#have sloughed off as she gets worse

[whetstonefires]

this is a reasonable post except for the ludicrous historical revisionism of trying to argue that a billion-dollar franchise that continued having major motion pictures and theme parks about it was 'forgotten as soon as the books stopped.' like. if that were what had happened this obviously wouldn't be an issue.

why enjoying harry potter related media as an adult in 2023 isn't morally comparable to being a lovecraft fan:

-lovecraft does not personally benefit from cultural relevance or your financial support bc he is dead

-lovecraft is an indispensable facet of literary canon & has a genre named after him, you can't cast him aside even if you want to, which can't be said for your middle of the road young adult series that was forgotten as soon as the books stopped.

-lovecraft fans have done infinitely more to deconstruct and reclaim lovecraft's work than harry potter fans' pure denial/apathy.

[aurumacadicus]

October's coming and the theme is horror! Tumblr will vote to help us narrow it down to three books, and then we'll vote for the winner on Discord. If you'd like to join the book club, send me a message, and I'll send you an invitation link! Book summaries are under the cut!

Family Business by Jonathan Sims JUST ANOTHER DEAD-END JOB. DEATH. IT’S A DIRTY BUSINESS. When Diya Burman’s best friend Angie dies, it feels like her own life is falling apart. Wanting a fresh start, she joins Slough & Sons - a family firm that cleans up after the recently deceased. Old love letters. Porcelain dolls. Broken trinkets. Clearing away the remnants of other people’s lives, Diya begins to see things. Horrible things. Things that get harder and harder to write off as merely her grieving imagination. All is not as it seems with the Slough family. Why won’t they speak about their own recent loss? And who is the strange man that keeps turning up at their jobs? If Diya’s not careful, she might just end up getting buried under the family tree…

The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix In horror movies, the final girls are the ones left standing when the credits roll. They made it through the worst night of their lives…but what happens after? Lynnette Tarkington is a real-life final girl who survived a massacre. For more than a decade, she's been meeting with five other final girls and their therapist in a support group for those who survived the unthinkable, working to put their lives back together. Then one woman misses a meeting, and their worst fears are realized—someone knows about the group and is determined to rip their lives apart again, piece by piece. But the thing about final girls is that no matter how bad the odds, how dark the night, how sharp the knife, they will never, ever give up.

Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero In 1977, four teenagers and a dog—Andy (the tomboy), Nate (the nerd), Kerri (the bookworm), Peter (the jock), and Tim (the Weimaraner)—solved the mystery of Sleep Lake. The trail of an amphibian monster terrorizing the quiet town of Blyton Hills leads the gang to spend a night in Deboën Mansion and apprehend a familiar culprit: a bitter old man in a mask. Now, in 1990, the twenty-something former teen detectives are lost souls. Plagued by night terrors and Peter’s tragic death, the three survivors have been running from their demons. When the man they apprehended all those years ago makes parole, Andy tracks him down to confirm what she’s always known—they got the wrong guy. Now she’ll need to get the gang back together and return to Blyton Hills to find out what really happened in 1977, and this time, she’s sure they’re not looking for another man in a mask.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle Misha knows that chasing success in Hollywood can be hell. But finally, after years of trying to make it, his big moment is here: an Oscar nomination. And the executives at the studio for his long-running streaming serioes know just the thing to kick his career to the next level: kill off the gay characters, “for the algorithm,” in the upcoming season finale. Misha refuses, but he soon realizes that he’s just put a target on his back. And what’s worse, monsters from his horror movie days are stalking him and his friends through the hills above Los Angeles. Haunted by his past, Misha must risk his entire future—before the horrors from the silver screen find a way to bury him for good.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Stepping far afield from his medical studies, Victor Frankenstein brings to life a human form he has fashioned from scavenged body parts. Horrified by his achievement, he turns his back on his creation, only to learn the danger of such neglect. Written when Mary Shelley was only 20 years old, Frankenstein has been hailed as both a landmark of Gothic horror fiction and the first modern science fiction story.

The Sacrifice Box by Martin Stewart

In the summer of 1982, five friends discover an ancient stone box hidden deep in the woods. They seal inside of it treasured objects from their childhood, and they make a vow: Never come to the box alone. Never open it after dark. Never take back your sacrifice. Four years later, a series of strange and terrifying events begin to unfold: mirrors inexplicably shattering, inanimate beings coming to life, otherworldly crows thirsting for blood. Someone broke the rules of the box, and now everyone has to pay. But how much are they willing to sacrifice?

A Lonely Broadcast by Kel Byron

If you find yourself driving down a winding mountain road near an endless stretch of pines, try tuning in to 104.6 FM: the radio station that shouldn’t exist. The village of Pinehaven has a secret of monstrous proportions. Evelyn McKinnon, a radio host falling on hard times, finds herself utterly unprepared when she learns that the radio station isn’t just for entertainment. It’s a watchtower. She’s stalked by a bird with human eyes. Her co-host won’t stop singing show tunes. And when the fog rolls in, the beasts of Pinehaven Forest begin their brutal hunt. Evelyn and her friends are suddenly face-to-face with something much scarier than ravenous flesh-giants and vengeful spirits: responsibility. ‘A Lonely Broadcast’ is a darkly comedic tale that mixes elements of cosmic horror, gruesome gore, and a touching story about friendship, grief, and finding hope when all seems lost. It’s also the story of an unhinged woman’s personal war with a goddamn bird.

Episode Thirteen by Craig DiLouie

Fade to Black is the newest hit ghost hunting reality TV show. Led by husband and wife team Matt and Claire Kirklin, it delivers weekly hauntings investigated by a dedicated team of ghost hunting experts. Episode Thirteen takes them to every ghost hunter’s holy grail: the Paranormal Research Foundation. This brooding, derelict mansion holds secrets and clues about bizarre experiments that took place there in the 1970s. It’s also famously haunted, and the team hopes their scientific techniques and high tech gear will prove it. But as the house begins to reveal itself to them, proof of an afterlife might not be everything Matt dreamed of. A story told in broken pieces, in tapes, journals, and correspondence, this is the story of Episode Thirteen—and how everything went terribly, horribly wrong.

[zahri-melitor]

League of Shadows: Detective Comics #951-956

Wow. Just wow.

I knew Tynion IV was working overtime to try and get a level of normality re-established in Rebirth Batman, but he has so many moving pieces going on here.

First up: this is the Cass and Shiva story, so it’s rehashing and re-exploring the most vital elements of Perfect For A Year and Destruction’s Daughter.

It’s not a perfect blend, for a bunch of reasons, but I respect the effort involved.

The bit that blew me way however? Tynion brought in Carolyn.

Cass content where she is given inspiration by her aunt’s words??? I mean. I am listening.

Kate Kane gets to approximately play Babs’ role in the push-pull over what Cass needs against Bruce.

Cass in the Mud Room obsessed with winning fights and working through her problems of course perfectly reflecting Cass in Babs' equivalent holoroom doing exactly that as a way of dealing with her emotions.

Cass gets two fights with Shiva, and she of course loses the first and wins the second.

Cass running around with swords? Some people might say that’s not Cass, I say hello Kasumi and BatO 2008 references!

(Tragically Cass didn’t get to stab Kendra and keep that motif running, but alas no Justice League appeared in this book)

Cass and David together flashbacks still don’t feel entirely on target: previously when Cass has gone to David to answer her questions he would eventually give her what she asked for, not deny it to her. But David Cain was left in a horrible state post B&R Eternal so any writing even slightly more on track was helpful.

It's also fascinating to me that we go to this very heavy Cass story, leaning into her growth as a person and moving from being a lurking shadow who is a vigilante only to someone who is making civilian friendships and connections and doing things outside of simply being a vigilante (going to the ballet in person with Bruce and Kate escorting her) happens in a period when Steph has left. This is echoing Cass' Bludhaven arc! Argh Tynion knows the whole of Batgirl 2000 so well.

And Shiva. Oh, Shiva. I have to say, as always, I’m not thrilled when Shiva is directly linked to Ra’s Al Ghul, but admittedly we were redoing Destruction’s Daughter, so Shiva being called in to train League assassins is on target (though it was Ra's this time, not Nyssa), as was Shiva not actually working with Ra's ordinary troops so much as the set he was using for the League of Shadows.

What I also liked: Ra's trying to manipulate Shiva using what he knew of Cass, and Shiva not being fully on board with what Ra's was selling but synthesising it in her own way.

I don't love Ra's being more involved in Shiva's backstory, but I did enjoy her arguments with him, and the way Shiva, despite herself, became compelled and interested in Cass as a fighter more than as her daughter. (Daughter? raw material, boring. Fighter with that skillset who happens to be my daughter? deeply fascinated).

Just picking out a few scenes here, but I feel this does add an additional layer of depth to Shiva's motivations? That she knows she burnt everything away in the fire of Shiva, but also she has a level of regret over it all.

And then that being reflected in part of what gave Cass the understanding of how to defeat the League and Shiva was the words of Carolyn and her message of how to act as a shadow yet still find yourself? A message Sandra has lost but Carolyn protected even in her death, because Shiva has worked to slough off Sandra, but that is still a loss.

On top (on TOP) of this storyline being a synthesis of Batgirl 2000 into 5 issues, Tynion was just packing in the references.

The atomic bomb to open a faultline under Gotham and *checks notes* make the city fall into a cavern below? Is that Cataclysm, 'Quakemaster' (aka Ventriloquist) holding the city hostage over an even worse earthquake I spy? Because. The vibes were very much there. But on top of that, it's also a version of the Batgirl story of Alpha hiding a fusion bomb in Gotham and Cass needing to track him down to work out where that bomb was.

Shiva and the League of Shadows having a special technique of stabbing people with swords through their chest in a way that doesn't damage any organs. Shiva, is that you saying The Widower was bad at his job? Because most of those sword wounds were similar in location to Tim's one from The Widower but specifically on the other side of the body to avoid the spleen.

Ulysses Armstrong continuing to be the creepiest kid absolutely obsessed with Tim as Robin and trying to 'get into his skin'? Ulysses being in the military now via Jacob Kane's secret organisation yet still completely and utterly hung up on Tim and trying to prove himself is commitment to Tim's Robin run.

And then we get to this: to Ra's telling Bruce that inside the League of Assassins he has a secret League of Shadows, which he has concealed from Bruce and forced him to forget.

But the important bit here to me is Ra's saying Bruce has uncovered them three times before. And we get this series of pictures.

The first is an underground cavern lit by an orange glow (this looks very much like an orange Lazarus Pit in the background: references this resembles include Son of the Demon, any of Nyssa's pits, Matt Wagner's Trinity and a bunch of others).

The second is Bruce standing shirtless on a frozen lake, surrounded by mountains. (Can you say Batman Begins? But also technically you could map this to Bride of the Demon I guess by the art team not realising Antarctica doesn't have trees. Or frozen lakes like that. His first shirtless duel with Ra’s is Batman #244 but that’s in the desert. The various Nanda Parbat and Himalaya fight scenes I reviewed don't look much like this)

The third is Bruce being taken down in what looks like a fancy office (my first thought was possibly Tower of Babel & Dependence, but this again could be a lot of occasions).

And the focus here on Ra's having concealed Bruce's memories and forced him to forget events, in Rebirth stories where we are pushing at the timeline to extend it out again and backfill it with post-Crisis content? A genius way of focusing on there being stories that n52 Bruce doesn't know.

I've been trying to work out exactly which stories Tynion is claiming these three 'discoveries' of the League of Shadows occurred during, and I can't quite pinpoint three specific occasions. But they are so very, very familiar. I do wonder which he was specifically thinking about.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

A&E

prompt: stitches

whumpee: river cartwright

fandom: slow horses, slough house

hi here's the follow up to this fic. i hope you enjoy!

He ends up, eventually, in the crowded waiting room of an A&E, a bloody towel pressed against the wound in his shoulder and Louisa sitting beside him, looking equal parts peeved and concerned. 

He hadn’t even asked her to come—he’d found himself at Slough House, it being the nearest building to where he’d been, and he’d intended on making use of its first-aid kit and letting that be that. Except she’d been there, and she’d taken one look at him and insisted upon emergency medical help. 

And, to be fair, he’s not exactly against it. His arm really fucking hurts. 

They sit there in silence (well, silence between the two of them. The rest of the room is horribly noisy) until, at long last, River’s name is called. 

Louisa follows him—he’s not sure whether that’s allowed, but she flashes her Service ID and no one asks any questions.

Or, not any detailed questions. He’s able to explain that it was a knife which did this, that he has no idea who or where his assailant is, but when the nurse starts pressuring him for more information, Louisa says, “MI5. He can’t answer that,” and the questions stop. 

Though, honestly, he doesn’t have much else to say. He doesn’t know anything. Lamb had asked him to go poking around this abandoned office building for some unknown reason, and for lack of anything better to do, he’d gone. It’s not even his fault this time. He had hardly gone running headfirst into trouble. It had found him, all on its own. 

He’s thinking about these things to distract himself from what he knows is coming. This being the removal of his coat and shirt and the tending-to of the gash on his arm with sutures. 

The nurse cleans the skin first, which could be worse. It stings, but not terribly. And then she goes in with a syringe of local anesthetic and River turns his head squarely away from the action. He does not want to see this. 

It’s a very strange sensation when the nurse begins stitching. He can sort of sense it, but there’s no pain. This emboldens him to take a look, but as soon as he catches sight of the needle poking its way in and out of his own skin, he very quickly turns away again. 

Louisa catches his eye, raises her eyebrows in a silent question. He shakes his head slightly, I’m fine, and she sort of smiles. 

The nurse finishes the stitches and tells him about how to properly care for them. River tries his best to pay attention, but notes Louisa typing something on her phone. She’ll remember, if he doesn’t. 

The nurse also cleans up the blood from his face and his hand, places adhesive strips across the gashes there, gives him more instructions. 

And just like that they’re done. He’s given a prescription for painkillers, hardly stronger than the ones he’s got at home, and the next thing he knows they’re out in the parking lot and Louisa is looking at him. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says, feeling like she’s expecting him to say something.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she replies, a little stiffly. “C’mon, let’s get to a chemist.”

“You don’t have to come with me. I’m—I’ll be fine.”

“Tough shit, I’m coming with.”

River shrugs lopsidedly. He doesn’t mind Louisa coming, actually. He doesn’t want her to come with him if she doesn’t want to, but if she does—

Well, he’s hardly going to turn down her company. 

“Alright, let’s go, then.”

They set off, and Louisa lightly bumps his uninjured shoulder with her own. The brief contact is nonetheless meaningful, and River returns it, leans into her perhaps a bit too heavily so that she has to push him back up. 

“Thanks,” he says, again.

“You already said that.”

“I know, but I really mean it.”

Louisa looks at him in a way that makes him feel, despite everything that’s just happened to him, quite content. “You’re welcome,” she replies, and they continue on.

thanks for reading! i am once again doing my best to sound british with not a clue as to whether it's successful lmao.

[seramilla]

So Carmilla takes off work to be with her family but everyone who works with her is confused. Last time she went off like this was after Clara was born but they knew it was coming in advance and well had seen a pregnant Carmilla but one day she's off at home and no one knows why there's a lot of gossip and rumors in Carmine industries about it. Meanwhile Carmilla is at home finally getting to bond with her family now that they are all together for the first time. She doesn't have favorites among her children but Emily has extra points in Carmilla's heart because her very existence united family. If she didn't exist than Sera would be in heaven away from her love and children and Carmilla would be in hell alone in an empty bed. But thanks to Emily's existence and heavens prejudice Carmilla got the mother of her children and new baby in her life for good.

Carmilla isn't worried about the rumors. At some point, her workers are going to know what happened anyway, and there's nothing she can do about it, so she just lets any rumors building up around her absence slough away, like water off her back. Maybe the biggest thing that can come from this are the ones from the other overlords. Vox might talk about it on prime-time, for days, ad nauseam, but once she shows back up in the boardroom in a few months, he'll quickly realize she's not any worse for wear and shut up about it.

She's enjoying this time with her family, while it lasts. That bonding period is so important for Emily, and Carmilla's not going to waste it. Also, yes, while she doesn't play favorites with her children, she can't deny that experiencing those first few months with Emily is uniquely different than it was with Odette and Clara. For one, she's on the other side of the table now, doing the caring instead of being the one to be cared for -- she had to solicit Zestial and Belphegor's help quite a bit when it was just her going it alone. She can actually appreciate Emily and help Sera recover at the same time.

Emily's also the physical embodiment of her and Sera's love story made real. Yes, being thrust from Heaven was horrible for Sera, and yes, Carmilla would have prevented it if she could, but she's not the type of person to think about the what-ifs or what-might-have-beens. She doesn't let regret consume her, and just deals with things in stride. If not for Heaven forcing Sera out, she would never have been able to be a mother to Emily. She would have forever had that detached relationship with Sera and never made a home with her.

It's a stark reminder for her and Sera both that even when things are at their lowest point, it's not the end. When a door is closed, a window is opened. There's a chance to start fresh and honestly, now that it's happened, Carmilla can't even comprehend a different outcome. She's just happy now, in the moment, and appreciates it for the golden opportunity to finally have the family she's always wanted.

[lovetgr76]

Catherine x Jackson

S1e5 Fiasco

When we catch up with Lamb and Standish at the beginning of this episode, Lamb is using a key to unlock the gate to the cemetery with the grave of William Blake where the Slow Horses had agreed to meet during the last episode.  Standish stands fast outside of the cemetery gates while Lamb is seen walking off, only he only gets about 6 steps away before he realizes that she is not walking behind him and turns to look at her.

Taverner’s voice mail – Standish; Lamb audibly and visibly sighs at this…

In the car you said you’d tell me. So, what did she mean about Charles’s death? – Standish

Read the room, will you? Is now really the time? – Lamb (sounds exasperated by this questioning)

Standish says nothing, just closes her eyes for a second and decides to continue to follow Lamb.

Slow Horses are slowly arriving; Lamb asking about Struan and Cartwright.  Ho mentions the dogs showing up to the hospital, hence him leaving Cartwright and Lamb explains that they’re all next.  The dogs will be after them and Taverner will play it as Slough House gone rogue. Lamb takes off with the Slow Horses trailing behind him.  Cartwright arrives, calls Roddy a “dickhead”… Roddy glances at Standish, who just looks away shyly.

CLASSIC……. Lamb (closest to Standish) … gives his speech.

I don’t normally do these kind of speeches, but this feels like a big moment and if it all turns to shit, I might not see any of you again. You’re fucking useless.  The lot of you.  Working with you has been the lowest point in a disappointing career. Right!... Cartwright you’re with me – Lamb

Everyone just kind of rolls their eyes at this but Standish manages to look genuinely offended!

Lamb tells the team to “go lock yourselves in a toilet somewhere”… but as we know from later series – he doesn’t want Catherine in particular to be anywhere near the “action” or danger… ever…  – she should be kept safely hidden away… except for when he bellows for her, at which point she should come running!! Lol

Standish is in the Smithfield Café with Ho, Guy & Harper. They’re all discussing how the dogs are after them, while Roddy watches the dogs.  The news is on and they are concerned about the kidnapped boy.

You’re forgetting Lamb – Standish

Lamb doesn’t care about us.  As soon as whatever he’s got planned goes south, he’ll forget us! – Harper

That’s not true. The thing Charles always said (stops herself mid-sentence) – Standish

Roddy looks concerned, looks over at Harper & Guy questioningly. Harper puts a finger gun into his mouth and pretends to blow his brains out.  Ho acknowledges. Guy kicks Harper.

You hurt his joes, he’ll never stop coming for you.  And the thing, for Lamb, there’s nothing worse than not being able to get EVEN! – Standish

And he’s not gonna wanna lose to Taverner. - Guy

Exactly – Standish

I think he’s got even more contempt for her than he does for us. – Guy

Wow, that’s a skip-load of contempt. – Harper

And meanwhile, we what? – Guy

*the tv in the café is heard, as the news is discussing the kidnapped boy situation and threats of decapitation*

Standish sighs at the news, before asking…

Roddy, where are the Park on Hassan? – Standish

They’ve just narrowed it down to ten vehicles that have left the area. – Ho

The one thing that we can bring to this is that we knew Alan Black, so…. What do we remember about him? – Standish

He was sent to Slough House for sleeping with the Venezuelan ambassador’s wife while undercover. – Ho, said with a bit of a smirk.

Apart from that. – Standish

He moaned a lot.  Never bought biscuits. – Harper

Oh, my God. – Guy

Sorry, what? We’re free forming.  There’s no bad ideas here.  – Harper

He was really lazy. – Guy

        And that’s better than what I said, is it? – Harper

Listen, he was undercover with the Sons of Albion, so there would have been a birth certificate, passport, credit cards, the full legend. – Standish

        Yeah. Deep cover’s expensive.  He was tight, so he definitely wouldn’t want to have to front that.  – Guy

        More than that.  Taverner won’t want any of it to show up on the books. – Harper

So he could have used an old ID. – Standish

Roddy? – Standish, she leans towards him and asks him softly.

        Ho looks at Standish then Guy before sighing and replying.

If you’ll give me a few minutes, ladies. – Ho

        And gentleman. – Harper

        Ladies. – repeats Ho

We see more of the kidnappers for a bit, as they are deciding how things will end, and how that will happen.

Back at the café –

Got him.  Like a rat in a trap that I will kill with a hammer.   “Triple-D Care Hire” Leeds address. – Ho

                Registration number? – Standish

                Ho glances at her in surprise for a moment before responding…

That will take a while. – Ho

                Ho finishes his coffee, Standish looks disappointed, Harper and Guy are looking a bit restless.

Get me a coffee. – Ho (said to Harper, who immediately sits back and looks offended).

                Standish is seen next to Roddy rolling her eyes at this entire exchange.

I need fuel for this one. An SQL injection attack will take hours, which leaves a malware bomb as the most effective method, but that needs someone to open an email, so… - Ho

During this lil rant… Standish is seen glancing outside of the café to confirm there is a public telephone.  She glances at Ho’s computer, squints … and grabs her purse before heading outside.

                Ho hears her get up and assumes she’s getting him coffee.

Cheers, Standish.  Double espresso. – Ho

                Guy and Harper just watch as she leaves the café. We see Standish running across the street to make the call.

I thought you could hack anything. – Guy

I can.  I’m not saying I can’t do it.  Just that it will take some time. – Ho

How much time do you need, Ho? Because the kid’s gonna get beheaded in about two and half hours. – Harper

                Ho glares at Harper from behind his laptop for a moment…

I’ll tell you what I can do real quick. Check your search history and tell everyone what porn you look at. – Ho

                Guy raises her eyebrows at this.

                Harper tries to act perfectly calm, unsuccessfully…

Fine, cause I’ve got nothing to hide. – Harper

                Ho snickers at this.  Harper lets Ho type for maybe 10 seconds before attempting to slam his laptop shut!!

Don’t you fucking dare. – Harper

Hey. – Ho

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. – Guy

What’s wrong with you?  - Ho

                Standish is seen rushing in to the café again.

You’re eight years old. – Guy (to Harper)

Pardon? – Standish

Where’s my coffee? – Ho, to Standish

I didn’t get you a coffee.  I got you the registration number. DE15 CGK. – Standish

     Guy and Harper are both staring at Standish, mouths open in surprise.

What? How? – Ho (also in disbelief)

Well, I rang them up. – Standish, sounding a bit proud of herself here.

And said what? “Do you mind breaking multiple data protection laws?” – Ho

No, I said th-that I’d had an accident with one of their vehicles and I had the driver’s name but because I was so shaken, I couldn’t read the registration number I’d written down. – Standish

I think the words you’re looking for, Ho, and these would be a first for you, are “Well Done.” And “Thank you.” – Guy

     Ho is seen entering the registration number before agreeing, that it was on the list of vehicles the Park are looking for.

Then we need to get them to focus on that vehicle – Standish

How do we let the Park know that without them tracking us? – Harper

     Oh, my God. Min, a kid’s life is at stake. – Guy

I know, but Lamb told us not to get caught. – Harper

Can’t we track it ourselves? – Standish to Ho

     Ho cracks his fingers before attempting to work some of his magic.  Standish looks excited that they’re able to contribute.

Lamb returns the stolen vehicle to Duffy at the Park.  Asks to speak to Taverner.

Lamb is in Taverner’s office.  Taverner dismisses Duffy, leaving them alone. Jackson plops down on her sofa.  Taverner is at her desk.  Diana tells him that Alan Black has been found. Taverner says she has a statement from someone who saw Lamb and Black meeting after he’d left Slough House.  Lamb immediately determined that it was Stuart Loy.  Taverner tells him there’ll be others.

Standish will show. And she’ll turn when she knows why you’re at Slough House. And Moody, dead, after committing murder himself.  - Taverner, who has now moved to sit directly in front of Lamb, legs crossed, attempting to appear quite relaxed and casual, as she threatens him.

Lamb is reacting to this news, but does not say anything.

Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you knew.  Sid Baker is gone. – Taverner

Lamb looks a bit defeated at this bit of news.

I’m going to make you an offer, Jackson – Taverner, leans in to make this offer…

I’m sure.  I mean, obviously you have to have this all wrapped up before Tearney lands, and I can blow the whistle on you. – mumbles Jackson

You don’t have a whistle.  All you have is a CV littered with dead joes. – Taverner

Well, I’m not sure your career will survive the death of Hassan Ahmed. But anyway, make your pitch.  I’m sure you’ve got some sweetener to help me neck this absolute bullshit. – Lamb

Sign a statement that tallies with Loy’s and that’ll be the end of it. – Taverner

Oh you mean the end of me. – Lamb

You’d be fired, but no charges. And enough of a pension to keep you in single malts. A heavily redacted file will state that you were thinking out loud and Black went rogue – Taverner, seen looking at her nails… again … very nonchalant about the entire proposal.

When’s Tierney get back? I mean, I’d love to run all this by her.  – Lamb

Or we can sit here and watch the slow horses walk in one by one and accept a job back here at the Park, while you fester in the  basement until all this is cleared up, which I can make last a very long time.  … And if you get lonely, I can always send Standish down. The treason charge against her will be resurrected, and this time I can make it stick. – Taverner.  The last part send in a lower tone of voice, definitely intended to insinuate feelings between Lamb and Standish.  Taverner is sat back, quite intent on looking relaxed during these threats.

Lamb is seen vaguely nodding… sighs… and then quickly moves to get up.

Taverner is seen immediately moving back as if threatened by him / his movements toward her.

Lamb scratches his butt and stands in front of Taverner, with complete lack of regard.

Bomb threat – Cartwright breaks into the Park – steals the Fiasco File – Taverner is bested in her own office.

_____

As always, really appreciative of any other insight, thoughts, feelings that you're willing to share!! ♥

[moonmaiden1996]

Slow Pursuit Chapter Five

Like all of River’s plans, they were destined to have some flaw, some small fissure that could tear open the entire operation. Which was why he always prepared for every eventuality. One contingency sat in his pocket now—a mild sedative that could wipe the last twelve hours from anyone's memory. It was a tool he reserved for emergencies, something he preferred not to use. But as he watched Trent Roy swagger into your life, his hand brushed the tiny vial reflexively. If ever there was a time to use it, that time was when you met this prick.

The man had no idea what you were really like. Trent Roy—a sales manager whose company had just moved into your building—had swept in, smirking as if he were the most charming creature alive. All false polish and oily charm, he spoke as if he’d known you for years.

“We should definitely have dinner tonight, a little bar I know,” Trent had said, giving you what he probably thought was a winning smile.

River sneered as he overheard the invitation. The man’s lack of awareness bordered on insulting. How could he not realise you needed time to prepare for a night out? Spontaneous dinners in crowded, flashy bars were your personal nightmare—something Trent would know if he truly understood you. Instead, here he was, parading around like he knew exactly how to impress you, when all he was doing was adding to your discomfort.

It was foolish to worry you’d fall for such a blatant show, yet Trent’s persistence was unsettling. He was the kind of problem River preferred to eliminate before it took root. It wasn’t that he thought you couldn’t handle yourself—far from it. But Trent was a distraction, an unnecessary chaos that could derail everything River had put into motion. And if River knew anything, it was that chaos needed swift correction.

There was only one person who could help him now: Shirley Dander.

xxx

Shirley slouched in her chair, examining her chipped nails with an exaggerated sigh. “Why am I doing this again? Couldn’t you just ask Louisa to handle this?” she complained, casting an annoyed glance at River.

Shirley was reliable when it came to surveillance, one of the more adept assets among the Slough House crew, but she was anything but polished in fieldwork. Subtlety wasn’t her strength, and River felt a pang of doubt about involving her. But there was no one else, and she owed him one.

“Because you owe me,” River said, his tone calm but with a hint of firmness. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small baggie with a fine white powder inside that shimmered like ground diamond dust in the dim light. “And because I can give you this.”

Shirley’s eyes lit up as she reached for the baggie, but River tucked it back inside his pocket before she could grab it. “Uh-uh. Not yet,” he chided. “I need to know you’ve got the plan straight.”

Shirley scowled, her hand still outstretched. “I get it, River. God, you’re acting like I’ve never done a favor before.”

River’s expression tightened, and he seized her wrist, his grip just firm enough to get her attention. “I mean it, Shirley. Make it convincing, and do not let her drink that cocktail. I need you to make Trent look like the creep he is without her getting a sip of that stuff. Are we clear?”

Shirley yanked her wrist back, rolling her eyes. “Crystal. Now can I have my payment?”

River gave her a long, hard look before nodding. “After it’s done. And I’ll be nearby to make sure it goes smoothly. Just don’t mess this up.”

xxx

The bar Trent had chosen was worse than you feared. Loud music pulsed through cheap speakers, laughter echoed through the crowded space, and the smell of fried food lingered in the air. You sank into the plush chair opposite Trent, already feeling out of place, glancing nervously at the menu. It was the type of place that tried too hard and came off tacky. There were too many choices, none of which you had time to research, and the pressure was beginning to set in. You’d agreed to come here only to shake off the memories of River that had been consuming your thoughts recently. But this place, this atmosphere—it was all wrong.

You took a deep breath, reminding yourself to be polite. It was just one evening.

“I took the liberty of ordering you a cocktail,” Trent said, flashing you another grin as he slid an orange-colored drink toward you. “All the girls love a Pornstar Martini.”

You eyed the frothy monstrosity, a piece of dried passion fruit floating on top like a final insult. It was a well-intentioned gesture, perhaps, but it felt heavy-handed and overbearing. Passion fruit was on the list of things you couldn’t stand, and the garish color of the drink only heightened your discomfort.

As you lifted the drink, something shifted in the corner of your eye—a woman with a sharp gaze and disheveled hair sidling up to the bar. She was watching you and Trent with open suspicion, her gaze darting between the two of you. Before you had a chance to wonder about her intentions, she took a bold step forward.

“Hey!” the woman called out, her voice cutting through the bar noise. “Did I just see you put something in her drink?”

You froze, and all eyes turned to her. Trent’s face reddened as he sputtered, trying to keep his voice down.

“What? No, I didn’t put anything in there!” he insisted, glancing at you with a strained smile. “This lady’s mistaken, sweetheart, I swear—”

“Then what’s that?” she interrupted, pointing at the faint fizz rising from the bottom of your glass. “A vitamin? Because it sure looks suspicious to me.”

Your heart sank as you noticed the subtle bubbling, a grainy lump dissolving at the base of the glass. A horrified realization washed over you as you looked up, meeting Trent’s guilty eyes.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. You set the drink down, your fingers feeling numb.

Trent’s gaze darted to the people around you, noticing the growing audience. He forced a laugh, his hand twitching. “You’re blowing this out of proportion! I didn’t put anything in there! She’s probably just had one too many and is seeing things. Right?” He looked to you, desperate for an ally, but you were too shocked to respond.

The woman didn’t back down. Her eyes blazed with anger as she took a step closer. “I saw you, mate. Clear as day. And I think everyone else here should know the truth.”

A cold clarity settled over you. Whether or not she was right about Trent, one thing was certain: this man did not respect you enough to take you seriously. And you would not stay here a second longer.

You rose from your seat, straightening your shoulders. “I think we’re done here, Trent,” you said, voice steady.

Trent’s face twisted in frustration. “Oh, come on, you’re seriously going to listen to some random girl?”

You stared him down, the noise of the bar fading into the background. “You ordered me something I didn’t ask for, took me somewhere I didn’t want to be, and now you’re trying to make me feel guilty for noticing something strange.” Your voice hardened. “Goodbye, Trent.”

Leaving him spluttering, you turned and walked out of the bar, your heart pounding with adrenaline. The woman who had called him out was gone before you had a chance to thank her, but her intervention lingered in your mind, reinforcing a simple truth: you deserved to be listened to, respected, and cared for on your terms. And tonight, you’d learned just how little Trent understood that.

xxxx

River leaned back in his chair at your favorite café, his fingers tracing lazy circles around the rim of his coffee cup as he watched the entrance. The dim light inside the café softened the angles of his face, but his eyes were sharp, alert. He hadn’t really needed Shirley to intervene, but he was glad she had. You needed to see for yourself just how little respect Trent Roy had for you.

When he’d seen you leave the bar, shoulders squared and head held high, River had felt a surge of pride. You’d handled Trent with a quiet strength, calling him out and walking away without letting him pull you into his web of excuses. He knew it must have taken every ounce of willpower to make that exit, and that thought alone tugged at something deep inside him.

He’d had Shirley trail you for a while to make sure you were safe on your walk, then sent her on her way. Now, he waited for you to come here, to the place you always went when you needed to clear your mind. Not long after, he spotted you through the window, your shoulders tense but your pace steady. He watched you scan the café, your gaze lighting up when you saw him. It was impossible for him not to smile as you walked over, the relief in your eyes unmistakable.

“River,” you murmured softly, watching him as you made a beeline straight to him, just like it was meant to be. And you looked so beautiful, your eyes glistening with tears, marginally marred only by the fact you weren't dressed up for someone else. But he preferred you like this, in your loungewear without makeup, just as you are. So beautiful.

“What happened?” he asked gently, “You’re shaking,” he added as he helped you into your seat.

You took a shaky breath, looking down at his hand over yours before squeezing it, as if steadying yourself. “It’s stupid, really. I thought a night out would help me clear my head. Trent was…” You hesitated, then pushed on. “He was a jerk, honestly. Took me to this place he thought I’d love, ordered me some drink I didn’t even like—and then…”

River’s face tightened as you hesitated, your brow furrowing as you continued. “And then some girl—she was just a random stranger, I think—saw him put something in my drink. I almost didn’t believe her at first, but then I saw it.” You let out a bitter laugh. “He tried to laugh it off, making me feel like I was overreacting. But I knew, you know? I just knew something was wrong.”

He didn’t say a word, just squeezed your hand tighter, letting you take your time. His silence was warm, comforting, like he was carving out a space for you to feel safe.

“I walked out,” you added, voice trembling. “And part of me felt proud, but another part just…” Your voice trailed off as your face crumpled, a tear escaping down your cheek before you could brush it away.

River shifted his chair closer, releasing your hand only to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “Hey,” he murmured softly, rubbing your shoulder with a steady, grounding touch. “It’s okay. Did you call the police?”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into him as your tears started to fall. “No! I feel so stupid. I just wanted to get out of there so fast, I didn’t even think.”

“Shh…” he soothed. “It’s okay.” River’s hand gently rubbed your shoulder, tender and reassuring.

The sound of his voice, the warmth of his arm around you, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek were all so reassuring, so real. You leaned into him, letting the stress and anxiety drain away until only comfort remained.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffed. “You always seem to be rescuing me.”

“Don’t be silly,” River murmured, brushing away a stray tear with his rough, calloused thumb. “I rather like coming to your rescue.” His thumb lingered, tracing over your lips, his gaze soft as he looked at you. Your breath hitched, a quiet thrill simmering in the pit of your stomach.

“Hey, you!” Trent’s voice cut through the air, loud and grating, desperation lacing his words as he stumbled through the door of a cafe. He scanned the café until his gaze locked onto you, eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and anger. “Look, it’s not what it looked like,” he insisted, his tone pleading yet harsh.

You instinctively pulled closer to River, gripping his hand as if it were the only anchor in a suddenly turbulent sea. Trent’s gaze flicked from you to River, his expression souring when he noticed the closeness between you two. Your heart pounded, but River’s hand over yours didn’t falter; his presence was like a shield, steady and unbreakable.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Trent,” River said, his voice calm and low, every syllable sharp and precise—a stark contrast to Trent’s frantic tone. “I suggest you leave.”

Trent’s face flushed, anger boiling over. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he sneered, fists clenching at his sides. “I just got accused of something awful, and the least I deserve is a chance to explain myself. This whole thing was a misunderstanding!”

River’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes unwavering as he faced Trent. “It doesn’t matter how you explain it. If she doesn’t want to speak to you, that’s enough. She doesn’t owe you anything, least of all a chance to explain.”

Trent looked ready to lash out, frustration coiling tightly within him. But then River rose from his seat, standing tall, shoulders squared, face impassive yet radiating a silent, powerful authority. The air crackled with tension as River held Trent’s gaze, not backing down an inch. In that moment, River’s usual quiet warmth transformed into something formidable—an unshakeable resolve that left no room for doubt.

“I suggest,” River said, his voice dangerously low, “that you leave now, before this turns into something you’ll regret.”

Your breath caught as you looked up at River, seeing him in a way you hadn’t before. There was a protectiveness in his gaze, a fierce loyalty that stirred something deep inside you. Trent faltered, his bravado waning in the face of River’s calm yet undeniable strength. For the first time, you saw a flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably.

Trent’s voice softened, almost as if he were hoping to appeal to you one last time. “Come on, you’re really just going to throw me away like this?” he pleaded, frustration barely masked. “After all, we were just… getting to know each other. I swear I didn’t put anything in your drink.”

The thought made you feel sick, your heart twisting with a blend of anger and relief. You could see Trent for who he truly was—a person who couldn’t handle rejection, who didn’t respect boundaries, who thought he was entitled to forgiveness. And you knew, deep down, that you deserved so much more than what he could offer. The realisation filled you with a quiet strength, a resolve buried under the weight of confusion and self-doubt.

“Goodbye,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected. You felt River’s hand rest on your shoulder, a warm, grounding presence.

With a final glare, Trent stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him. The café slowly returned to its usual hum, but it felt different now—like you’d finally reclaimed a part of yourself that had been lost. You took a breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease as the weight of the confrontation began to lift.

But as that moment of calm washed over you, an unsettling wave of unease surged within. “I want to go home,” you declared suddenly, your voice cutting through the lingering silence. “It’s been a weird day.” You moved quickly, the icy air burning your heated skin, you were tired and scared, River followed closely behind you.

Out of the looming darkness, Trent reemerged from one of the side streets, his face contorted in rage, eyes darting toward River. “You think you can just waltz in and play the hero?” he spat, his voice loud enough to draw attention from other patrons. “She was just being dramatic! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Get lost, Trent,” River said, his voice calm but low, a warning simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t want to make this worse.”

“Worse?” Trent laughed bitterly, stepping closer, fists clenching at his sides. “You think you can scare me?”

“Please,” you interjected, your voice rising above the mounting chaos. “Trent, just go! I’m done with you!”

Trent’s eyes flicked back to you, his expression hardening as River’s hand slid to your lower back, guiding you toward the door as you walked past Trent. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, and you nodded, the weight of the night still heavy in your chest but now feeling lighter with each step away from Trent.

As you stepped outside, the cool night air hit you, and you took a deep breath, ready to leave the chaos behind. But just as you reached the corner, Trent burst out of the café again, his anger renewed. “You can’t just walk away from this, this is serious!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the stillness.

You instinctively moved closer to River, who turned to face Trent. “What do you want?” River demanded, his voice low and steady, maintaining the line between calm and confrontation.

“I want to talk to her! To explain!” Trent’s frustration was palpable, his eyes wild. “You don’t get to decide that for her!”

You felt a surge of panic, and your heart raced. “I want to go home,” you said firmly, standing your ground. “This is over, Trent.”

River turned to you, his expression softening as he sensed your distress. “I’ll take you home,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “You don’t have to deal with him.”

Trent’s face twisted in disbelief as he realised you were choosing to leave with River. “You’re seriously not going to hear me out. You’ll regret this!” he shouted, but his words felt empty, like a last gasp of desperation.

“Let’s go,” River urged, his hand firmly on your back, guiding you away from the confrontation. As you moved, you could feel the tension dissolve, replaced by the warmth of River’s presence beside you.

You glanced back at Trent one last time, feeling the weight of his gaze as you stepped away. The chaos faded into the distance, but an unsettling feeling lingered at the back of your mind. It wasn’t something you could put your finger on, but it set you on edge.

Maybe not the best chapter but we are now gearing up to do some proper Dark!River in all his glory, he is gearing up to make his move.

Quick question, though- Do you think River would ever drunk a reader? No ominous intentions just to keep her safe?

[pyrusinc]

Mosaic (Akumabug)

Adrien glanced around his room, now illuminated by telltale blue embers of time, and felt every nerve in his body light in alarm as Bunnyx's exhausted form stumbled through the portal that had blazed into existence. He rushed to her side as she collapsed on the floor, shuddering coughs tearing through her throat.

"Bunnyx? Are you alright?" He asked in a rush as he helped her up. "D-doesn't matter," she choked. "Something terrible has happened, and you're our only shot at fixing it." Leaning on Adrien, she raised a trembling hand to the air, faint sparks dancing along her fingers. A second portal flashed before them, and Adrien exchanged a worried glance with Plagg before calling on his transformation and helping Bunnyx through. The interior of the Burrow was as harrowing as it always was, but for an entirely different reason than normal- the infinite number of rippling windows into time that usually greeted travelers, bekoning them with whispered could-have-been's and might-be's were absent, leaving the endless white abyss to expand into oblivion. With no sense of space within this void of time, Adrien searched for something to focus on to keep his head from spinning. Bunnyx was in rough shape, even worse than he'd initially realized. Her usually sharp gaze was clouded with pain and fear, and her rabbit ears were pinned back, occasionally flicking nervously. She seemed to be steading herself, prepairing for something, but each breath seemed to bring her some amount of distress. There was something else about her too, something he couldn't quite place, something wrong about her that his eyes refused to focus on, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what. A million questions raced through his mind, fighting to be asked, but he settled on the simplest he could manage. "What happened, Alix?"

It could have been a second before she responded, or a minute. In this fathomless space, it felt like an eternity.

"...Have you ever wondered what would happen if you were akumatized?"

"I try not to think about thing's that won't happen."

A dry laugh echoed through the Burrow. "Good one, but its less that it won't happen and more that you can't allow it to. If a miraculous wielder as powerful as you were akumatized, it would be catastrophic. Worse than Monarch winning."

"What are you getting at? I've never been akumatized."

Bunnyx shook her head, "In your timeline, maybe, and only because we worked to undo and retroactively prevent it from ever happening."

Adrien felt his blood run cold. Undo it? Had he been akumatized before? Had he, in some far off, erased timeline, been corrupted? Bunnyx flickered like a match going out and relighting, and she fell into another coughing fit. "W-what are you saying? Did.... Did I do this to you?" Adrien finally managed.

"N-no." Bunnyx rasped. "Destruction was a gradual fade into nothingness. Now I feel like my cells are burning... Like I said, if someone as powerful as you were akumatized, it would be devestating. World ending. But you're still here..."

His heart stopped. Any distress he had felt at the idea of losing himself was gone in an instant, replaced by dawning horror of what Bunnyx was implying.

"That's impossible-" he whispered. "That could never..."

Adrien looked up, searching pained eyes. Bunnyx looked so fragile, a far cry from the strong, sassy hero he had always seen her as. The stalwart protector of ages, reduced to a shivering hare... and there, imperceptible but for the stillness of their shared stress, it was. The wrongness he hadn't been able to discern. Shimmering lines were drifting from Bunnyx's suit, the nearly invisible hexagonal mesh weave of her transformation was sloughing off her body. It was subtle, but the glimmer was unmistakable now that he had seen it- the very threads of her existence were being pulled from her being. The faint hexagons drifted mere centimeters from her surface before splitting, becoming undone. Subtle shapes curling in on themselves and twisting in on each other, endlessly. It hurt to watch, a physically excruciating thing to behold happen to a person, watching as the very fibers of their life were mutated beyond recognition. There was a word for this, for what was happening to Alix Kubdel.

She was fractalling.

Becoming mosaic.

A sputtering portal burned into existence beside them, and Bunnyx stumbled away from Adrien, barely standing, but still defiant. "Every other future has already been obliterated, or worse. This is the only timeline yours will ever lead to, if we don't fix it. I know its a lot to ask, but you're the only one that can do this... Get in, destroy the akuma, and get out. We should know enough by then to prevent this possibility from ever being realized."

Fear coiled through Adrien's veins, turning his body sluggish and unresponsive, but he forced himself to take a shuddering breath and step froward, towards the portal. Towards the unknown end of realities that existed on the other side. He could do this, he had to do this.

Behind him, he heard Bunnyx's strength give out as she collapsed to the ground, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the task ahead of him. If he faltered for even a second, he wasn't sure he'd be able to bring himself to face it again. Every cell in his body urged him forward, to do the one thing he would always do, and every cell in his body screamed for him to run away, away, away from this impossible future.

Bunnyx's broken voice drifted through the void around him as stepped through the portal and into this finale that must be undone.

"Do what you do best, Chat Noir."

"Save Ladybug."

@isabugs and i have been rotating this idea like two feral cavedwellers rotating a cartoon slab of meat on a spit. and like those two feral cavedwellers, we have been cooking. here are some drabbles :)

[hiccupologist]

WIP time! plus a massive TRIGGER WARNING for an opaque reference to vague canonical disordered eating, which is fetishized in a really complicated way because the writer is a lifelong ED patient, but it's like, hopefully sweet and not weird and triggering tho, but you know. be careful and all that. disconnected chunks are separated by dividers bc I write in outline + discovery bridging style

petrigrof, FA/wg/stuffing/stomachache kink, light angst, hurt/comfort vibes

  Simon pressed his head deep into the pillow to block out both the sound of his alarm clock and of a quiet, sickly burp that he couldn’t manage to hold back. Betty was already getting up, and he would rather pretend to be asleep than answer questions. Interacting with anyone at all was risky at the moment, but the last thing he needed was to get someone so close to him involved in this mess.

  He thought she would just leave and go downstairs to start working on the slide presentation she’d been compiling from a recent batch of archaeological rubbings, because she almost made it off the rug before she turned back. “You feeling okay, honey? You want me to let you sleep in?”

  “Mhm.” He mumbled, still buried in a slough of bedclothes. “I’m fine, I just had a long night.” This was technically true. He just wasn’t mentioning the part about methodically consuming an entire apple pie from the 24 hour grocery store.

  She rubbed his shoulder affectionately through the blanket. He didn’t even open his eyes, not willing to meet her gaze this early into his self-flagellation stage. Betty was so perfect. Even her imperfections were endearing, not like spontaneously turning into an irritable crazy person when ambient noise got too loud, or needing to have a private cry after receiving constructive criticism, or. The thing that was currently happening.

  “Okay, Simon. You get some rest and I’ll check on you later.”

[...]

  “It’s not just stress-eating. Well, it is, but-” He swallowed roughly. Hopefully after he surmounted this peak, his anxiety would spill into some kind of catharsis. “I do it a lot, when my life isn’t going well. Or I feel like it isn’t.” It’s just horrible the whole time. Crap. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m going to be sick, I’m going to cry, I’m-”

  “Shhh. Simon.” Now she looked almost equally upset, and he felt even worse, but her tone was comforting and she leaned forward to hold him. “You don’t have to tell me if you can’t. I think I already know.”

  “How?” He didn’t mean to sound so accusatory; his voice cracked into a sob at the end of question. He was being held by the love of his life, he was being published academically again, he even felt like he had finally conquered the invasive ivy in their front yard, but he honestly felt like his life was falling apart. He’d gone to so much trouble to hide that diseased, malformed part of his personality from her. He thought maybe he could handle telling her, but if she’d known for God knows how long, he just wanted to die.

  She’s rubbing little circles in his back, seemingly unphased by what he feels is effectively a temporary bout of insanity. Her voice sounded hesitant. “Oh, babe. I… I can tell when you’re so full it’s hurting you. We don’t spend that much time apart.” At this statement he gave a muted wail of abject agony, and she pulled him in tighter. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve been wanting to talk about it. I’m not being judgemental, I promise. I just don’t want you hurting your stomach.”

  Simon sniffed, head still resting against her body. He didn’t feel comfortable yet, existing in a reality where Betty knew all of him, even the raw sensitive embarrassing bits. His deepest existential fears, his childhood dreams and traumas, sure, he’d spill those out for her like cutting roe from a salmon. But not this part. “I’m going to start fasting again. I did it before when-”

  “No.” She replied, gently but firmly.

  “But I hate losing control like this!”

  “I know your first instinct is to try and grab the steering wheel and fix everything, but…” She sighed. “Look. It’s not my story to tell, but I kind of know about this stuff. It’s like one of those finger tube things, or the barbs on a fishing hook. Like… you overeat because you feel bad, right? So logically, if you beat yourself up about food, isn’t that gonna make you eat more?”

  He looked up at her. “But… but if I don’t do anything, I…” In a much quieter voice: “...I’ll gain so much weight.”

  “That’s not the worst thing in the world, right?” She brushed a lock of hair away from his damp forehead, smeared with tears and panic sweat. “And anyway, it would be better for you to gain fifty pounds than a hundred pounds, right?”

[...]

  “How’s this?” She asked, her voice almost lowered to a whisper. Her cool hand caressed the soft underside of his stomach, where the bulge of his added fat connected with his sensitive upper pelvic area. He shuddered, but not from discomfort. It almost felt like he was being tickled, a visceral, giddy feeling in his guts. “Do you like me to touch your little belly?”

  “Y-yes, I like it very much.” He swallowed. He couldn’t believe she was so brave as to say such a thing out loud, not only the word “belly” but the entire fucking concept. How was it possible for someone’s brain not to short circuit and melt, forming those words? He knew it was because he was messed up really bad in the sex part of his brain, but still, it was hard to comprehend.

  “You know, I’ve always thought it was cute when your tummy gets a little round.” She kissed his neck, and he squirmed despite his best efforts to retain a scrap of dignity. “You’re not as fun to cuddle when you’re all skinny. I remember when you got that horrible stomach bug, it made me worry about you so hard.” She leaned down next to him and switched to a lying position on the bed, then reached out to continue giving his abdomen loving touches. A hand stroked the top of his belly, running over the plush pad just under his sternum. “But when you have some extra stuffing in you, you’re very soft and huggable.”

  He could feel some of his terror melting into arousal, although perhaps that was too simplistic a term; Betty could make him feel flustered, a strange combination of sexual desire and the kind of joyous validation you’d get from someone giving you an unexpected compliment. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed. He was still working on not shutting down due to shyness when she got explicitly affectionate with him. He did his best to form coherent sentences. “That feels so good to hear, Princess, you wouldn’t even believe… thank you.” He sometimes worried his pet name for her displayed too much of his id. It certainly hadn’t been his intention, but he’d come to realize the word was embarrassingly close to “mistress”. Deep down he worried that everything he did to fulfill his role as a man in their relationship was a lie. But it was also sort of… wishful thinking, really. He sometimes wished he and Betty could trade places as boyfriend and girlfriend; not genders, they would be the same people, but she would be the one expected to provide for him and make decisions, and he would simply love her and support her and be safe and protected. “I really want to believe the things you told me earlier. About, eh, eating. But I’m just so worried about losing control. If this is what it’s like when I’m trying to use my willpower…”

  “Trust me on this. We can even research it at the library together, okay?” She had stopped moving her hands now and settled them on his body, one draped over his waist and one folded against his back, pressing into it. “Mm. Do you want me to say something a little silly? For your thing?”

  “Oh! By- by all means.”

  She nestled against the crook of his neck, whispering. “Even if somehow your worst case scenario happens and you just keep eating, and you get really big,” she kissed his cheek, “I’ll still love you and want to hang out with you because you’re my cute, smart, awesome boyfriend who I’m going to marry no matter what size you are.”

  Simon released a shaky breath. “That’s incredibly romantic.”

[canipetthatdeaddove]

My mom's husband has completely abandoned her, left her off his insurance since last year, and "forgot" to add her during the enrollment period in October for this year.

My mom suffers from epilepsy (grand mal seizures), has had a frontal lobe craniotomy (a fucking lobotomy that made everything worse), still suffers from debilitating seizures, has a sodium depletion syndrome that makes life a living hell (imagine being told you can only have less than a cup of water a day to prevent fluid retention but have to take salt pills, your skin is drying out to the point its sloughing off, your eyes sting from crying literal salt crystals). On top of that, it's just awful to be her - so much unhealed trauma from her childhood and abusive relationships. There's no safe place in her head, so she spends all day watching Korean dramas and doing whatever she can to escape her reality.

David Welch, son of Elmer and Ann Welch, wants my mother to die. He's waiting for it. He's watching it. And I'm helpless to do anything. They had to change her meds over the last year due to finances - not medical reasons. Meds that have Fucked. Her. UP. because they aren't the right meds that work for her. They're merely what she can afford. She can't get the medical attention she needs, she can't go to St. Luke in KC, she can't go to the Mayo Clinic, and she is paying thousands of dollars out of pocket for the meds that are just killing her.

I'm not being quiet about it anymore. If only people whose opinion mattered to him would see. Go see her in the broken home he refuses to pay anything to fix where mold is rife and the plumbing is fucked, the washing machine barely works; go visit her and look at all the bumps and bruises from falling because he refuses to have any accessible ANYTHING installed, her skeletal frame, and read all the hundreds of abusive and weirdly religious messages he sends her.

He could divorce her. He is non-disabled and in full control of his mental faculties. He could divorce her. But I think the fucker wants the attention of calling himself a widower someday.

My mom wouldn't be in this situation if there was anything I could do about it. She has a host of unpleasant mental issues that keep her there, in that depressing home, dying. She doesn't think she's worth fighting for; I know it. A lot of people actually feel that way, too.

I've gone through my seasons with my mom. But I'm sober now. And no matter what the past, her imperfections, the direct correlation to her behavior and my drinking - she doesn't deserve this. And my drunk brother and tweaking fucking sister will probably die from their own addictions because mom will die horribly and miserably before they reconcile, and the pain of it will hasten them to their graves.

I'm in a lot of pain over this, and I am not at the point in my sobriety where I've got a handy set of tools to handle this. Stoicism? Would you? As your mother deteriorates in a perfectly preventable situation? As someone ELSE decides she's not worth it? If you can do that, I can't relate to you. You're in the same category as her husband - a cruel monster.

[oculusxcaro]

Had a funny thought at work today about which of my muses are the most dangerous, particularly when it comes to biting somebody and the answer? It's this bitch right here.

So, Khare doesn't look very dangerous and why would she? She can't exactly fight, she isn't super strong nor does she have any super cool amazing powers like being able to shoot webs out of her wrists or freeze somebody solid with a single touch. She can drop her arm and regrow it (very) painfully though, and that is precisely WHY you're COMPLETELY FUCKING FUCKED if she ever bites you. Her mutation? It's eating her alive, but she's able to stave off the worst effects due to receiving consecutive injections that gave her immune system enough time to hunker down and start fighting back against these new invaders in their space. It can't stop the onslaught indefinitely but it does grant her time, a war of attrition if you will. Her DNA is doing everything it can to remain stable and keep the host going but eventually it'll all come tumbling down like a house of cards and then Khare will REALLY start looking bad. That all changes if she bites somebody because they did not receive the same chain injections and have absolutely NO resistance to the DNA-altering enzymes in her body. One bite is all it'll take for a few DNA fragments to become lodged in the unlucky victim's wound and while at the time it seems like a normal human bite, the damage it'll cause will be beyond catastrophic. It won't start off that way. Hell, the wound might even heal unusually quick but it's as normal a bite as a human can give. You'll forget it even happened and life will go on as normal for a little while. That is, until the itching starts. It'll start in the area where the bite occured, an incessant itch that won't go away no matter how many times you scratch it. That feeling will eventually spread across the afflicted area, running up your limbs, into your torso, wherever the hell that fucking waitress bit you for whatever goddamn reason. It just won't stop and not even heavy painkillers or booze will touch it. Then the itching'll get worse, and soon you see... things beneath your skin, strange little hives. Except... they're not hives, they're tiny fucking eyes and lumps of abnormal tissue that keeps rising to the surface, spreading like a rash as your skin just... starts to melt. You're hot, you're clammy, you're plagued by relentless thirst and drink and drink and drink except it's a thirst that cannot be quenched, and you're just so fucking hot and itchy you're about to claw your skin off except that'll just make the whole process move even faster. You start melting. Skin sloughs off like musty old clothes, new flesh trying and trying to replace what was lost except this mutation was never intended for you. What was once a foreign body has now inoculated in your very own immune system long enough to turn it against you, destroying you from within right down to your very last cell. You stop thinking, you can't think because your organs are all liquifying including your brain and if you're *still* alive at this point, you've never wished for anything harder than for it all to just end already. If Roman bites you, it's going to fucking hurt but it'll heal depending on how hard he did it. If Man-Bat bites you, you might need a blood transfusion because of the draculin in his saliva. If Kirk bites you, he was being kinky. ;') If Stoplight bites you however, say goodbye to whatever limb he got ahold of. If Copperhead bites you, count yourself lucky if you only end up in hospital but if Khare bites you, you are already dead. You just don't know it yet. So... yeah. Try to avoid any love bites from this girl because whatever you think it's worth, it's really really not. Trust me on that one. x

[oneiric-thoughts]

String Theory - Opus 1

River Cartwright x Eliza Zhou (OC)

Preview: It didn’t get more Slough House than this, a babysitting gig for someone who meant bugger-all to River's career in the grand scheme of things. Yet staying indifferent to his principal—the violinist—was proving to be harder than he'd expected, especially when she turned up with proper coffee, fresh pastries, and a smile bright enough to light up half of London on a blackout day.

Piece played: Sarabande from Bach Violin Partita No. 2 in D Minor

Word count: 2,010

The first chapter is finally here! Giggling and kicking my feet while writing this and got carried away 😆 Let me know what you think!

River was nursing a migraine. 

From what, he didn't particularly know. His job hadn't been stressful lately—not that it ever was. Retyping surveillance notes or vetting outdated intel couldn’t exactly have him clocking seventy-hour weeks. Maybe it was the copious amount of bad coffee he puts in his system. Or just the general misery of working in this dump finally taking a physical toll. 

All River wanted was to turn off the lights, shut the blinds, and sneak a thirty-minute nap. So when Lamb’s thudding barrage pounded three times on the ceiling, it was as if the man himself had descended from his lair above, wielded a sledgehammer, and aimed straight at River’s skull. He mulled over his options: feign unconsciousness and let Louisa shoulder the fallout—paying the favour back with drinks as soon as his head didn’t feel like someone was jackhammering his eyeballs—or exert the last of his remaining energy to endure whatever delight Lamb had in store.

Another three well-aimed thumps. Right. Louisa wasn’t in, then.

River sighed, wishing for death as he lifted his head, pushed his chair back, and trudged upstairs. The moment he cracked open Lamb’s office door, his senses were immediately assaulted by the familiar stench of last week’s curry, Lamb’s signature odour, and something that was—if River let his mind wander dangerously close to specifics—vaguely reminiscent of stale garlic. 

“Took you long enough.” Lamb didn’t look up. “Thought you’d finally found the sense to fuck off for good.”

“Did you call me in just to take the piss, or is there actually a job involved?” River’s head throbbed as he spoke, but even debilitated by the migraine he felt compelled to lob something back at his boss.

Lamb just snorted. “Oh, you’re in luck, Cartwright. There’s a job. Security detail.”

He lazily flung a file across the desk, slim and pristine compared to the usual sludge. River flipped it open and found the face of a young woman staring back at him—dark hair, darker eyes, draped in a gown he suspected was worth more than the building’s annual upkeep. 

“This is…?”

“Eliza Zhou. Concert violinist. American. His Royal Pain in the Arse invited her for some fancy fiddling at his gala, then the Proms.” Lamb paused, his chair creaking as he shifted, and unleashed a long, unmistakably lethal fart. Biohazard, River thought, eyes watering. Lamb, impervious, continued, “She’s a treat for the moneyed lot.”

River held his breath, quickly skimming through her file: twenty-seven. Born in Xiamen. Current residence, New York. Graduate of The Juilliard School. No potential threats. “So what exactly is the palace worried about? Rogue cellists?”

“Not even that, really,” Lamb said, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it with all the flourish of a man doing a favour for the world by shortening his life expectancy. “Which is why it’s your job, see? Taverner doesn’t want the press saying some royal visitor got shivved or had her precious violin nicked on her watch, and she’s even less interested in using anyone important to prevent it. So, here we are.”

River flipped another page, barely glancing until a detail snagged his eye: Current instrument: Solomon ex-Lambert, 1729 Stradivarius. Estimated value, USD 2.1 million. He could feel his migraine getting worse. Was this the job? Playing bodyguard to a glorified antique worth more than his entire career? “Two million? For a fiddle?”

“Imagine the headlines,” Lamb drawled, lips curling as if savouring a private joke. “Royal guest has her priceless pluck box pinched on British soil. Taverner’s worst nightmare. And officially your problem.”

“Honoured to be of service,” River muttered, suppressing the urge to hurl the file back to Lamb’s face. It didn’t get more Slough House than this, a babysitting gig for someone who meant bugger-all to his career in the grand scheme of things. Not a diplomat, not one of the top brass of the Service, not their second cousin’s sister’s niece—not even the world-class violinist, by the looks of it, but her bloody instrument. It was as if Taverner had carved it in stone: Slough House, the bottom-feeders of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

“Tomorrow morning,” Lamb added, looking immensely bored already, “you’re to make an appearance at Kensington Palace, 10 sharp, to meet her team. They’ll tell you where she’ll be, what to look out for, and where to stand when you’re looking out for it. Shouldn’t be difficult. Not even you can cock it up.” He leaned back in his chair, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Don’t prove me wrong, and wipe that sour look off your face—you’ll give the girl nightmares. What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway? Didn’t think I’d assigned you to sort through the bins today.”

River just sighed in response, the briefing sucking his willpower to stay upright, not having it in him to throw a comeback. He stuffed the folder under his arm and started for the door before Lamb could add more insights. 

But of course, he did. “And, Cartwright—try to keep your hands in your pockets. Don’t need you to start a diplomatic incident.”

“I’ll restrain myself.”

Lamb glanced at him with a smirk, beady eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Good boy. Now piss off before I decide to show some affection and dock your pay.”

River finally headed out, wondering how long it’d take for the novelty of guarding Eliza Zhou to wear off. He gave it twenty minutes, thirty if she played something he recognized.

By morning, the migraine had eased up, leaving River in a state that almost passed for human. He dragged a dark blue suit from his pre-Slough House days out of the back of the wardrobe, actually bothered to shave, and made his way towards the car.

He spent most of the drive to Kensington Palace forming a mental picture of this supposed darling of the classical music circuit—daughter of pianist and conductor William Zhou, a titan on his own right. River concluded that she must look something like a Manhattan socialite crossed with a trust-fund dictator: perched in some opulent suite with a dozen cowering servants at her beck and call, fussing over an espresso like it was on trial for high treason. His assignment, no doubt, was to play the part of a security valet—somewhere between bodyguard and errand boy. Fetch her bags. Stand by the door while Miss Zhou ‘performed’ her artist act, which probably meant a lot of strumming and pouting for cameras. A Park Avenue heiress whose talent was as deficient as her character. 

But when he knocked on the door of her suite, the first surprise was that there was no entourage, no flock of assistants waiting on her feet. The “team” Lamb had referred to was one woman with the kind of bearing that suggested she was in charge of calling the shots at Pentagon, not taking care of a musician’s PR: tall, blonde, dressed in a sharp black blouse tucked into an even sharper pair of brown tailored trousers. “Morgan Knox,” she introduced herself briskly, sizing him up with a cold glance. “Eliza’s agent. You’re Cartwright?”

"That’s what it says on my badge," he replied. Knox didn’t seem amused. 

She wordlessly gestured for River to step inside. What greeted him was the sound of the violin—a piece he didn’t recognise—the melody simple, the pace deliberate. He followed the notes toward their source, turning left to see Eliza Zhou standing in front of the big glass window. She traced her bow across the strings, face scrunched with an expression that looked like concentration. 

No, not concentration, he realised. That look was closer to sorrow.

The melody slithered into the depths of River’s mind, unlocking a box containing memories he’d rather kept untouched. His nan’s funeral. Watching his granddad cry, for the first and last time. That cursed day he’d dropped him off at the home, David’s voice still ringing in his ears: You promised you wouldn’t do this to me, River!

He blinked a few times, struggling to resurface from the fragments threatening to pull him under. The violin hadn’t stopped; Eliza was still playing with that look on her face, minor keys and heartbreak spilling into the room.

The piece concluded with a quiet vibrato, the final note fading away on a downbow. Eliza exhaled, something like relief, and, as if catching the sense of someone else in her self-spun storm, glanced up toward him.

“Oh—hi. You must be River Cartwright.” And just like that, the clouds cleared, the skies returned to blue. She set down her violin and moved toward him, extending a hand. “Eliza. Nice to meet you.”

Her voice was warm, a far cry from the drawl he'd half expected. She was a head shorter than him, and what yesterday’s migraine had fogged over was the fact that she was beautiful: glass-like skin, high cheekbones, and hair dark enough to suck all the light out of the room—

River dropped that line of thought fast, right as Lamb’s voice pierced through the back of his mind: “Try keeping your hands in your pockets, lover boy.”

“Yeah, likewise,” he managed a reply, shaking her hand, feeling the rough brush of her calloused fingertips. She slipped her hand away, reached for a paper sitting atop a nearby table, and handed it over, flashing a smile.

“Thought you might need this.” Inside were two pastries, smelling fresher than anything he’d had in weeks, and a coffee. Black, from the looks of it—just how he took it. “You look like you need it more than me.”

He blinked. “Sorry, what?”

She took a sip from her tea, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t know who decided a violinist needed a security detail from MI5. A bit overkill, wouldn’t you say?”

“Here for the violin, actually.” River felt his own mouth twist into a smile he hadn’t seen in months. “The Waleses’d rather lose a corgi than have a relic stolen on their watch. Wouldn’t look good on the papers. You’re just collateral, I’m afraid.”

Eliza snorted, but then nodded with a resigned sigh, as if accepting the fact that the 300-year-old piece of wood was worth more than her. “Well, still seems a bit of a downgrade for you, doesn’t it? I mean, what does MI5 do, exactly? Leaping out of helicopters and tearing down motorways in Aston Martins?” She had that tone—like she’s talking to some kindred spirit at a niche fan convention, not her assigned minder. 

But he wasn’t in the mood to entertain her with the reality of the Service, either—that it was more about putting out whatever fire the bigwigs had sparked this week than dodging bullets. Nor did he have the heart to let on that her “agent” was practically a case study in how to land oneself in the gutter of the Service.

“Mostly paperwork,” he replied, deadpan. “Not much glamour in intelligence work, sorry to say.”

Her eyes crinkled at that, though he knew she didn’t quite believe him. 

“Alright,” Eliza says, beaming at River so brightly it might have singed his eyebrows, “what’s the protocol here? Do you follow me around with an earpiece and sunglasses, or are we going for more of a ‘blending in’ vibe?”

River’s lips twitched. He couldn’t quite say she’d won him over, but tolerable was more than most got—so maybe this job wouldn’t be hell after all. “I’ll do my best not to ruin the atmosphere. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Noted.” Eliza’s grin widened, and she pointed to the sofa in the living area. “Let’s get into it, then shall we? Morgan will run you through my schedule, and I assume you’ll enlighten me on security protocols?”

River nodded, trailing after her and reviewing the entire mental catalogue of snide retorts and reasons to despise the job. But here she was, looking up at him with a mixture of humour and genuine curiosity, and his list of complaints suddenly seemed flimsy.

[fruchtfleisch-art]

microfic prompt: blood :D

Blood :D

Kirashino microfic #1/?: Blood

On Thursdays, Shinobu dresses up, takes the train into town, and meets a serial killer for lunch.

It sounds dramatic boiled down to base facts, like she’s his accomplice, or a future victim. It’s not hard to imagine the police report. Mrs. Kawajiri met the suspect at 1317 hours at his place of work. The suspect lured her to a secondary location, where he then…

Well, she’s not exactly sure how he does it. Or why. Would it be better or worse, knowing all the grisly details?

Today, their secondary location is a gravel trail running parallel to the beach, the sky above them achingly bright and blue. Breakers pound against the coastline and recede with a hiss, water sluicing through sand and pebbles, leaving skeins of foam in a yellow-white tangle on the shore.

They hold hands as they walk, companionably silent. Kira’s wearing a new cologne, a smoky jasmine scent. Shinobu tries to remember what Kosaku used to smell like and finds herself unable to muster more than a passing interest, as insubstantial as seafoam. What does it matter? Her husband is gone now, spirited away by the same power that let the killer at her side take his face and his fingerprints and his wife. Good riddance.

Kira seems content with Kosaku’s appearance, his job, his role in their family, but he’s sloughed the rest like snakeskin. He hums when he’s happy, talks to himself when he thinks he’s alone. He obsesses over details and gets irritable when the world fails to conform to his perilously high standards. He has expensive, occasionally unorthodox tastes. When they get lunch, he always finds something interesting for dessert. Peach and ginger galette. Lemon cake with pistachio and cardamom. Vanilla ice cream dusted with espresso powder, speckled with black pepper, drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

“I’ve come to appreciate a little novelty in my life,” he’d said when she asked, the underlying message clear as a bell and substantially sweeter.

That’s something the police report would definitely leave out. His sweetness.

Today they’re having strawberry and basil jamupan, one each. Kira catches a dribble of jam before it can fall into her lap.

“Careful, dear,” he says. “We don’t want to make a mess, do we?”

An image rises in Shinobu’s mind as she brings her hand to her mouth and licks syrupy, savory filling off her fingers, Kira’s eyes on her like a physical weight. She remembers waking up from a hazy nightmare, stumbling downstairs still half-asleep. Opening the fridge for a bottle of water, acrid yellow light snapping on as the door swings wide. A severed human hand on the top shelf, next to a box of takeout.

A severed human hand. Thick, jellied clots of blood drooling from the stump, oozing past crushed shards of carpal bones and strips of muscle. Darker bits of blood flecking the shelf and interior wall, drying to scab consistency. The fingers stiffly curled, the nails immaculately groomed but bearing the bruise-purple pallor of death. A hand in her fridge.

It was gone in the morning, almost like she had dreamed it. Kira had come home from work with flowers and kisses and Shinobu had ignored the bulge in his suit jacket pocket, turned the tv off when a news bulletin started about a new missing person case.

“No,” she tells Kira, “I don’t.”

Better or worse? Hard to say.

[jedinightsister]

2 qs :) 1) what’s your favourite slow horses duo/team up? shirley/anyone is always prime entertainment but in the later books lech and louisa have been surprisingly competent together. Also shirley/river/jk coe “huddling” (“it’s not touching its survival!!!”) was hilarious

2) what do you think of the casting for the new characters? Obvs will reserve judgment for when I’ve seen their take on the characters but the actor they chose for whelan for example I think is maybe…. Too conventionally attractive lol. Like I remember him being described as balding. Ofc a good actor can serve us pathetic realness regardless of their looks! I mean we already we have Jack lowden as river

Tysm for the q's anon! My answers under the cut<3

QUESTION 1

That is so hard... I think I love that they always mix it up, so we can see all kinds of dynamics between the characters y'know. Like, they have a go-to pairing (ex. Min and Louisa, Shirley and Marcus), but they also switch things up to bring out a different kind of interaction. Whether it's supportive, deprecating, etc. it's just awesome.

For my personal faves tho, there's a lot and I will name them all from what I can remember.

1. Shirley and Marcus. Even after Marcus is gone, the ripple of this friendship in Shirley's life is just so strong, it is both amusing and heartbreaking. That despite how much antagonistic Shirley is toward him, she grew to genuinely care about him in her own way, to reciprocate how he cared about her. I'm scared af for season 4 because this is coming. Part of me doesn't want them to push through with it, but again, I love the effect of his loss on Shirley, for better or worse.

2. Louisa and Min. Bit of a similar sentiment here. Min's loss really takes its toll on Louisa and how she interacts with everyone else. But when they were still together, I also enjoy how they balance each other out. Min really wears his heart on his sleeve and tries to get Louisa out of her shell. And we see Louisa's struggles with that.

3. Louisa and River. The "competent" ones of Slough House hahaha. A duo I'm glad because we will see more of. I love the parallel of both of them dealing with loss (Min and Sid) and again, being the "competent" ones compared to everyone else. River being his hero complex, loser self, and Louisa not letting him off the hook so easily. Ah, there's the word I'm looking for-- accountable. They hold each other accountable, especially for this next pairing.

4. Shirley and JK. I don't even know what to say for these two 😆😆 They are the outsider crazies, Shirley being the super noisy cuz she high on drugs, and JK being absolutely silent but having the darkest intrusive thoughts. Both however seem to really share this dark, violent streak, and the fact that their team up resolved the conflict in London Rules instead of River and Louisa, it always cracks me up 😆

5. That said, River-JK and Louisa-Shirley team ups also one of my faves. Gotta put them together in one because the dynamic is somewhat similar. River and Louisa trying to "babysit" JK and Shirley while they do the "adult" work of investigating. JK's paint accident and Shirley's stint with a bat...oh dear. 😆

6. Louisa and Emma. I know Emma doesn't technically count as a Slow Horse, but she might as well be in Joe Country. Their friendship was so precious to me and I wish we got more. 🤧

7. Agree with you anon, Shirley/JK/River is also top of my list. The comedic trio we never knew we needed, so of course Mick Herron said " can't let my readers have nice things" and k-worded JK 🥲 his final moments with Shirley are so devastating like... Grrr.

8. Unfortunately I dont remember Louisa and Lech's dynamic specifically, but I am pretty sure I loved it as well??? I know I liked that a bit of an unhinged fella took JK's place a lil bit lol. I just love the more chaotic Slough House is with their different personalities.

QUESTION 2

I quite like the new castings!

Emma Flyte looks great. And her brief interactions with Lamb were already iconic haha.

We haven't seen JK Coe in the trailers or pics yet, but based on the actor himself, I can totally see him pulling off JK's isolative silence and eventual killer instinct madness lol.

I'm not sure how I feel about Frank Harkness. I know the actor from his other roles, but I'd like to see more of how his interactions with River go.

I have to agree that Claude Whelan casting feels off from the surface, but because of having seen him on Blood And Treasure, I actually think he's perfect given Claude's slimy personality haha.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

seasick

prompt: motion sickness (alt no.7)

whumpee: river cartwright

fandom: slough house/slow horses

hii here's yet another sh fic for yall but this time with no spoilers for anything lmao. i saw the prompt and was like 'wouldn't it be so funny to do this to river considering his name' and so this was born. hope you enjoy!

This is one of the more bizarre assignments she’s been given in her tenure at Slough House. Go on a cruise down the Thames and look for “anything unusual” beneath the bridges. Totally normal thing to do. Definitely worth her time. 

Not that she’s complaining much. It gets her out of the office and there’s a bar on board. She’s sure there must be some way of getting a drink and snack paid for on the Park’s dime. 

She’s gone ahead and gotten them, in any case. She balances both items in one hand as she pushes out through a door onto the deck. The first bridge is coming up, and she supposes she’ll at least pay some attention to it. 

River is where she’d left him, having turned down the suggestion of both drink and snack. She’d assumed he’d been less assured of their ability to be reimbursed, and admittedly, the prices hadn’t been low. 

He’s leaning against the railing now, and he turns his head slowly towards her when she stops beside him. She offers up her bag of crisps and he turns away, swallows visibly. His skin has gone a funny shade, almost grey, and he’s sweaty although it’s rather cold and drizzly. 

“Are you ill?” Louisa asks, point-blank. He’d looked fine when she’d left him, and that had been all of ten minutes ago. 

River shakes his head, then stops very suddenly. He takes a deep breath which he aborts halfway through, and then leans over the railing and throws up. 

“Shit,” Louisa says, the pieces assembling themselves rapidly in her mind. She sets down her snack and drink, returns to River and puts a hand on his back. 

“Do you get motion sickness often?” She’s been in cars with him plenty of times, but, she supposes, cars and boats are quite different. “Or, seasickness, I guess?”

River shakes his head, vomits again. “I don’t—I don’t really go on boats.”

There’s something a little funny there, a jibe at his name she could make, but he looks all kinds of awful and she just feels sympathetic, more than anything else. 

He throws up again, coughs harshly, rubs a shaky hand across his face. “This fucking sucks.”

Louisa squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll get you some water. Why don’t you sit down?” There are empty benches behind them—in fact, the whole deck is empty, owing to the wet and the cold. Louisa’s suddenly incredibly glad for the weather. She knows how much worse River would feel if this was happening to him in front of a larger audience than just herself. 

River shakes his head. “I’m not—I might…”

Ah. Louisa’s not sure that she’d care all that much about the potential consequences of puking on the deck, their positions being reversed, but it feels very River, somehow, to not want to risk it. 

“Alright, just—hold on, then. I’ll be back soon.”

She heads once more into the covered portion of the boat and makes her way back to the bar, where she manages to procure a bottle of water, napkins, and some crackers. She’d been hoping for medicine or an offer to stop off at the next dock, but she’ll take what she can get. 

Louisa returns to the upper deck. River is still leaning over the railing and barely stirs at her arrival. He’s sort of crying, Louisa notices, which she supposes is down to the exertion of vomiting more than any truly severe distress. It makes her feel worse for him, all the same.

She wordlessly hands over the bottle of water, watches him struggle to open it with shaking hands for several seconds before doing it herself. 

He says, “thanks,” and his voice is noticeably rougher than it had been before. She decides she’ll hold off on handing over the crackers, not that she particularly expects him to want them, anyway. 

She watches with a critical eye as he rinses out his mouth and wipes his face with a proffered napkin. 

“How are you feeling?” Louisa chances to ask. 

“Shit,” River replies, not meeting her eyes. His sickly grey face has gone pink from what she guesses is a combination of embarrassment and strain. 

“You’re alright,” she offers. “You’ll feel so much better as soon as we get off this boat.”

“When’s—when’s that?”

She checks her watch. Fuck. “About an hour.”

“Fuck,” River echoes her thoughts exactly. He bends down, rests his head against the railing. He looks so fucking miserable and Louisa hates that there’s really nothing she can do. Unless—

“D’you think they’d stop the tour and let us off if I told them we were MI5?”

River shrugs. “Maybe.” He lifts his head briefly and gags harshly over the railing before promptly putting his head back down again. 

Yeah. She’ll go wave her ID in the face of whoever’s in charge here. 

Fifteen minutes later, the boat is pulling up to a dock somewhere beyond Tower Bridge. As they get off, both putting on their very best official-agent-on-official-business looks, River valiantly stopping himself from throwing up in front of the onlookers aboard, Louisa briefly remembers that they were supposed to be examining the bridges. Not that it matters much. She’ll just tell Lamb there was nothing of note—she’s sure there wouldn’t’ve been, anyway. 

The second they step onto the dock, River drops to his knees and throws up once more, unable to hold out any longer. Louisa stands behind him, doing her best to protect him from the suddenly very interested gazes of the people aboard the boat. 

When he’s done, she offers him a hand to his feet. He takes it, staggers upright, blinks hard, then breathes a sigh.  

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I—I feel fine now, actually.”

Based on the scratchiness of his voice, she knows he’s not entirely fine, but evidently the nausea has left as quickly as it’d come. 

She wraps him in a quick side-hug and he leans into her in a way that reassures her, somehow, of his being relatively unhurt by the whole ordeal. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

“Don’t mention it. Speaking of not mentioning it, actually, we’ve still got like 45 minutes to kill before our tour is supposed to end. I’m hardly going back to Slough House until I’ve got to. Fancy a walk?”

River nods, “yeah, yeah, that’d be nice,” and the pair of them set off together, just like that. 

thanks for reading! hope you liked <333

[daemondaes]

little vent — i'm so sorry for not being here much lately, guys. beyond being just plain busy, i've had a hard time writing as of late?? part of it is bc being so offline here and there has got me drowning in drafts, particularly for blogs that have either gone abandoned or on some kind of unannounced hiatus, and it's starting to feel like dead skin i just can't slough off? i feel guilty if i don't reply to them, but it's hard to muster the muse for someone who isn't around and may or may not ever be 😂 at the same time, i've been feeling really insecure here on tumblr dot com?? i don't really have a friendgroup here or anything, just singular blogs/muns i get excited to start things with...so then when they leave, or worse, lose interest, it's back to square one. idk ig i feel lost and lonely, if that makes sense. feeling a little ✨ replaceable ✨ or like i don't stand out in a meaningful way. i want cherry to matter to your muses and be a concrete figure in their lives, even if not one that plays a significant role. there are so many parts she can play, so many ways she can connect muse A to muse B...