? Sherlock’s able to read anyone but John. Why?

“Hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were here,” Molly says when she walks into the lab at Barts.

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock tells her and walks rapidly out of the room.

***

Sherlock stands and watches the Thames float by. The London Eye is coloured in pink in the far distance. It’s getting dark and he’s got no recollection of the last hours. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he suddenly remembers that he’s forgotten to answer John’s text.

“A bit not good, Sherlock,” John’s voice scolds him.

Can I call you? Rosie wants to say goodnight.

Sherlock feels his face soften. The Watsons are probably still at Baker Street then. He doesn’t hesitate but calls John’s number.

John’s voice sounds relieved when he picks up, but it’s tinted with worry.

“Hi. You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and it comes out more clipped than he intended.

John sighs and apparently gives the phone to Rosie.

“Lock!” the little girl exclaims.

“Hello, Watson. Ready for bed?” Sherlock inquires softly.

“Yes. Tired,” she tells him and yawns.

Sherlock feels his throat thicken, and he must swallow hard and close his eyes to keep his tears at bay. Without thinking he uses the endearment only Rosie has heard.

“Goodnight, my heart.”

“Night, Lock. See you tomorrow,” Rosie slurs, clearly almost asleep.

Sherlock ends the call before John gets a chance to ask him humiliating questions. The sharp intake of breath from John when Sherlock bid Rosie goodnight didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’ve ruined it now, Holmes,” he tells himself.

***

Aldi is still open, and Sherlock buys two boxes of ice cream for Rosie without any pieces of fruit, berries, crunch, chocolate or other abominations.

He takes a deep breath before locking himself into Baker Street, and he ascends the stairs silently. John sits in his chair, reading one of his medical journals. Sherlock just nods and walks to the kitchen with his purchases. He places the boxes in the freezer before walking to the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him.

“Shower,” Sherlock answers.

The shower does wonders, and Sherlock feels quite refreshed and relaxed when he puts on a t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his maroon dressing gown. John stands just outside Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock startles a bit.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Watson?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. Soundly asleep. I just want to apologise properly to you. I was way out of line earlier. No, Sherlock, listen. I need to say this. Please.”

John’s expression is pained, and Sherlock doesn’t know what’s to come next. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“I know it’s no excuse that I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but that’s the defence I have, and it’s appalling to say the least. Rosie…she is…just as much yours as she is mine. You care for her just like any parent. She loves you, we both do, and…”

“John?” 

Sherlock’s voice is trembling, and he feels his balance is about to fail him. Warm and steady hands are placed on his upper arms and when John speaks again, his voice is warm with affection.

“Forgive me. Please?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself melt in John’s embrace.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @7-percent @ninasnakie

[itsbubbleteataro]

Hehe inspiration is fun

I'm kinda in the mood for some angst so let's get to it! I ended up getting inspired by one of my favorite songs by my favorite band.

Please enjoy!

Pairing; human!Alastor x human!fem!reader

Warning; Alastor being Alastor, death, gore, murder, cannibalism 

Six feet under the stars

Summer of 1932 in New Orleans

You and Alastor had been living together for quite some time now. You moved in with him around two years ago and have been engaged for a little over two months now.

Tonight was a rare night where Alastor had gone out again for both a hunt and a surprise for you. Yes, you knew about his hunts and to be honest you didn't mind them. I mean you yourself had been doing something similar.

You were the daughter of a tea salesman and were well versed in the art of tea. Sometimes when dealing with a rather rude customer as you worked at your father's shop, you snuck a little something extra into the teabag, just a pinch of arsenic. Okay well maybe not just a pinch but enough to kill a man.

Anyways you looked at yourself in the mirror checking your appearance once more in the mirror. You wore a simple sundress as it's the summer and summer in the bayou can get quite hot and swampy.

You looked at the paper on the dining room table double checking where it said to meet Alastor. You laced up your boots with the heels before you stepped outside, walking down to Thames street where your lover wait for you.

*******

When you approached your fiancé you saw that he had changed out of his hunting clothes, he must have stopped at home while you were busy getting yourself ready.

With a hum the two of you linked arms and walked towards the outskirts of a different part of the bayou. Don't get me wrong, Alastor still knew this part very well and you trusted him in every way shape and form and in turn he trusted you. Trusted you enough to see him covered in blood, eating human hearts, even his hair in its naturally curly state.

Alastor lead you over to a waiting blanket and picnic basket, taking your hand he brought you to sit down.

"I was hoping we could have a lovely picnic this fair evening baby" 

His eyes shown in the low lighting. You swooned. He was always doing sweet things like this for you. You helped him set up the food, your matching engagement rings sparkling in the starlight. He had picked out matching rings himself, the main stone in yours being a ruby with small diamonds around it. A blood red stone, fitting choice for two serial killers.

About halfway through your evening you both had finished the food. It was one of the rare occasions that you too indulged in the taste of human flesh. Your head was against his shoulder as you watched the fireflies dance in the distance, taking in each others peace when you felt Alastor stiffen.

You were pulling your head back to ask what was the matter when you felt it, a scorching, red hot, searing pain in your shoulder. Your hand flies to your shoulder as a scream is ripping from your throat. Alastor's eyes widen and for the first time in a long time he feels terror make its way into his heart.

You, his love, had been shot by a clumsy hunter who had mistaken the two of you for a pair of bobcats out of all things.

You hunched over, eyes full of tears as you even try to process of what happened when a second shot rings out, this one hitting your torso.

Alastor was furious, quickly confronting the hunter who had yet to realize that he had infant shot a person. All you could hear was the hunters scream as Alastor quite literally ripped him apart with his blade.

He first cut the tendons in the hunters legs so he couldn't run, then sliced the ones in his hands so he can't fight back. Then he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, stopping only after he had plunged his blade between the fools eyes and twisted it.

By the time he had finished with the hunter he turned to you. Quickly going down to you he held you in his arms. His hands were shaking and he was covered in both your blood and the hunters blood.

You were losing blood fast and you both knew it.

"I should have known better than to call you out tonight-"

"Oh hush up love"

You cut him off. You didn't want him blaming himself for your death. You knew you were going to die when you felt your fingers starting to tingle from blood loss.

Alastor gripped your face with one of his hands,

"My dear, I fear that if you're gone I won't be able to hold back. I may just tear this place apart."

Alastor choked out, feeling tears well in his eyes. You took a shaking breath, leaning into his touch.

"Then tear the world apart if you so desire. Just as long as you promise to meet me again someday"

Alastor nodded his head, his heart breaking in two as your voice became weaker and weaker.

"I love you Alastor"

You reached a hand up to his cheek, rubbing it gently.

"I love you too (y/n)"

Upon hearing such words you know that your body won't be long for this world. You let a gentle smile rest upon your lips, pulling his cheek weakly in an attempt for him to do the same.

He gets the message and forces himself to smile as tears rundown his cheeks. With one last breath your eyes flutter shut, your hand slipping from his face and your soul plummeting straight down to hell.

He holds your body close and sobs. The smile never leaving his face as he does. He sits back up, packing up the picnic and stuffing it all in the basket, blanket it and all. He pushes his arm through the loop of the basket so he can pick up your lifeless body.

He makes his way back to your shared cabin walking through the bayou as he didn't want anyone thinking he had killed you, his precious lover.

He knew he would have to give you the best burial money could buy, so he did just that. Your tombstone was made of marble, your name engraved as "(y/n) Hartfelt".

The day he buried you was one of the worst days of his life, right up when he had buried his mother. He visited your grave daily, telling you about his day. His never stopped grieving.

Fall of 1933

Alastor had been shot burying a body. He had gotten sloppy after your death, his hunts becoming more erratic as he worked through his loss. A hunter had mistaken him for a deer.

First his love had been mistaken for a bobcat and now him a deer, how fate has a way of working.

He welcomed his death, being found with a smile etched on his face for he knew that he could finally reunite with his lover as his soul plummeted down to hell.

He had a matching tombstone to yours, it being placed in the grave yard next to yours. As his coffin was lowered down into the ground and the dirt piled on, he rest easy.

As the two of you could finally be reunited,

Six feet under the stars



[pooks]

Percy headcanon time! by Pooks!

everyone be like "post-second war, Percy moves back to the burrow"

but CONSIDER

he doesn't do that. he doesn't wanna go back, but he wants a good, healthy and stable relationship with his family. he even connects the old fireplace in his flat to the floo network, so they can travel with ease.

now you wonder, why doesn't he come back? for the better part, they assumed that Percy thought it was too cramped at the Burrow or that he wanted some adult independance, learning to grow into his adult role.

trust me, it's none of those reasons. his reason is something entirely different.

Percy got a TV.

no, he doesn't want to share it. no, he isn't giving up his TV with good reception and dozens of channels (headcanon; he's a sucker for tv dramas).

the most hilarious thing is when he and Molly argues about why that TV is so much better than her radio ("You can't see the visuals, Mother! And if I have to listen to Celestina Warbeck 24/7 again, I might throw myself into the Thames!") and when Arthur is so interested in the TV ("No, Dad. You can't experiment on my TV! It costed me so much Muggle money, please don't do that!")

and just as he expected and lowkey feared, his siblings starts to mooch on the TV. the younger ones, at least. Bill's busy being husband and father and Charlie hightailed back to Romania cause he misses his baby dragons.

and since this is end of 1990s and early 2000s, there is a slight civil war between his siblings about which channel is the best and yes, they're all cartoon-related.

Ron and Ginny likes Nickelodeon while Fred and George favors Cartoon Network.

Percy likes Disney Channel (and he's a big sucker for spanish telenovelas), tho, and successfully ropes in the others cause there's some good content.

of course, he comes home from work and always finds one or more of his siblings watching TV and he's annoyed at this point because damn it, he can't have ANYTHING for himself (true sibling energy, right there).

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Father Thames, from Punch, 1858.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to Cale Snow's Chapter 230

TL;DR - Cale's group were led to a conference room. Poor knight commander had to do a body search for Cale and the dragons. Cale denies he was of the Snow family. Cale and Dennis discuss their plans and made agreements. Church sends a dragon to Erghe Mountains.

Body Inspection I felt sorry for the palace's knight commander in today's chapter. Because of protocol, he had to conduct a body search for visitors, and Cale's group was fine with it. But when Raon, who everyone clearly saw was a dragon, said he had no weapons and was fine with it, poor knight commander was shaking. 😂

And then Raon called Eruhaben as "goldie dragon-gramps" afterwards, and poor knight commander trembled more upon realizing Eruhaben was a dragon too. 🤣🤣🤣

Discussion Talks Cale liked King Dennis who quickly got to the main point when it came to discussions. He also found the king to be a good person to work with when dealing with the Holy Empire and the Aipotu dragons.

As for their discussion, they talked about the following:

Cale denied he was from the Snow family or their young master.

Dennis said that the Holy Empire might contact them soon.

Cale said he came to slay the dragons and not to deal with the Holy Empire.

Cale invited Dennis to join his side, and Dennis agreed.

Dennis said that dragons judged people like gods.

Dennis's flashback gave more evidence that Thames might be the Snow family. The previous king, Dennis's father, once showed him a portrait of the last members of the Snow family. And Dennis thought that Cale resembled them because of their red hair and the atmosphere around them.

New Dragon The new chapter title was "Victory Symbol", and we found out today why it was named that. Pope Casillia knew something went wrong with the subjugation force because contact with them had been lost. So she reported it to the Dragon Lord, and the Dragon Lord gave her a command.

That was to send a dragon to the Erghe Mountains to investigate. That dragon was Kendall, known as the God of Victory, one of the 10 living gods of Aipotu. He was a long silver-haired guy who had the innocence of a child, but was brutal underneath. Oooh, Rasheel's new punching bag is here! 😂

Ending Remarks Today's chapter was good because of Raon being cute, and evidence that the Thames was the Snow family. Next chapter would be Cale's meal with the king, or more content about the people in the black castle.

[weirdlookindog]

Gustave Doré - The Giant Bramble-Buffer

from 'River legends; or, Father Thames and Father Rhine', c. 1875.

source

[cowboy-heart]

'the first butch emerged from the channel'

(ID in read more)

[ID: an original poem titled 'the first butch emerged from the channel':

out of season Brighton pier / seagull shit crusted / fish out of water / skinned and dressed / like a boy in her father’s suit / swallowed like seawater / observed only by shuttered stalls / voices echo / echo from summer’s last choke / air stifles with the beginnings of cold tongue / the boy rolls her sleeves for her wrists to meet its taste / a haircut done with blunt kitchen scissors / hair scattered into the brown sea / her mother will mourn her when she is home.

a little girl / skips down the plankboard boulevard / holding sea salt and candy floss melting / in her cheek / spilt chocolate down the front of her / little white dress / she skips down / down / pulls off her dress and everything else / skips down / over the edge / skips down / to the bottom of the sea / returning home / still skipping to France / as her lungs fill.

her bedroom was just / the way she’d left it / mattress cupping its hands to hold her still / who took her? / what song did she hear? / did she know the person? / my baby came home that night but she didn’t / she was killed on Brighton pier / scissors severed her blonde waves and / she drowned in them / her eyes a wild spring storm / who took my baby? / fileted up her thighs / took out all that was inside / replaced it with something / old and rotten and urban / left her innards in the hallway hamper / I asked her what I should do with my baby’s guts and she / it / told me to take them to St Christopher’s hospice / who took my baby? / when was my baby taken from me?

it left my house / a hollow mouth / her bedroom perfectly preserved in / boyband posters / I sit on her bed / and wait for her to come home with / sand in her trouser pockets / ready to brush her hair tides goodnight / I sit on her bed / in our show room / when was the last time my baby came home? / when was the last time / that I braided her ocean? / I mourn / grieving stuck in my throat / like a winter cough / but I cannot bury her / for her flesh has been stolen / by a bull-dyke.

I am not a man / O, mother / I am not a woman / O, mother / I wear my father’s clothes better than he ever did / why do you insist on waiting for / a seaweed girl to come skipping home from the boardwalk / when your baby is still here? / O, mother / I need you / under my skin has always been constellations and diesel / just because I broke / your umbilical promise / why is it so easy for you to bury me alive? / under the sand?

why / why / why / would you rather your baby be dead and waterlogged / choking on Thames runoff / than different to what you had planned? / O, mother / I look for you everywhere / in every breast / in every mouth / O, mother / you didn’t want a daughter / you wanted a do-over.

by Ren H.

end ID].

[porcelana-r0ta]

Almost Saved You With Prayer

Fandom: Trash of the Count's Family

Relationships: Jour Thames/Deruth Henituse, Jour Thames & Original Cale Henituse

Word Count: 1745

Summary: When her son is born, his Rings are strange, and Jour is heartbroken.

Ao3 Link: [Here]

Her son’s birth is a long and painful one, but it is worth it when a bundle of soft fabric is placed gently in her arms, her little baby still crying angry tears. She’s so in love with her child and exhausted from delivering him that she doesn’t immediately notice the Rings of Life that circle around him in concentric, overlapping bands. 

“Cale,” she says, her voice hoarse from her own screams. “Cale. His name is Cale.” 

“A perfect name for the heir of the Henituse County,” the midwife says kindly. “Shall I send for the Count?” 

“Yes.” She’s breathless. Starstruck by the soft red baby hairs on her newborn’s head. He’s still crying, but she doesn’t care. She just loves. 

“As you wish, Countess.” With a bow, the midwife leaves, and not even a minute later, her husband comes running in. 

“Jour,” he says, panting, his eyes wide and full of wonder. He is quickly at her bedside, his gaze darting from his son to his wife. “The baby?”

“His name is Cale,” she says. “He wants to meet his father.” 

Deruth’s hands tremble as he takes Cale from her. One hand under the baby’s body and the other under his head, supporting the weight that Cale can’t hold up yet. 

“Hold him closer to your face,” she instructs, “so he can see you.” 

Deruth follows her instruction, and something in Cale stalls. His sobbing devolves into sniffles, and then ceases altogether, hazy little eyes blinking imploringly up at his father. 

Her husband is suddenly in tears himself. 

“Cale,” he says, and his tears fall. “Our son, Cale.” 

“Our son.” Jour smiles the words, safe and happy in her mouth. “We’re parents now.” 

“We are.” Deruth lifts the baby just a little higher and lowers his forehead to Cale’s. “Gods, Cale. Mommy and Daddy will always be there for you.” 

Her smile goes a little smaller at that. 

“Yes, we will.”

xxXxx

The next day, when Jour’s brain is no longer flooded with endorphins and exhaustion, her closest maid, Amelia, hands her Cale, and Jour finally notices the Rings around her baby boy. 

They start from the chest, as everyone’s Rings do, and then expand outwards, one for every year of life the person will experience. Cale’s Rings are healthy and bright silver, normally reassuring, if not for the fact that there are three sets of Rings. One is the healthy and bright set, another is a dim set of flickering gold, and the last is a rusting brown, sick in its life. 

Her breath catches in her throat, and if she were not in bed, she would have surely collapsed. 

“My Lady?” inquires Amelia, her tone cautious. “Is everything alright?” 

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I was… I was just struck by the wonder that is my baby.”

“He is lovely,” Amelia says happily. “The County is surely blessed to have him.” 

“Yes,” Jour agrees. “Amelia, please give me a few moments alone with my son.”

“Yes, my Lady.” And Amelia bows out, leaving Jour to stare at the two sets of Rings, and how the first set cuts off so abruptly and violently in slivers of silver. 

“Oh, my baby boy,” she whispers in the loneliness of her bedroom. “What happens to you?”

She reaches out, her hand shaking, and she latches onto that broken Ring, the fortieth band. Her fingernails dig into the noncorporeal form.

Show me, she commands her Ancient Power. Show me everything.

She sees blood and fire and agony and regret. The tear of flesh and bone. A figure kneeling in blood. And she hears weeping and screams and the clash of blades against blades and armor alike. 

And then she hears it: 

“Do we have a deal?” 

“...We do.”

She comes out of the vision crying for her son. She can’t see through her tears. 

“Cale, my baby.” She places her hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs. With her other hand, she pulls Cale to her chest, as if to bury him there forever and protect him from that wretched future. “No! No, please, no, not my baby....”

xxXxx

When Jour was a child, she had a brother fourteen years her senior. His name was Ashur, and by the time she was capable of storing memories, he was married with a son of his own, 

“Jour,” he said once when she was sighing over a boy at age fifteen. “Don’t be too excited. We are Thames.” 

“I know,” she replied, annoyed. Little sisters were always annoyed at older brothers, no matter the age difference. “I can still like them.” 

He gave a sad little smile, “Yes, you can. Perhaps I was too harsh. You won’t always be able to enjoy this time, after all.” 

She wrinkled her nose, “You sound all old, Orabeoni.” 

“I’m decently old, for a Thames.” 

“Our parents are older.” 

“You and I both know that Mother and Father are the exception, not the rule.” 

Her chest became heavy, and Ashur continued, “Time gives the Thames enough mercy to live on.”

“I know,” she whispered, and she pretends not to see the way Ashur’s thirtieth Ring breaks into red sparks of nothingness. 

xxXxx

The maids think she has postpartum depression, and she doesn’t know how to explain herself, so she doesn’t correct them. She just continues to pour herself over her old Thames texts, searching for any way possible to spare her son from his pain. 

By the time he’s a year old and Deruth tearfully begs her to take care of herself, she has to start looking for a different path. 

She pulls aside Head Butler Ron Molan, who’d been hired a year and a half ago. 

“Ron,” she says. She bounces her son on her hip to keep him from being fussy. “I’m sure you’re aware that Henituses don’t hire just anyone.”

“Of course, my Lady. This Ron is pleased to have a job here so that his son might be raised well.” 

“That’s good.” Jour plays with her son’s red hair that matches her own. “Ron. I know what the Molans used to do on the Eastern Continent.” 

“Ho?” His voice is suddenly dangerous and quiet, but Jour knows him, knows his Rings and his son’s Rings, and she thus knows she will be fine. 

“I want you to protect Cale,” she says. She looks up from her son’s hair to meet Ron’s eyes. “Protect my son, Ron, and you and your son will never have to run again.” 

He relaxes just a bit, but it’s enough. 

“This Ron would never do otherwise, my Lady.” 

“Good.” She sighs, presses a kiss into Cale’s hair, and says, “Thank you. Thank you, Ron.”

xxXxx

There’s not much else to do after ensuring her boy will live as long as possible, somehow until age forty and eighteen and seventy-three all in one. The Thames studied time, not space, but there are still enough cross-referenced texts in her library that she knows it’s not regression but transmigration. 

Her baby will be leaving his family, not just like her, but it will be enough. 

When he’s four years old, she runs her index finger around his fifteenth silver ring, the future flashing across her mind’s eye, and thinks, Well, not much of a family. Not much of a father.  

She asks Deruth to always be there for her child, to say no when he needs it, and Deruth just laughs. 

“Well, he’ll have everything he’ll ever need!” he says. “He’s a Henituse, and your son, at that. How can I say no to your visage?”

She gives a wan, watery smile. That might have been nice to hear before Cale was born, before she saw his future. 

“We can’t let him be too spoiled, dear.”

Deruth embraces her from behind, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her into his chest. He buries his face in her red hair, “Well, no.  But he deserves it.”

“It would be a disservice to our son.” 

He sighs out a laugh, “You’re right. You always are. No, we won’t spoil him.”

“You’ll say no when he needs it? When it’s best for him?” 

“Yes, of course. Especially if it’s best for him.”

“Good,” she smiles brighter. 

Later that night, she creeps into her son’s room. At four, he sleeps soundly, no longer a colicky newborn or a toddler in pain of teething. She rests her finger on his fifteenth silver ring, and weeps. 

Nothing has changed. Her husband is a liar. 

Jour doesn’t know what to fucking do. 

xxXxx

Jour runs her fingers around Cale’s fifteenth and eighteenth silver rings and tries not to feel betrayed whenever she looks at her husband or the Molans. 

It’s not their fault her son is so purely Thames that they believe his act without any training.

xxXxx

Jour’s son is eight and she is on her last Ring. She’s done everything she can for him and still she’s done nothing. There’s only one thing left to do.

One night, while Deruth is out on business in the city nearby, she cries herself to sleep. 

When she awakes, she writes a letter. 

“To the person who will be living in my son’s body…” She accepts what must be done. The man—White Star—in her son’s future cannot be allowed to acquire her full Ancient Power.

xxXxx

Next week, when Jour leaves for her trip to Harris Village, she kisses her husband. Then, she hugs her son, tiny and small and so full of love that he would destroy himself for children sprung on him with no notice, and she only barely holds back her tears. 

“Goodbye, Mama. I love you!”

“And I love you, Cale.” She holds his face, rubbing her thumbs under his brown eyes, and he smiles trustingly up at her, believing that she’s coming home healthy. 

Her heart breaks. She hugs him again. 

Deruth reaches out to hold her hand while she hugs Cale, and she takes it, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before letting it drop. 

She loves him, too, and she would choose him in every lifetime. But she doesn’t want to touch him when she knows what he will do to her son.

Long after the carriage has left Rain City’s limits, she weeps. 

She is leaving her son with people who will let Cale rot alone in alcoholism and self-hatred, the joke and scorn of noble and common society alike.

Maybe that makes her worse than all of them.

[victusinveritas]

From "THINGS I LEARNED FROM BALLADS" by Jim Macdonald ~

*Don’t ignore warnings. If someone tells you to beware of Long Lankin, friggin’ beware of him.

* If someone tells you not to go by Carterhaugh, stay away. Same goes for your mother asking you not to go out hunting on a particular day.

*Portents about weather, particularly when delivered by an old sailor who is not currently chatting up a country maid, are always worth heeding.

*If someone says that he’s planning to kill you, believe him.

*If someone says he’s going to die, believe him.

*Avoid navigable waterways. Don’t let yourself be talked into going down by the wild rippling water, the wan water, the salt sea shore, the strand, the lowlands low, the Burning Thames, and any area where the grass grows green on the banks of the great North Sea. Cliffs overlooking navigable waterways aren’t safe either.

*Broom, as in the plant, should be given a wide berth.

*Stay away from the greenwood side, too.

*Avoid situations where the obvious rhyme-word is “maidenhead.”

*If you look at the calendar and discover it’s May, stay home.

*The flowing bowl is best quaffed at home. Don’t drink with strangers. Don’t drink alone. Don’t toss the cups or pass the jar about in bars where you haven’t arranged to keep a tab. Drinks of unusual or uncertain provenance should be viewed askance, especially if you’re offered them by charming members of the opposite sex. Finally, never get drunk and pass out in a bar called “Cape Horn.”

*Members of press gangs seldom tell the truth. Recruiting sergeants will fib to you shamelessly. They are not your friends, even if they’re buying the drinks. Especially when they’re buying the drinks.

*If you’re drinking toasts, mention your One True Love early and often.

*If you’re a young lady, dressing yourself in men’s array and joining the army or the navy has all sorts of comic possibilities, but you yourself aren’t going to find it too darned humorous at the time.

*If you are an unmarried lady and have sex, you will get pregnant. No good will come of it.

*If you are physically unable to get pregnant due to being male, the girl you had sex with will get pregnant. No good will come of it. You’ll either kill her, or she’ll kill herself, or her husband/brother/father/uncle/cousin will kill you both. In any case her Doleful Ghost will make sure everyone finds out. You will either get hanged, kill yourself, or be carried off bodily by Satan. Your last words will begin “Come all ye.”

*Going to sea to avoid marrying your sweetie is an option, but if she hangs herself after your departure (and it’s even money that she’s going to) her Doleful Ghost will arrive on board your ship and the last three stanzas of your life will purely suck.

*If you are a young gentleman who had sex it is possible the girl won’t get pregnant. In those rare instances you will either get Saint Cynthia’s Fire or the Great Pox instead. No good will have come of it.

*New York Girls, like Liverpool Judies, like the ladies of Limehouse, Yarmouth, Portsmouth, Gosport, and/or Baltimore, know how to show sailors a good time, if by “good time” you mean losing all your money, your clothes, and your dignity. Note: All of these places are near navigable waterways. In practical terms this means that if you’re a sailor you’re screwed (and so are any young ladies you happen to meet). See also: Great Pox; Doleful Ghost.

*If you are a young lady do not allow young men into your garden. Or let them steal your thyme. Or agree to handle their ramrods while they’re hunting the bonny brown hare. Cuckoo’s nests are right out. And never stand sae the back o’ yer dress is up agin the wa’ (for if ye do ye may safely say yer thing-a-ma-jig’s awa’).

*Never let a stranger teach you a new game. No good will come of it.

*Sharing a boyfriend with your sister is a bad plan.

Having more than one True Love at a time is a non-starter.

*If you’re a brunette, give up.

*Not that being a blonde will improve the odds much.

*If your name is Janet, change it.