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the-fiction-witch · 4 months

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You... You can't just Kidnap a Girl FAGIN! P1

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader (Lady)

Rating Cute

Requested:

Hey, I absolutely love your writing and I have an idea so basically y/n is the governor's daughter and belle's sister and she knows of jack and he's kinda admired her for a while and fagin knows it, but jack is in debt still so fagin kidnaps her or something to get jack the money and yeah that's it and maybe some ~smut~ . anyways I absolutely adore this fic so far and you don't have to do it but I just thought it was a cool idea

I finished up with the rounds cleaning off my hands as I headed through the ward, my bottom lip between my teeth as Fagin followed me around while I was trying to work. He was panicking and frankly so was I, we had three days to get the rest of Darius' money... and currently we had about four pounds of the twenty-six required.

"I told you no." I snapped down his stupid idea,

"I don't know why you keep ignoring me dodge I have the best ideas..."

"You have terrible ideas, Fagin," I warn,

"Why don't we... sell fake prescriptions?"

"No. I am not letting you get me in trouble."

"Why not... sell the damn mangy hospital cat." He said, "Five bob for the meat two for the skin, and we'll be on our way."

"Hosptial-" I began as I looked around spotting the little black cat on the floor nibbling at some removed fingers, the usual black fur, blue eyes and purple collar, "That is not a mangy street cat." I told him as I carefully went over and picked the cat up she very happily nuzzled into my arms for a cuddle starting to purr, "This is Lady Nightingale, Lady Y/n Fox's cat. This cat outranks the both of us." I warned him as I took the cat to the front office to keep it out of trouble,

"she won't miss it-"

"Fagin." I stopped him, "I cannot. Cannot. be more clear about this. You touch that cat. it is both of our arses. That is the governor's daughter's cat and if so much as a hair on its perfectly brushed head is hurt I will ship you back to London myself," I told him,

"...When did you ever gain such an affection for cats?"

"I don't have an affection for cats. However, this one is a prized possession of someone very powerful and influential so it is in the best interests of our remaining alive if we do not hurt the cat." I told him as I gave the cat a pet and a check over as she tended to get into mischief on her way here,

"Powerful and influential... with... money?" he encouraged,

"Fagin..."

"If we happen to let the governor know his sweet girl's cat has gone... missing then surely a reward could be in order."

"Fagin. We are on no condition kidnapping the governor's daughter's cat and holding it for ransom,"

"But think of the green dodge?"

"No. It is not happening. Not at all. No way. Absolutely not. I want you to swear to me."

"...Fine... I Swear I will not Kidnap the cat and hold it for ransom."

"Or hurt the cat."

"...Or hurt the cat."

"Alright then," I nodded just as I saw the door open, to a familiar sight.

Lady Y/n Fox wandered in, wearing her sweet little black leather boots, stockings, her beautiful lilac purple dress with a lobster tail bustle below it, and her sweet hair pinned up with her little dragonfly hairpin. She rushed in with a look of fear across her face as she often did but she relaxed a little when she saw me and Lady Nightingale,

"Afternoon Y/n," I smiled, doing my best not to blush as I continued to pet her cat,

"Good Afternoon Jack," she smiled, "I'm so sorry..." she said as she came to pet Lady Nightingale,

"It's alright I know she likes to come and keep us company,"

"Umm she likes to come to find you," she laughs, "Every time I open the window nowadays she bolts out to come to find you,"

"Yeah I guess so, but still I'm happy she'd be here with me so you know where she is."

"I suppose so, and I get to come down and see you,"

"Yeah, I do get to see you, both of you." I smiled, "Well it was lovely to see you, Lady Nightingale, of course you are welcome to surgery as always as our best hospital patron, but now it is time to end the honour of your visit and head home with Lady Y/n," I laughed,

"Yes and It was delightful for a visit with you two doctor Dawkins, I know Lady Nightingale enjoyed it. and I'm sure she'll be back." She laughed as she picked the cat up in her arms, "Thank you for taking care of her Jack,"

"It's no problem really,"

"Thank you, I'm sure I'll see you around Doctor Dawkins," she smiled,

"I look forward to it Milady," I smiled giving her hand a kiss before she headed out with cat in hand,

"Interesting... how you're on first name terms with the goveners daughter." Fagin smirked, "A lady no less..."

"Fagin. Do not. Hurt. Cat."

"I swear on Milife Dodge I won't hurt that cat."

"Alright then..." I nodded, "I need to get back to work," I sighed heading back to the ward,

#tbs #thomas brodie sangster #thomas sangster #thomasbrodiesangster #tbs smut #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #tbs imagine #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster smut #doctor jack dawkins #jackdawkins #jack #jack dawkins #the artful dodger #theartfuldodgerjack #thearttfuldodger #theartfuldogger

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unusuallysubtext · 19 days

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Hey, can I request a oneshot where Y/n (Mycroft's spouse) suddenly brought a puppy home; they found the puppy on the sidewalk. They brought the puppy home, cleaned him up, and then went to the pet store to buy supplies like dog food, toys, a bed, and a pad for the puppy to pee or poop on. They returned home with all the supplies.

Mycroft finally arrived home after a long day at work. He found Y/n on the floor and was confused at first until he saw the puppy they were playing with. He was perplexed and definitely against it at first, but a few weeks later, Y/n finds Mycroft in the living room with the puppy on his lap while Mycroft reads his newspaper.

Thank you in advance!

Thank you for your request! Requests are open as of 18/06/2024. Tags under the cut. To be removed/added to the taglist, send an ask or DM me.

Today was one of those rare days off you had from work, but as usual, it was never in sync with Mycroft's busy schedule. You had awoken to a cold bed with the sun already beaming through the crack in the curtains. With a sigh, you climbed out of bed and stretched, making your way downstairs. A vase of sunflowers stood on the kitchen counter, a card beside it on top of a box of London’s finest pastries.

Good morning, my love.

Salon appointment at two p.m.

Take care of yourself.

Love,

M.H.

You smiled, admiring the set up and the time taken out of Mycroft’s morning. Of course he had booked out an entire salon; nails, hair, facials, drinks…

After getting comfortably dressed (a change from your usual business attire), eager to eat more than a few pastries (it would be unfair to try only a couple, after all), you ran downstairs and popped the kettle on.

As you sipped your tea, you pondered how to spend the rest of your day until a car picked you up at one-thirty. The idea of a long walk around the estate seemed appealing, especially with the rare London sun.

Spring coat and boots on, you set out for your walk. The streets were quiet unlike the bustling inner city, and she much appreciated the calm; it allowed for decompression after high stress days at your demanding job. As she turned a corner into a small park, she noticed a small bundle of fur huddled in the bushes fronting the blue-painted metal rails. Curiosity piqued, you approached cautiously.

To your surprise, it was a puppy, shivering despite the unusual warmth, alone. You were expecting a rabbit, likely dead after the foxes got to it, not an uncommon sight in this area. The little creature looked up at you with wide, fearful eyes. You kneeled, allowing your hand to be sniffed before you picked it up. Upon further inspection, it was only a couple of weeks old, the size of your hand, and bore no collar.

"Poor thing, you must be freezing," you murmured, stroking its soft fur as you held it close to your chest. "Let's get you home."

She made a quick stop at a nearby pet store and vet clinic, purchasing everything the puppy would need—food, a bed, toys, and a small collar, which you left unetched without a name, only your phone number on the back of the tag.

By the time she arrived back at the house, her arms were full of supplies, and the puppy seemed much more comfortable in your breast pocket. The clinic had not detected a microchip, making you wonder how long the pup had been outside as you set up a cozy corner in the living room. You watched as the puppy explored its new surroundings, following you with tiny, tentative paw taps to the kitchen, where you poured some water and food into its bowls.

"Mycroft is not going to like this," you thought out loud with a wry smile, imagining his reaction. But the sight of the puppy, now curled up contentedly in its new bed, made her feel certain she had made the right decision.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of playing with the puppy, canceling your salon appointment and ride through Anthea, and preparing dinner after the pup grew tired enough to fall asleep in its bed. As evening fell, you found yourself anxiously awaiting Mycroft's return, wondering how he would react to your new addition and fearing his disappointment of being unable to enjoy his planned day for you.

The grandfather clock struck once, indicating five-thirty and you arose from the dining table to head to the front door. You opened it to see Mycroft, who was pleasantly surprised at your greeting.

“Good evening, darling. How was your day?” he asked, heading in. His smile immediately turned to scrutiny as he sensed something was wrong. “You didn’t go… Why do you have cat hair on you?” Mycroft asked, looking at you.

“Dog, Mycroft,” you rolled your eyes. You weren’t anxious anymore, just keen to see Mycroft discover what you’d done. You followed him to the living room, where he froze at the sight of the sleeping puppy across from you.

“Y/N, what on earth were you thinking? How will you care for it?” Mycroft cried. He never called you by your name. Only ‘Mr/Miss/Mx L/N’ before marriage, and ‘my love’ and ‘darling’ after.

“Mycroft!” you were taken aback, but still attempted to explain your situation. “She was abandoned on the side of the road, no collar, no chip. I couldn’t leave her there!”

“Do you know how many shelters there are in London? One-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty-seven! Any one of them would have taken it in.” Mycroft was exasperated. “Y/N, please think before making such decisions…” he trailed off, softening his tone and expression as he caught sight of your teary eyes. He walked to you, touching your cheeks and kissing your forehead. “I love you. I don’t love that,” he indicated to the puppy with his head. “I do not want this matter to cause any stress to our relationship. I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do about her as soon as possible.”

You understood where Mycroft was coming from. Both of you worked full-time, and taking care of a puppy who was rapidly transforming into a full-grown dog was like taking care of a toddler. She would need to be trained, spayed, played with for mental stimulation… it was going to be a lot.

While Mycroft showered, you heated up dinner. As the two of you ate, the puppy awoke and padded to the dining room, watching Mycroft curiously. The two of them stared at the other intently, frozen in place, and you watched in amusement.

That night, you lay in bed on your side against Mycroft’s chest. It was a miracle that the puppy had not followed you upstairs, but was instead sleeping soundly in the living room.

Mycroft had been sitting on the sofa after dinner, reading their mail while she tried to reach the seat beside him. Watching her struggle for a couple of minutes from the corner of his eye, he finally sighed and picked her up. She lay down next to Mycroft’s side, and he begrudgingly had let her. She fell asleep, as Mycroft mumbled, mostly to himself. “You don’t have a name, do you? You are rather annoying, going to places you don’t belong. Sofas are for humans, the dog bed, as implied in the name, is for you.” Mycroft thought for a moment, then chuckled in revelation. “Sheryl.” He seemed pleased with the name.

“Mycroft?” you say quietly, unable to see him. The curtains have been drawn for the night, the bed toasty from your combined body heat.

“Hmm?”

“Are you jealous of her?”

There is a pause. “That is preposterous! Go to sleep,” you can feel him shaking his head as he is ripped from his near sleep.

You smile to yourself, turning around and kissing his cheek before drifting off to sleep.

Days went by, and you spent all of your lunch breaks and the extra ten minutes you had in the mornings at work calling animal shelters in London, despite the heartache. It would not be difficult at all to get the pup into one, just inhumane. Unsurprisingly, they were all overcrowded and underfunded. You glanced up from the website you were reading on your phone to the stack of paperwork overshadowed by your boss. You sighed.

“Working, are we, Mr/Mrs/Mx Holmes?” Ms Smallwood sneered, saying your name as if it were sour milk.

“Yes, apologies, ma’am. No excuses,” you said, grabbing a pen and opening the first file.

Her beady eyes watched you for a moment before huffing and storming out on her four-inch heels.

You shot Mycroft a quick text.

Going to be late, sorry. Lots of paperwork, ughh. Can’t wait to get a transfer. - Y/F/I.H.

Don’t worry, my love. I’ll have dinner and a bath ready. Don’t stress, my darling. I shall see you this evening. - M.H.

You smiled at your husband’s preemptiveness, silently thanking the universe for having him to go home to.

It was quarter-to-seven when you arrived home. You walked through the hallway past the empty study and dining room, the aroma of dinner making your mouth water. In the living room, you could see Mycroft, engrossed in reading the newspaper… out loud? Mycroft saw you, and hushed you, pointing to the sleeping puppy curled up against his belly. He finished reading one last sentence of today’s headlining news: ‘Two murdered bodies found in abandoned freezer at Wembley Sainsbury’s.’

“Goodnight, Sheryl, sleep well,” Mycroft said quietly, putting the newspaper down and patting her gently before picking her up and placing her in her bed. He then walked over to you. “Hello, darling, how was your day?”

“Sheryl, huh?” you laughed.

“Too late to change it now, I have already had it engraved,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “I have already fed her–one cup–walked her around the estate, had her pee, and read her a bedtime story, of course.”

You squealed in joy, engulfing Mycroft in a hug. “We’re keeping her?!”

“Yes, of course we are, darling. How else will I keep in shape?”

“Oh, Mycroft! You’re already perfect. I love you! I can’t believe we get to keep her!”

Every night onwards, Sheryl lay in wait in front of the dinner table for the two of you to finish eating and take her for a walk. She would chase butterflies in the very park she was found in before returning to her home, where Mycroft would read her the headlines and let her pick her bedtime story from the papers. Some days it was stock trading tips, obituaries and juicy celebrity gossip, other days it was how her Uncle Sherlock was saving the arses of the Met Police, and gruesome murder-suicides. Every night, she fell asleep in Mycroft’s lap, even when she grew up to be a huge German shepherd. Every night, you snapped a picture of the two, compiling the photographs into an album that showed how their bond strengthened and their kinship blossomed.

Tagging: @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot

#amethyst be writing #amethyst be answering #bbc sherlock #mycroft holmes #y/n x mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x you #mycroft holmes × y/n #reader x mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft holmes x gn!reader

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anincompletelist · 7 months

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[ vol i | vol ii | fic rec fridays ]

hi all! :D happy december! I've read so many amazing fics this past month and the tbr list just keeps on growing! I wanted to share some here so they don't get lost in the shuffle!

as always, please remember to leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed the fic or show support in other ways, and be kind! mind the tags and if you come across something you dislike, please kindly (and quietly) move on.

that said, happy reading and enjoy! <3

in no particular order --

(i would stay forever if you said) don't go | @coffeecatsme | T+ | 6k

The words echo in his head, unbidden. The words from another life, practically another universe, shoved inside the small walls of a gilded cage, hidden in a room in London with shuttered windows and locked doors. A boy’s voice Henry still remembers ten years later, when he doesn’t quite remember what he had for lunch the day before. A boy’s voice on a phone that understood him better than every member of his family, even an ocean, a continent, three thousand miles away. A boy’s voice that told him in no uncertain terms that it was okay if he wasn’t okay, that allowed him to pave a path until he was. To open a new shelter in New York City, Henry needs to interview a host of potential lawyers to hire. He doesn't expect one of them to be the boy that saved his life ten years ago.

(mind the tags!)

a rich and complex tapestry | @everwitch-magiks | E | 8k

When Alex first hooks up with Henry, he's expecting a fun one-night-stand and maybe the occasional booty call. He does not expect to get so completely pulled into Henry’s orbit that it forces him to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about his sexuality. And he's not sure if it makes it better, or way worse, that Henry is actually a professional at all this stuff — what are the odds that Alex would hook up with the one guy on campus who hosts his own radio show about sex? 'Sleeping With Henry' is about to gain one devoted listener.

outta luck to spend | potentiallyunloveable | T+ | 9k

“Nora ignorin’ ya?” a voice says from beside him, and Henry startles, turns to his left, is suddenly frozen. The man who’s slid into the seat next to him, silently, without Henry noticing, is quite possibly the most beautiful man Henry’s ever seen in his life. He’s got the widest smile, sweet dimples, soft brown skin and impossibly long eyelashes. He’s wearing a fucking Stetson, and Henry feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Or: Henry (lost, hopeless) meets Alex (bright, hopeful), in a bar in Texas.

(mind the tags!)

everything's growing in our garden | @matherines | T+ | 7k

That night, in the safety of his hotel room on the outskirts of the Olympic Village, Henry couldn’t catch his breath. He coughed and coughed, feeling like he was choking on nothing, but there was a scratching sensation in his throat that he just couldn’t shake – until a single blue petal flew past his lips, landing in the porcelain bowl of the sink. After an hour of painstaking Googling, he learns that it’s a Texas bluebonnet. He also learns what the fact that he’s coughing up petals means – the beginning stages of Hanahaki Disease. Rare, but not unheard of, according to the NHS website he browses in an incognito tab. Common in royal bloodlines (thank you, inbreeding). "Only curable if the afflicted’s love is requited with a declaration," he reads, and slams his laptop closed with a bitter laugh, wet with tears. "A surgical procedure removing the afflicted’s capacity for love may be performed if the love remains unrequited. Otherwise, the condition is terminal." So, then. He has no chance.

ocean waves | seafloor | E | 10k

Henry Fox wakes up with a toothache one morning, and has a lot of feelings about certain things for days afterwards.

while you were sleeping (I fell in love) | @kill8a | M | 3k

As their relationship progresses, Alex notices that Henry’s sleeping habits start to progress as well. Notably, more naps, less insomnia, and a knack for falling asleep at any hour of the day.

So I Will Weather The Storm | @sparklepocalypse | E | 9k

They’re in the air twenty minutes before the next report comes in, this time over their headsets. “Patient is located on the eastern side of Sgòr Gaoith. He reports a sudden snow squall came up, and he lost his footing and took a fall. He’s conscious and reports no major injuries, but he’s stuck on a ledge and can’t make it back to the trail. Patient is wearing a red jacket and a black knit cap and states his name is – ” there’s a burst of static over the radio. “Please repeat the patient’s name,” Henry says into the headset mic as Schlosser programs the mountain’s location into the GPS. There’s a bit more static, and then the dispatcher states, “Alexander Claremont-Diaz.” (Or, a movieverse canon divergent AU wherein Henry is in the RAF and Cakegate still takes place, but the PR campaign doesn't happen – and two months after Cakegate, Alex does something dumb on a mountain in Scotland.)

crawl | ironwords | E | 6k

“Well,” Alex says. He swallows, mouth dry. Closes his eyes, takes the hand not in Henry’s and runs it along his tummy, up and up to his bottom rib and then up over that as well. The skin is soft, but the bones under them are hard, firm under Alex’s palm; his fingers dance over the spaces and grooves, feeling along the edges of bone and dipping into the empty space between. Deep breath: in, out. In again, hold it for a few seconds, then out. Then: “I want to, like. Be in you.” Oh wow. Nice one, Alex. Awesome phrasing. Fucking great job.

'til the walls did crumble and | @ninzied | E | 5k

So much for using the wrong fork at dinner. He’s pretty sure this is a thousand times worse. Hundred-thousand? Nora could give him the exact number. Also, he’s pretty sure there’s still buttercream on his ass. (Or, Alex has his bisexual awakening in a bathroom at Buckingham Palace, and also finds leftover cake in Henry’s hair. The two things are not not related.)

Moon Bride (To Have and To Hold) | satinbirds | M | 7k

When the man is brought before him, it’s as if the whole world stops. Clad in delicate gossamer, his apparent frailty is accentuated by the sheer fabric. It is likely a cheap attempt to entice him, yet it only elicits displeasure from the king. He already wishes to dress this fragile figure in the veil of his people, cover him from invidious and lustful eyes.

It's Called Tact, Fuck-Rag! | @largepeachicedtea | E | 12k

Texas had been an odd choice, some might say. Henry thinks it's perfect. College is a time to go crazy, after all. (A Scream AU)

(mind the tags!)

Aftercare | @whimsymanaged | M | 2k

When Alex has an intense hookup without aftercare, he finds himself on his best friend Henry’s doorstep in desperate need of looking after.

that's all for now!! hoping to get some more free time this month to read once I finish up some wips! be kind to one another this holiday season, and happy reading! :D

-- sarah / anincompletelist xx

#fic recs #my fic recs #red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb fic recs #red white and royal blue fanfic #firstprince

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jj-5656 · 1 year

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Compromise With; Anthony Lockwood

A/N: An anon requested angst, and who would I be not to deliver? This one took a while, apologies for the wait. Thank you so much for all the recent love, it means so much. I hope you enjoy.

TW: Descriptions of injury, arguing, suicidal ideation(?), Lockwood being a self-absorbed prick :)

Summary: The one where you and Anthony are at odds, and there seems to be little room for reconciliation.

Taglist: @sunshineangel-reads @fox-bee926 @helpmelmao @galactidiot @soupsaurus @nekee-lilac02 (Tagged ppl who seemed to like my last story, lmk if you want to be removed <3)

Lockwood isn’t accustomed to your anger.

Well...That’s not entirely true. You have a bit of a short fuse, sometimes. Accustomed to your occasional irritance, sure. He fancies teasing you, pushing your buttons for the sake of admiring the way your nose scrunches up, how you huff that ever-stubborn strand of hair from your vision.

This, though. Whatever this is, it’s different. You’re practically seething as you search around the lamp-lit kitchen. Booming thunder and relentless London rain the only noise accompanying your movement. That and the boot shackled around your left foot, which thumps pitifully as you rummage the first aid kit. He feels like a disobedient child sat in the headmistress’ office. Ragged hair still damp from the rain after a grueling mission. One that’s left a nasty gash across his forearm, having been forced into a picture frame in the midst of fighting a vengeful type two.

George and Lucy had long gone off to bed. A brisk debrief over a final cup of tea before slugging off to their respective bedrooms. Luckily, your bastard of a boyfriend had suffered the only injury. You’d missed all the action considering your current state, though that hadn’t ceased the fierce beating of your heart as you slumped into the seat in front him. Drawing the oil lamp nearer for better light as you motion for his arm. He obeys immediately, silently, face pulled with the kind of tension only present when he’s really worried.

Good. You honestly hope he’s terrified. Serves him right. Your tense mood is not only due to his ailment, but the lingering frustration from your argument earlier in the evening.

**************

“Absolutely not. You’re not coming along on any missions ‘til that boot is off.”

“Anthony, I’ll be alright. I’ve been getting around the house just fine so far!” “You shouldn’t even be on it as much as have been.” He’s got the audacity to scoff, almost amused. “More stress will only make the healing process longer.” You cross your arms, looking toward your bag-clad friends for support.

“We should check on the cab.” Lucy offers a tight-lipped smile as George nods, ushering her out the front door before you can direct your anger toward them.

“You said yourself this case is going to be especially touch sensitive. That the client reported how evasive the problem was. Sight and sound won’t be as useful.”

“Precisely. Perfect that George is coming along, yes?” Your eyes narrow at his condescension, you’d grown tired of his babying ever since your incident two cases ago. It felt like ages since you’d been in the field.

“George will be too preoccupied with all the evidence! I won’t even go further than a few feet from the threshold. Just let me get a feel of things so I can-”

“I said no, y/n. It’s final.”

“Says who?”

“Says the leader of this company.” You choke a laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud.

“Right, yes. The one who makes all the calls?”

“Sounds about right.” His brown eyes narrow in challenge, frustrated you’re failing to understand he’s only trying to keep you safe.

“Same one who made the call we go into the Hope residence without well-rounded research? The case we rushed into without enough information and it ended with me on house arrest?” It’s a low blow, undoubtedly. A twinge of wounded guilt flashes across his face before the venom seeps back in. Lump in his throat burning horribly before he swallows it to dissipation.

“Same one who knows if things go South this time ‘round you’ll only slow us down.” Your stomach twists with the distaste in his tone, vision blurring with tears as he turns toward the door. Jumping as it slams shut and takes him with it.

********

“Won’t need stitches.” You note simply, surveying the wound gently. He nods, shoulders straightening in preparation for the oncoming pain. “Still some glass debris, I’ll have to take it out.” He’s lucky, from what it looks like the gash could have been much worse.

“I can manage it just fine on my own.” You bite your tongue. In the year’s biggest plot twist, Anthony Lockwood insists on suffering alone in lieu of his own pride.

“You can’t. You’re not risking any more damage to the arm that wields your rapier. Just let me.” He doesn’t listen, of course. Pinching the tweezers in his grasp and looming forward to get a better look. Dizzying at the sight, he’s not strong enough to prohibit you from taking them back. Pushing at his shoulder so he’ll relax against the chair.

It’s not your typical bedside manner. Usually when injuries happen its gentle touches and muttered sorries or other affections. Soft and kind.

The intruding thought pulls Lockwood’s frown deeper. The throbbing in his arm practically minuscule to the war zone in his mind. It’s awful...He misses you and yet you’re a mere foot away.

His fist clenches as the tweezers near his skin once more, hand taking hold of your wist to cease the uncontrollably trembling of your appendage.

“Love-”

“Shush, I can do it.” You take a deep breath. Wordlessly combatting your conflicting emotions with slow, calculated inhales. You’re an agent. You’ve trained for this. Though the textbooks help little with the patching up tactics when it’s someone you love, when you’re at such odds.

You approach again, steady this time. He sucks his teeth at the particularly intricate extractions, but remains still for you. You move with as much efficiency as possible. Trying to remove the person from the wound, just as the books suggest. Though it’s nearing impossible with his eyes trained on you. Trying to steal every thought from your mind as if they’re his own.

When you’re applying sterile gauze after thorough disinfection, he finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you.” He clears his throat after it falters...From emotion or lack of use, you aren’t sure. Doesn’t matter, honestly. You’re still keen on grilling him.

“George said you followed it up the stairs without telling him and Luce.”

“I was in a hurry. Wouldn’t have found its’ source in time if I hadn't.” You don't event try to conceal the roll of your eyes. Anger sinking back in as you collect the wrappers on the table and toss them into the bin.

“So you’re allowed to be reckless on the job as long as nobody else is?”

“Reckless. I’d argue, is an exaggeration.”

“Exaggeration? Christ, you’re impossible.”

“Yeah?” He stands as you do, holding his wounded arm to his stomach as he leans against the counter. “How’s that?”

“You’re fine with breaking protocol so long as you’re the one doing it. Putting yourself at risk any chance you get without a second thought. It’s maddening!”

“And how do you suppose you got yourself in that boot?”

“Not by beckoning death! Mine was an accident, Anthony. I swear, sometimes it’s like you want to get yourself killed!”

“You don’t-”

“No! I’m not finished.” You step toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest to accentuate your wrath. “You have people depending on you. People that care about you, love you to bits. And you’d rather spend the better half of missions taunting death than preventing it. If you wanted to be so fucking careless, you shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you. Now here we are, both vexed and in varying casts because of you can’t seem to understand the sanctity of your own life.”

He knew that much had been true. Lockwood would risk just about anything in a case so long as it granted him victory. Hadn’t that been in the fine print, though? Guaranteed in this line of work? So long as you were granted this talent, this curse, you had a responsibility to utilize it to the best of its ability.

“Sweetheart.” It’s strained, nearly a beg with the amount of exhaustion ridden in his tone. “We can continue this tomorrow. Let’s go to bed, please.”

“I can’t,” his knuckles go white with their grip on the cold countertop as you hurriedly wipe at your eyes. “I can’t go to bed angry with you.”

“Then don’t.” He takes one, two careful strides toward you. Fingers pinching at your elbow in an attempt to satisfy the burning need to hold you. “Let’s forgive each other for the next seven hours. Then you can go on hating me, okay?” You huff a laugh, forehead instinctively pressing to his chest. He bathes in it as long as you’ll allow, pulling back seconds later and headed toward your room with him in tow.

********

Anthony’s eyes follow your frame as you approach the stove. Taking the cup of tea he’s prepared for you and taking your usual seat between him and George. He pushes your chair out with his foot to allow you easier access, nudging a plate of buttered toast your way. It’s not an apology, not even an olive branch. Lockwood simply refuses to cease these small acts of service no matter how angry you are with one another. It’s practically instinctual at this point, second nature. His brows furrow when you let out a relieved exhale once sat. Joining along your accomplices’ conversation about your ongoing case he’s drowned out momentarily in order to observe you.

“It hurts, doesn't it,” he unknowingly interrupts George’s spiel, “your foot.”

“Only a bit. Just this morning.” It’s a meek defense. An evident dismissal so as not to prove his bench-warming call the right one.

“You’ve been on it too much.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And if you had just listened-”

“Are we really starting this up again, right here?” Your eyes bore daggers into his frame. Doing your best to conceal your rage in leui of your dear bystanders beside you. Theres a few beats of silence, a moment of peace before the sorry fuck plates the nail in the coffin.

“George, any word of upcoming cases? The sooner we leave for the day, the better.” Your chair scrapes against the hardwood as soon as he’s finished, silverware trembling as you force yourself upward.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” It’s practically a whisper, ridden with rage and overwhelming upset. His brown eyes meet yours, cold and distant. Completely unfamiliar.

“So you like to think.” He quips, eyes following your form as you exit the kitchen twice as quick as you came in. There’s silence again, impossibly more awkward than before.

“Dick move, Lockwood.”

“Stay out of it, Luce.”

“She’s right. Real dickish move there.”

“George-”

“Right. Staying out of it.”

*******

Lockwood prides himself for a lot of things. Communication, definitively, has never been one of them.

How’s he supposed to explain it’s easier to put himself in front of the all the danger you face? That the rest of you need each other much more than you need him.

That he’d rather die than lose someone again.

He’s quiet as he creeps in, the usual love-lorn quip forgotten as he enters your shared bedroom. You’d been laying in bed, had been since breakfast. You weren’t usually one to sulk, but you were still in pain and definitely still angry. At your boyfriend, this damned boot, the world.

“Word is your boyfriend’s been a right prick, lately. I’m hoping this can be my opportunity to stake my claim. If you’re cutting him out, that is.” He’s kneeling at the bedside, chin pressing into his forearms as he supports his head. You can feel his heat from here, hate how it weakens your cold resolve. His fingertip traces the skin on your back where your shirts ridden up, a ghost of a small passing his lips when you shudder. You’re pulling up the duvet, ceasing his touch while a trace of you wishes it hadn’t.

You can’t see any hint of amusement leave his features. The dim of his eyes and the stutter of his heart. He swallows, subconsciously shuffling nearer. The need to be close growing tenfold.

“Lovely, will you look at me?” Lockwood can’t help but cringe at how desperate it sounds. Whispered, rushed, fragile. Every indication he cares much more than he’s used to.

He almost wishes he had’t asked. Dread consuming him when you turn to face him, tear stained cheeks and blotchy eyes. Lashes stuck together with moisture, blinking slow and strained. “Darling.” Is all he can manage, wounded and hushed. It makes you want to cry even more.

“Why can’t you see I’m worried about you?” You croak out, voice strained and scratchy. His knuckles brush the moisture from under your eyes, brows furrowed with an expression you can’t quite read.

“I do.” He wets his lips, “I see that.” An implication of I see you and I’m sorry. He’s never been good at apologies, but this time you need one. You need something, anything more than the breadcrumbs he drops. The urge to invite him in plagues your mind, broken expression tugging at your heart strings. You know better than to brush this one off, it’ll only have the same conflict arising again and lead to resentment. The realization reforms the burning lump in your throat, vision blurring with fresh tears.

“I just-we need space.” Don’t we? Lockwood rears back, mustering up resolve he doesn’t have. You don’t mean indefinitely, you don’t mean a breakup, he knows that. Doesn’t make the words burn any less.

“Okay, fine then.” If that’s what you really want.

He’s grabbing the dog-eared magazine at your bedside before you can say anything else. He hesitates at the door knob, begging to force himself to turn around and plead. Anthony Lockwood’s ego is somewhere near the sun, but its no match for how he feels about you.

*******

You know when you suddenly become conscious of blinking? And it starts to feel a little odd, manual instead of automatic? You can almost forget what it was like to not have to consciously do it...

Breathing is kind of like that too

At least, that’s what Lockwood thinks when he’s sure he’s suffocating.

His heart thrums so roughly against his chest he’s sure it’ll burst. He wonders who’d find him, huddled in the corner of the library. Cold and lifeless. He must be trembling, it feels as though the whole ground is vibrating, or-sinking. Swallowing him entirely.

Then there was the pounding. His head, yes. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. But this is different. A rhythmic thumping approaching. Closing in on him, eager to push him into the sinking floor to meet his imminent demise.

You’re in the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, eyes trained on the tap filling up your glass. The bed feels empty without him. And sure, you’d probably sent a clear ‘fuck off to the couch’ message with your latest conversation...But it hadn’t made falling asleep without him any easier.

You’re taking a deep breath in, preparing for a right pitiful sigh when you hear it. Some sort of squeaking. Your head cocks to the side, discarding the glass in search of its origin. Surely one of the sources wasn’t acting up, that’d be right terrifying when you’re alone. It leads you toward the study, louder and more frequent as you draw closer.

It’s when you cross the threshold do you see him. Tall frame curled into the corner as hiccuped gasps rack his frame.

He scoots impossibly closer to the wall as you approach. Dropping to your knees and lifting his face to study him. A foreign sheen of panic clouds over his eyes, sending your stomach turning.

“Anthony, it’s me. I’m here, I’m right here.”

You’ve coached him through as many panic attacks as he’s allowed throughout the years. The first time, in academy, you were sure he was choking. A plate of biscuits strewn over the floor as he gasped for breath.

They’re unpredictable, no matter how many times you’ve handled them. He needs something different almost every time to snap him out of it. Though it’s mostly physical touch.

“C-cant breathe.” Your boot thumps as you draw closer, eliciting another wince from him. Clutching into the fabric of his shirt as if trying to pull it free. You undo his tie and the first couple buttons, grabbing at the sides of his face in a desperate attempt to get him to focus on you.

“Anthony please, listen to me. I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it you just push at me, alright?” A curt, gasping nod in understanding before you’re enveloping him in an embrace. Squeezing so tight you can feel his panicked heart thrumming against your chest. It makes you want to cry and scream and hold him even tighter. Willing his pain away with all of your might.

It’s not working this time ‘round. He can’t seem to collect himself despite your efforts. You pull away, fearing your persistence will only send him further spiraling. But he’s tugging you to him again. Arms tight around your waist as he buries himself into your neck.

“Dont. D-don’t go. Don’t leave.” The usual cool and collected tone is manipulated to something unrecognizable. Rasped and unsure.

It’s then you remember the look in his eyes when you’d dismissed him. The abandonment he’s feared his entire life. The little boy who forced himself to stay awake all those lonely nights, just in case he heard the lock turn and the front door open to bring them home. His adamant refusal to ignore your connection for years in lieu of protecting his broken heart.

“Hey, look at me.” You’re pulling him back by the sides of his hide, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Lockwood, I’m not going anywhere. Doesn’t matter how angry I am,” you wince when he hiccups a sob. “Doesn’t matter how much you try to push me away.” He shakes his head, something short of a disbelieving chuckle passing his trembling lips. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here. With you, always. You understand?” He manages to nod, an inkling of solace flashing across his form.

“Just breathe, Anthony. In…and hold…and out”

Your words sound a mantra in his mind. Your scent flooding his senses, skin on his bringing him back to reality. A morsel of relief prodding its way in as you caress the sides of his face and up into his hair.

“I’m sorry.” He swallows, focusing on formulating the words. “I know I haven’t said it. Never say it enough.” Shaky arms wrap tighter around your waist, keeping you close. Afraid you’ll disappear despite your affirmations.

“Consider yourself forgiven.” You bite back a smile when the tension unknowingly spills out of his body. Frame drooping with undoubted relief at the simple words. “I love you. Even when you’re a right prick.”

“I know.” He pulls you so you’re between his legs. Your back against his bent appendage and your own pair over his other outstretched one. Right side of your body pressing against his chest. You try to push away, unable to fight his affections off despite his weakened state.

“See? Right prick, you are.”

“Shush. You know bloody well I love you.” He presses a kiss to your temple, smoothing over your hair and gaging your reaction. Still catching his breath from before. “I know I don’t say that enough either.” He’s quiet then, brown eyes looking to yours with such sincerity your breath catches in your throat. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”

“That’s sort of what I’m afraid of, if you don’t recall.” You’re both solemn then. Your fingers intertwining with his in a familiar dance. He can only hum, swallowing thickly.

“What if,” his eyes rake your frame. Studying you again. “What if you came along the next assignment?” You light up at that, searching his features for jest.

“Really?”

“Just outside. Making sure we’re all alright. And I don’t go off getting myself killed.”

“But-”

“Dove.” The nobility in his tone finds him again. A subtle warning. “This is me. Anthony Lockwood, attempting a compromise.” You bite back an abashed smile at his raised brows, urging surrender.

“Noted.” You fiddle with the cool, silver ring adorning his index finger. “I get to select the case, then.”

“Alright.”

“And I get to intervene if things go South.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Figured that was ambitious.”

#lockwood x reader #lockwood and lucy #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood gifs #lockwood netflix #anthony bloody lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #lockwood imagine #lockwood fanfic #lockwood fic #lockwood x you

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phanfictioncatalogue · 23 days

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do u guys possibly know of a fic like slow burn/friends to lovers? (completed) something like if you don't love me pretend, that kind of vibe :( cause i just finished it i dont know what else to read

There’s definitely a lot, but tbh I haven’t read If You Don’t Love Me Pretend (swear it’s been on the to do list). But here’s what comes to mind for friends to lovers and slow burn that I’ve personally read. If y’all have read If you love me and have more fitting recs, please drop them!

Believe in Me (ao3) - Elleberquist6

Summary: Dan Howell is living at home while he’s saving money for college, which isn’t easy since his parents don’t understand him. Unlike them, he loves dogs, is a vegetarian, has no interest in the family business, and he despises the supernatural. He struggles to accept things that are illogical, even though he is a kitsune. Kitsune are foxes whose powers involve the ability to cast illusions, but Dan just wants to be normal. Phil Lester has just moved to London, where he works as a dog walker. When his path crosses with Dan, Phil is eager to get to know him. Unfortunately, Phil soon finds that being friends with Dan is far more complicated than he could have imagined.

By the way, I adore you. (ao3) - lxzyfangirl

Summary: Dan is very sick, and the future is not looking too bright for him, thankfully, he has Phil, his best friend, to accompany him through it all. But is Dan satisfied with being just friends?

First Impressions (Perhaps I Was Wrong) (ao3) - Ablissa

Summary: Phil Lester goes back to university for his third year, expecting to live in the dorms with his childhood best friend PJ. That's how it's been for the past years, after all. However, due to a mistake of some sort, he finds himself with a new roommate to spend the semester with.

Daniel Howell, three years his junior, has rich brown eyes, a laptop to hide them behind, and not more than two words to spare in Phil's direction. Phil is no fortune teller, but he foresees the upcoming months will be filled with a whole lot of awkward silence.

Unless, of course, Dan proves him wrong...

Could one little mistake lead to something entirely life-changing? Perhaps it could. After all, nearly everything changes when Phil meets Dan.

restless (ao3) - overwhelmedbysonder

Summary: Breathe. Just breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In.

It’s not that I don’t try. I see my family, my friends, visiting with their faked smiles and forced laughter, desperately trying to pretend that things are fine, that nothing’s changed. I see them and I want to reach out, I want to look at them and smile and reassure them that I’m here and I’m fine and I’m here, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Or, the one where Phil struggles with depression, PTSD and being mute, and Dan just wants to hug him.

Trust Me, I'm Broken Too (ao3) - natigail

Summary: The Lesters – the royal family of his homeland – was nothing like Dan thought they would be. Well, the King was just as horrible as he had heard but the King’s brother’s son, who was third in line for the throne, was nothing like Dan thought he’d be. Dan had been adrift for three years going from one “place of employment” to another, only his life was seen as worthless and he was more property than an employee. He had never imagined he’s end up as the property of Prince Philip.

The Prince had no intention of ever taking on a personal servant, which was a fancy name to disguise the fact a law essentially enslaved people. Phil often had to do things he didn’t want to or risk being removed from the succession to the crown. If that happened, who knew who his tyrant of an uncle would pick as a successor? When pressured into the choosing, he’d wanted to go for the most innocent, young girl, but hard brown eyes caught his attention instead.

-Rae

#answered #anonymous

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thirstyforlulu · 1 year

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Alucard and Seras run into a vigilante with a fairly standard Ninja getup and a fox mask and fights by generating and controlling fire. At first they let them off, seeing as they were outside of England, but are forced to bring the person in when each mission shows traces of this person having beaten them to the vampire and already killed it, some even in London. Headcanons for each of them as their so?

Alucard:

He is incredibly intrigued by you

He wants to know how your powers work, where they come from, things like that

The fact that you were able to beat him to a kill is so enticing for him

Once he finds you again, he will attempt to court you

Even as he’s asking you the questions Integra told him to ask for the investigation, he’ll be flirting

He likes your mask

He wants to know the meaning behind it. Why a fox?

When he flirts, he likes to tug at the mask, encouraging you to remove it

“Let me see the pretty face behind the mask,” he always encourages

Behind the scenes, he pushes for Integra to let him keep an eye on you

A vigilante vampire hunter could spell trouble, but he assures her he’s got everything under control

When anyone else talks about arresting you, he threatens them

No one is going to take away his ninja babe

Seras:

She loves your outfit!

Right away she’s smitten by your cool looks

After the first encounter she couldn’t stop thinking about you, so she was so happy when Integra told her to go after you

She’ll have a million questions once she finds you, but they’re all kind and respectful

You can’t even tell she’s trying to flirt

She wants to touch the mask too, but if you give any indication that you don’t want to take it off she’ll move on

She loves your fire powers

Feeling the warmth on her skin is comforting, it’s been so long since she was warm

Eventually, she sucks it up and asks you out

She’s nervous the whole time, but you love it

The first time you share a kill, she stares at you more than anything

Now she gets to see your powers at work for more than just show, and she adores it

If anyone tries to take you away for your vigilantism, she’ll fight them tooth and nail

You are her fox now, and she won’t let them take you

#alucard #alucard x reader #seras victoria #seras x reader #seras victoria x reader #Seras

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ladyofthenoodle · 1 year

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we are the foxes

for @carpisuns for @miraculers-for-ukraine only like, a year late

alya & adrien fake dating with lovesquare prpr & dj wifi, rated G, chapter 1 of ?

summary: In the wake of his father's defeat, all eyes are on Adrien Agreste, and his aunt has the perfect plan to ensure they look on him favorably: have him date the Ladyblogger. Surely, this is a foolproof plan, aside from some minor details, like her already being in a relationship. Or her best friend being in love with him. Or the fact that every person who'd attended Collège Françoise Dupont with them knew about her best friend's feelings. Or that fact that Alya doesn't know the first thing about dating someone in the public eye. Other than those things, it's a totally foolproof plan.

The sharp clacking of heels against the tiles echoed through the cavernous foyer of the estate formerly belonging to Gabriel Agreste. Adrien Agreste stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the handle of his suitcase and the other clutching the strap of his duffel against his shoulder, waiting with heart heavy in his chest.

Amelie Graham de Vanily came to a full stop in front of him before dragging her eyes across his figure with a frown.

“Adrien, darling, what on earth are you doing with this nonsense?”

“I started packing as soon as the trial was over, this is all I really need. We can go—”

“Go?” Amelie gave him a disapproving tut as she took the liberty of removing Adrien’s hand from his luggage. Her hand was dry and cool against his own as she led him towards the double doors of the atelier.

“With you and Félix, back to London.”

Wasn’t that where he was going? Was she not taking him with her?

He didn’t want to leave—not when she was here, not as long as there was even a chance she might need him—but he wasn’t welcome in Paris. That had been made clear with every averted eye, every lost contract, every too-loud whisper.

Adrien Agreste had been cleared in the eyes of the law, but the court of public opinion was still in deliberation.

If Aunt Amelie didn’t take him, where would he go?

“Don’t be ridiculous, little lamb,” Amelie said as she whisked Adrien past the police tape in front of his mother’s portrait and down a set of small white steps before depositing him onto a long, magenta velvet bench. She wrinkled her nose with distaste as she sat beside him.

“We’ll have to gut this room entirely, of course, once this investigation business is over,” she said airily, as if remodeling the office of a former magical terrorist was a casual, everyday occurrence for her. “But Félix and I will be moving here. He’s not pleased, but I think it will be good for him. The damp London air encourages his choleric disposition.”

They wanted to move here?

Why?

#miraculous ladybug #lovesquare #dj wifi #fake dating #alya cesaire #adrien agreste #miraculeakless #miraculous fanfic #noodles writes #we are the foxes

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themattress · 9 months

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Favorite Villains of Classic English Literature

Professor Moriarty - This villain is pure, beautiful simplicity: he's an alternate version of the hero with the morality removed. Both Holmes and Moriarty are quirky loners with genius IQs that thrive on challenging their intellects via loaning it out to others in some form of service. But Holmes has a conscience, a sense of right and wrong, which is why his service is that of a consulting detective, whereas Moriarty is a total sociopath whose service is that of a consulting criminal, meaning that he has an invisible hand in almost every crime that's carried out in London. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gives an absolutely perfect description of him and how he operates as a villain: "He is the Napoleon of crime. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed--the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defense. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught--never so much as suspected."

Favorite adaptations: Professor Moriarty (Ernest Torrence) in Sherlock Holmes (Fox, 1932), Professor Moriarty (Lionel Atwill) in Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (Universal, 1943), Professor Moriarty (Eric Porter) in Sherlock Holmes (Granada, 1984), Professor Ratigan (Vincent Price) in The Great Mouse Detective (Disney, 1986), Jim Moriarty (Andrew Scott) in Sherlock (BBC, 2010), Jamie Moriarty (Natalie Dormer) in Elementary (CBS, 2012), and William "Liam" James Moriarty (Soma Saito) in Moriarty the Patriot (Shueisha, 2016).

Captain Hook - If Professor Moriarty is a great complex presentation of a simple character, then Captain Hook is the opposite: a complex character who is presented simply. A ruthless pirate captain with a limb replaced by the object he derives his name from is the easiest thing in the world to understand, but there's much more to old James beneath that surface: a well-educated English gentleman depressed with the notion that he's squandered his life away but too far gone in his pride to turn back, constantly striving for "good form" even when his occupation doesn't allow for much of it, and obsessed with getting revenge on Peter Pan partly out of jealousy and partly to distract from the inevitability of the end result of what Pan did to him - namely, an ever-pursuing crocodile that will ultimately mark the end of his life when the clock it swallowed finally stops ticking. If Pan shows the problems with never growing up, then Hook shows the problems with losing your innocence when you grow up. For as over the top of a villainous character as he is, he's also a tragic, even relatable one.

Favorite adaptations: Captain Hook (Ernest Torrence) in Peter Pan (Paramount, 1924), Captain Hook (Hans Conreid) in Peter Pan (Disney, 1953), Captain Hook (Cyril Ritchard) in Peter Pan (Broadway, 1954), Captain Hook (Tim Curry) in Peter Pan and the Pirates (Fox, 1990), Captain Hook (Dustin Hoffman) in Hook (Amblin, 1991), Captain Hook (Jason Isaacs) in Peter Pan (Universal, 2003), "Jimmy" (Rhys Ifans) in Neverland (Syfy, 2011), Killian Jones (Colin O'Donoghue) in Once Upon a Time (ABC, 2012), Captain Hook (Stan Tucci) in Peter and Wendy (ITV, 2015) and Captain Hook (Jude Law) in Peter and Wendy (Disney, 2023).

And hey, wouldn't you know it! The same actor got the ball rolling in my favorite adaptations of both these characters! Clearly, the two of them were always destined to share this post.

#Moriarty #Captain Hook #Evil #Villains #Opinion #Analysis #My All-Time Favorite Villains

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deadanimalremovaluk · 2 years

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Is there any dead body of fox near your house? Contact (+44) 740 107 8183 for Dead Fox Removal Services in London or you may also visit at https://deadanimalremoval.uk/dead-fox-removal-london/ to book online.

#Dead Fox Removal Services in London

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 4 months

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By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Feb 26, 2024

[ Credit: Miriam Elia ]

Far away in the land of Sylvania, some woodland creatures have gathered to celebrate Pride. There’s a cross-dressing fox, a PVC-clad boar, a rabbit in full drag on a float. Rainbow flags and bunting abound. But just out of sight, perched above an ice-cream kiosk, are three sinister little figures in black face masks. They could be hedgehogs. They could be squirrels. One of them has a machine gun.

Isis in Sylvania was the work of the satirist Miriam Elia, a set of tableaux which was meant to be shown at the Passion for Freedom art exhibition at the Mall Galleries in London in 2015. The pieces were withdrawn after police said they might cause offence. That the gallery capitulated so easily would suggest that its self-declared “passion for freedom” was limited.

Elia’s display brilliantly lampooned our infantile response to the growing threat of Islamic terrorism, and it seems more relevant today than ever. After the police had sent emails to the gallery declaring that Isis in Sylvania was “not art” and that “all mentions of it should be removed from the promotional materials, social media etc”, Elia responded:

“The decision to censor shows that our establishment is more threatened by satire, clarity and truth than by young men willing to kill, rape and pillage in the name of Islam. Apparently my images were ‘potentially inflammatory’ to terrorists. This is the equivalent of saying an anti-Nazi cartoon in the late 1930s was offensive… to Nazis. Those who justify and protect barbaric totalitarianism, in whichever form, are on the fast track to becoming totalitarian themselves.”

The reaction of the police, of course, exemplified the very problem that Elia had been satirising in the first place.

It should be clear to everyone by now that kowtowing to the wishes of terrorists only encourages them. Last week Lindsay Hoyle, speaker of the House of Commons, was pressurised into overriding parliamentary convention because of an apparent risk to security. He spoke of “absolutely frightening” threats directed at MPs because of their reluctance to call for a ceasefire in Gaza. He also alluded to the murder of MP David Amess by an ISIS sympathiser. “I never want to go through a situation where I find a friend from any side has been murdered,” he said, “I also don’t want another attack on this House.” The word “Islamist” was not mentioned, as though not talking about the problem might make it disappear.

Hoyle is correct that the threat of violence is very real. Nobody would seek to downplay the murder of David Amess at his constituency surgery in Essex in 2021, or the beheading of schoolteacher Samuel Paty in Paris in 2020, or the massacre at the offices of satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in 2015. But our tendency to forget these atrocities, and move on as if nothing has happened, is chilling. Many of our politicians are too afraid to address the issues out of fear of being branded “islamophobic”, an absurd neologism often deployed to conflate anti-Muslim hatred with legitimate criticism of Islam.

How much reflection was there after the Manchester Arena bombing in May 2017 in which children and teenagers were slain? After the killing of Amess there was endless discussion in parliament about how we needed to crack down on social media, as though the radical Islamist responsible was motivated by online trolling rather than the creed of a medieval death-cult. We are like the woodland animals in another of Elia’s scenes, blissfully enjoying a picnic while armed and masked assailants appear on the horizon.

[ Credit: Miriam Elia ]

So while I have sympathy for Hoyle’s very human reaction to the spectre of violence, it is clear that the failure of politicians to accurately diagnose the problem is only making matters worse. Those few brave individuals who are prepared to speak out are putting themselves in danger. But with a collective effort the risk could be spread and at least become tolerable. After the Charlie Hebdo atrocity, media outlets refused to show the offending cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed, but if all of them had done so simultaneously, the threat could have been diluted.

If the speaker of the House of Commons is prepared to modify parliamentary procedures due to threats from far-left cranks and radical islamists, where does this leave our democracy? It is hardly surprising that increasingly we are seeing commentators claiming that the values of liberalism cannot be sustained against this particular brand of authoritarianism. They suggest that liberals are too weak to tackle those who do not share their commitment to individual freedom.

It is true that too often exemptions have been made out of fear of causing offence to religious minorities. Police in the north of England failed to enforce the law against predominately Pakistani grooming gangs for fear of being branded “racist”. The inquiry into the Manchester Arena bombing found that security guards held back from intercepting the killer for similar reasons. Sharia courts have been operating in the United Kingdom for decades and, although their rulings have no legal standing, they do hold authority within Muslim communities. And we have seen how police have overlooked some of the worst behaviour at the now regular pro-Palestine marches in London.

But this is not a weakness at the heart of liberalism; it is the failure to properly follow its principles. All branches of liberal thought – from the conservative liberalism of Friedrich Hayek to the social liberalism of John Rawls – share an understanding that the rule of law is paramount. Individual autonomy cannot be preserved if the state is unable to maintain the peace and impartially resolve the natural conflicts of human existence.

A well-intentioned commitment to multiculturalism has enabled parallel societies to flourish within the United Kingdom. In turn, this has granted authority to the most reactionary elements within religious communities. Sharia law may be an ambition for ultra-conservative theocrats, but many female and gay Muslims will not find it such an appealing prospect. We need to stop appeasing these minorities within minorities, small groups of extremists that by no means represent the average British Muslim. And this means that our parliamentarians must retain their courage, even in the face of violent threats.

More than anything, we need to be able to talk about this crisis with honesty and candour. However comforting it might be in the short term, our political class cannot go on living in their Sylvanian fantasy, wilfully oblivious to the masked elephant in the room. This denialism is a form of procrastination, putting off the inevitable for another day. The values of our liberal democracy and our hard-won rights are under threat. It’s time to grow up.

A limited edition book of all the images in Miriam Elia’s “Isis in Sylvania” series is available to buy here. A signed limited edition print of the picnic scene is available here.

We have to stop being panicked when people claim to be offended.

#Andrew Doyle #islam #this is islam #islamophobia #islamic violence #islamic authoritarianism #authoritarianism #sharia #sharia law #Miriam Elia #islamism #liberalism #liberal values #religion is a mental illness

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beachy--head · 1 year

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A random drabble about what really happened for Japril during 19x20, because I'm still really, really pissed that Grey's went to Boston and to the Catherine Fox Awards and all we got was a lousy blink-and-you-miss it Jackson mention, and then nothing. Uuugh.

___

Jackson Avery has taste, and April, looking at the suite in the five-star hotel he booked overlooking Hyde Park, can't really deny it. She plops down on the comfiest chair she's ever sat on (one point for London) and eyes Jackson as he starts unpacking his suitcase, as he kicks off his shoes, as he opens the mini-bar and offers her a drink.

"You're not going right away to the foundation's office here?"

"Oh, that. No, don't need to."

"You don't need to?"

"Nah, everything's under control."

Maybe it's the jet lag, maybe it's because he's started removing his jacket and is wearing her favorite green shirt, but April feels like she doesn't understand anything.

"But... the crisis?"

"Oh, solved it yesterday. You know, when I had to stay late at the office. Lots of phone calls and e-mails, but we're good."

"So, what are we doing here?"

Just like Jackson Avery has taste, he has the most perfect sheepish smile.

"Well, I figured... Since Hattie was already at your parents' for the week..."

"And?"

"And you know how much I hate dressing up for those ceremonies..."

"Mmmh."

"And my mom may have said she had a few surprises up her sleeve for the awards, so I figured it would be safer to be far, far away from all of it, you know? Self-preservation, really."

"So the head of the foundation is skipping the awards to... go on holidays while pretending to work?"

"I would have said 'to spend some quality time with his gorgeous wife', but sure."

Jackson Avery has taste, and a beautiful sheepish smile, and that annoying quality that makes her charmed by anything he pretty much does. For example, she really wants to shake her head and lecture him on skipping his responsibilities, but sue her, she's always wanted to go to Europe, so the only thing she manages to do is smile at him, get up from her chair and walk towards him.

It's really annoying.

"You know that one day, you will have to finally bring me to one of those awards things, right?"

"I've booked a table at one of the restaurants here with the best view of the Thames, and I promise the food will be way better than at the gala. And you know, Paris is just a couple of hours away..."

She circles her arms around his waist and is rewarded by a soft kiss pressed on her neck.

"In that case, it's too bad I didn't bring the dress I was supposed to wear tonight. I'm sure you would have loved it."

"Yeah? Which one was it?" he mumbles, mouth still on her neck.

"Oh, it's a new one I bought just for it. Well, for you, mostly. A strapless, dark blue one. Tight."

He groans, and then his tongue does this thing that makes it very difficult for her to speak, and, well, she hopes their reservation at the restaurant is still hours away, because they do have something important to do in London first.

#drabble #japril #april kepner #jackson avery #I swear I managed my expectations #the bar was low and they still managed to joyfully roll under it #this is me working out my frustrations and grouchiness

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madmarchhare · 7 months

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The Monk and the Traveller Ch.2

Cherry spent about two hours with the man, getting a dinner of fried fox wrapped in various herbs along with some pheasant he had cooked the night before, leaving the pheasant he had caught today to prepare later. Alcohol flowed freely, much to the monk’s taciturn delight, Collier pouring him large servings of Sake[1] into a pair of ornate jet sake dishes he had. ‘It would be wrong to serve them in something else!’ he had remarked, just before gulping down the clear drink. By the end of the supper the smaller man was thoroughly drunk, both on good food and good drink, completely red in the face and quite out of it.

Collier made conversation all the while, asking questions about the man while discussing himself, but Cherry was only in a state to offer monosyllabic replies or nods. The Englishman noticed, but was not too bothered by it, enjoying the company nonetheless as he spoke increasingly to himself. In the end Cherry was struggling to hold himself awake, beginning to nod off into the drink in his hand. Collier grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to his room, the monk wearing a Cheshire cat smile all the way. His room was lavish for the hotel, simplistic yet finely decorated where it could be. Collier pulled the man to his room and laid him on his bed, leaving his hat hung on his staff and the latter leaned against the wall outside the room, along with his sandals.

He left through the door, leaving the key inside near it, hearing Cherry’s drunken mumblings as he left. He walked back down the hall to his room, nodding to the daughter of the inn as they passed each other, which she returned curtly as she carried a number of towels. He returned to his room, locking the door behind himself then changed into a pair of striped pyjamas, removing his money from the jacket before folding it away. He went to bed, laying his watch near his head after unlatching it from his wrist, then laying down on the futon[2].

Collier woke up early, as he often did, getting up and stretching before walking off to wash his face and brush his teeth. After that, he changed into the trousers he had worn yesterday, with a fresh shirt rolling up the sleeves as he grabbed his guns to clean them.

The rifle was an equitize piece, a Lee Speed sporting with high grade wood, polished a deep colour. A metal butt plate on its rear, with a sling loop on the underside of the stock, a few inches up of a metal oval in the stock. The semi-pistol grip was beautifully chequered, a horn grip cap just below it, the trigger and magazine just ahead of it. Both featured light engravings, a deep one on the underside of the trigger guard. The foregrip was just a deeply chequered as the grip, capped with deep black horn as well. The action was blued deeply, with a round bolt head, a dust cover over the top of the action, the magazine cut-off just below it. The Lee action locked into a beautifully blued long barrel, a chequered rib all along the top, bar for the inscription of ‘Army & Navy Cooperative Ltd[3] London For cordite only’. A set of three flip up leaf sight near the action, platinum lines up their centres, along with a ladder sight up to a thousand yards, left for the ambitions. The end of the barrel featured a raised dot sight, adjustable with a set screw on one side, the muzzle showing the grooves of Enfield-style rifling as a swing loop was affixed under the far end of the barrel.

He disassembled and cleaned the rifle, being somewhat liberal on the use of oil as he cleaned out the cordite residue in the rifling, giving all the metal and wood a quick polish as he put it back together, working the action as he finished, then holding the trigger as it closed it back so it wouldn’t re-cock the striker. His revolvers were in better concern, not having been used as much. The first, and smaller of the two was Merwin & Hulbert Third Model frontier. An army style revolver, meaning it was chambered in the US army’s standard of .44 calibre, specifically in .44-40 or Winchester 1873 as it was marked on the gun. It featured a flared, bell-shaped grip made of ivory, a seven inch barrel, and was nickel plated. It was well engraved, seeing woven patterns of reeds and roaming Saharan fauna. He had bought it when he had travelled to America, enjoying the speed and strength of the gun, especially as this was a double action model.

His other one, a deep blued piece, was a Webley Target with Bakelite grips and seven and a half inch barrel. Both the rear-sight on the latch and the front sight were adjustable, the grip being flared at the base and the trigger serrated. It was Chambered in .477 Eley, also called Enfield, it was a black powder cartridge which Collier used as a stopping revolver, for tigers, bears and the like. Though unfortunately it would not go much larger in it’s targets.

He finished cleaning the trio of weapons he had got out, placing them away as he went to wash his hands and finish getting dressed. Before he left he went past Cherry’s room, pressing his ear to the door, checking for signs that the monk was still alive. He heard the man toss slightly within the room, so drew back, assured that he had not helped the man drink himself to death. He pulled on his coat and the rest of his equipment, a small rucksack on his back, along with a burlap wrapped canteen. An ammunition pouch strapped under the rucksack, along with an expense pouch on his right hip, near a metal brace for carrying game, both revolvers holster at his waist on the left.

He grabbed the left-over bits of fox meat, wrapped in wax-paper, to use as bait, placing them with the other select chunks he had with him already in his bag. He affixed a hunting knife to his belt, an ivory handled Damascus blade, then pulled his rifle over his shoulder. He left his room, locking it behind him as he walked, holding his boots by the mouth pinched between his finger and thumb. The sun had barely risen as he left his room, nodding to Surogasu as they passed each other the owner smiling warmly at his guest, though still wearing a tired look on his face. Collier walked to the entrance, stopping to don his boots, then left. Morning was dark outside, the sun not having yet raised its face. He checked his watch using what remained of the light from the inn, and saw it was twenty-eight minutes to five o’clock. He smiled to himself then set off into the dark, accompanied by the early morning songs of birds and the chatter of insects.

He arrived in the woods shortly after, adjusting his equipment, making sure nothing could rattle before loading his rifle, loading each round of .303 individually into the box magazine. He loaded both revolvers as well, opening the loading gate on the right side of the Merwin’s cylinder before sliding into its holster and retrieving the Webley. He broke it open, dropping the large bullets into the cylinder one by one before snapping it shut and holstering it as well. He stepped carefully through the woods, lifting his legs high to not become entangled in the groundcover underfoot. Conifer trees stretched high around him, draining out what little light the morning had granted him as he continued forward. He checked his watch, the radium on the hands lightly illuminating the face, allowing him to see that it had just turned quarter past five. He grabbed some bait from his rucksack, a section of breasted pheasant and set it up in a small parting in the ground cover. He moved downwind of the meat, watching closely as he moved away from it. When he was far enough away he chambered a round in his rifle, flipping up the leaf sight for the right range as he crouched down in the bracken, concealing himself within it. He waited patiently, watching around the spot as he listened to the quiet, moving occasionally to try and stay into the wind so that his scent would not blow over the bait.

After a while, just as the twinkling sparks of daylight began to burn, Collier saw movement ahead of him, just by a small mess of holly near the bait. A fox swept out of the cover, glancing around the space as it seemed to be heading home, but had noticed the food ahead of it. It moved to it, cautious on instinct, the mess of chicken blood already present on its chest as it considered the additional meal. Finally it darted close to it and snatched it up in its mouth. Before it could dash off, its legs already shifting, Collier fired, the sights lined up squarely on the creatures red face. The bullet boomed as it left the barrel, wreathed in a great boa of fire and burning cordite as it whipped past the plants surrounding the muzzle to pierce cleanly through the fox’s head. The creature didn’t notice, flopping to the ground from the residual inertia. The shot echoed off the thin trunks of the trees, bouncing up and down the uneven ground of the forest. Birds flew off in distress at the noise, though a number remained unabashed in their sleep.

Collier lifted and pulled back the bolt, catching the brass and dumping it into a pocket. He closed the bolt, chambering a round, then flipped on the safety before striding over to the fox. It was still twitching slightly, the last shocks of nerves displaying a fruitless imitation of life. He affixed the body to the brace had had at his hip, shifting it around so he could reach his expense pouch for cartridges. He left what remained of the bait on the ground, for the scavengers he thought. He made his way forward, an idle crow calling after him, almost in thanks for the meal he had left it. He made the same attempt two more times, the first succeeding, though the shot pierced its neck. The last attempt was fruitless, the day already having broke, seeing then end of any excursion for a fox.

He heard and saw a number of squirrels busing themselves across the tree branches, flashes of red and grey backlit against the innumerous greens and browns of the conifers. He let them alone, deciding to come back with a shotgun another time. Even his revolvers were likely too powerful for the small creatures. He continued on, finding a small outcropping of stone that he laid himself on, the wind dying down as he did. He stared out over the forest ahead of him, holding his rifle loosely in his hands. He had seen the signs of it a while earlier, small pits called ‘scrapes’ dung into the ground by the thing which stunk of the musky urine they used to mark them. He was in its territory, so he expected it to come, either soon or later.

He had spent the latter half of the day before stalking it, working out the particulars of its realm. He laid still, time ticking by with his watch as the sun moved overhead. By midday he had seen nothing, bar from a flush of green pheasant, of which he shot two with his rifle, bundling them with the foxes, wrapped in a sheet beside him. Then he spotted its shape. Almost fifty inches tall at the shoulder, and about sixty inches long, with deep mahogany fur, darker around the spine of the neck and near invisible white spots on its back. It darted its eyes around the scene with determined caution, prepared to fend off someone who breached his territory, using his impressive antlers. A sika deer, or nihonjika.[4] They were a fascinating species, especially compared to other deer he had hunted. Most would flee when they felt danger, the sika, however would hide. They would conceal themselves, indeed this one had likely done so as Collier hunted for it. But now, it hadn’t seen him, while the reverse was not true.

Collier again lined up the deer’s skull into the sights, the platinum line along the leaf sight crossing the dot sight just at its brow. He pulled the trigger carefully, feeling the take-up on his finger until the sear slipped out from under the striker. The shot was clean, the beautiful creature falling back gracefully, landing in the bracken with a light thrush of foliage and rushing air. Collier stared at it down his sights for a moment, letting out a satisfied exhale before pulling himself to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. He grabbed the bundle of shot game beside him, holding it by a length of twine he had tied it up with as he walked over to the beast. Even in death, the buck held its beauty proudly, tall and lean, toned by a life of wilderness.

He dropped the game to the ground, pulling out his knife as he leant over the buck, swiftly and efficiently skinning the creature before sectioning the meat. He wrapped it up in brown paper, tying them with twine from his rucksack. He finished taking everything from the animal after a half hour, only leaving the stomach, intestines and lungs. He stood back away from the beast for a moment, wiping his bloody hands on a parchment of moss, sighing contently. He sat for a moment on a stump, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out a set of cigars, tucking one into his mouth as he reached for a box of matches. He pulled out the yellow box of Swan Vestas, pushing it out of the cover and plucking a singular match from it as swiftly striking it against the side, placing the box back in his pocket. He pressed the flame against the end of the cigar, puffing to light it as pinkish-grey smoke billowed around him, backlit by the sun. He took in a few mouthfuls of smoke before jumping to his feet, smoke whipping about, behind him and grabbing up all the game to take back. Just before he left, having collected all of his things, he removed the head of the buck to boil down to the skull later. He left the rest to nature, feeling curious glances of birds of prey overhead as he began to make his way back.

[1] A wine made from fermented rice.

[2] A Japanese style of bedding. The usually consist of a mattress[shikibuton] and duvet[kakebuton].

[3] The Army and Navy Co-operative was a company, initially a co-operative, established in the 19th century to serve British army and navy troops, selling weapons, ammunition and equipment, everything a soldier might need while serving overseas.

[4] Japanese Dear

#original writing #creative writing #writing #historical fiction #fiction #HMAD

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