#police constable arrested

[todayworldnews2k21]

Cop demands Rs 30 lakh dowry, bride walks out of wedding | India News - Times of India

AGRA: A bride walked out of her wedding after the groom refused to perform the main rituals unless his demand for Rs 30 lakh dowry was met at the venue. Ravi Kumar, a police constable posted in Agra, was arrested after a case against him was filed by the bride’s father, a sub-inspector posted in Ghaziabad.The dowry demand was allegedly made shortly after the groom’s party arrived and the garland…

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! I was wondering if you could recommend some fics where Crowley and/or Aziraphale are detectives. I would prefer if they were rated M or E. Thank you :)

Hey. Here are some M/E detective fics...

All's Fair In Love And Serial Killing by WyvernQuill (M)

Detective Inspector Crowley is 99.999 percent sure that Aziraphale Fell is a serial killer. The trouble is only that the remaining 0.001 percent are deeply in love with the man… --- In which there is A Murder - rather a lot of them, actually - A Marriage Proposal - just the one - and True Love - whose course runs less not-smooth than it takes a sharp left turn, loops a couple times, and doubles back on itself, before crashing straight into a wall. (Don't mind the metaphor. It still ends well. Promise.)

yours in black lace by okapi (E)

Hardboiled, hell-fried private investigator Anthony J. Crowley is just trying to survive a hot, boring August, but a new case and a series of anonymous naughty letters signed only 'yours in black lace' are about to make things interesting. Chapters 1-3 are case fic. Chapter 4 is smut. For the 2020 DW Unconventional Courtship challenge based on a summary of the Mills & Boon novel Yours in Black Lace by Mia Zachary.

Snow Angel by Lurlur (E)

Detective Constable Crowley has been working the "Snow Angel" case for almost a year. It's Christmas Eve and finally, his luck seems to have come in. Arresting Aziraphale Fell, big-time drug dealer, is the easy part. Questioning him is the hard part. It's a police procedural that goes sideways. I'd say it still manages to have a more coherent plot than any episode of Prodigal Son, but that's not saying much.

Tadfield's Finest by angelsnuffbox (E)

The sleepy town of Tadfield is thoroughly shaken by the arrival of DI Crowley. Where barely anything ever happened before, there is now a bustle of low grade criminal activity, and everyone knows where to point the blame. Gabriel thinks he's a bad omen for the town, many others are quick to agree. Meanwhile, Aziraphale from SOCO just thinks he's hot. Ridiculously so.

It's A Hard Life by Krisdaughter_of_Athena (M)

“Crawly” was the best delivery man in the whole city of London, and everyone knew it. Whether it be books and flowers, or narcotics and guns, Crawly was the one for the job. Easy enough for Crawly to slip in and out of tight spaces, and easy enough to keep his real name off the police radar. Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard is used to being told he is not very good at his job. He is as surprised as everyone else when he is the officer to catch Crawly, the Devil’s infamous delivery driver, in the act. He is the only officer to figure out Crawly’s real name. But no one else knows that, otherwise they’d also know that the DC tends to get drunk with this particular member of the notorious Demons every other Thursday, and would also know of the fragile Arrangement between the two. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last. However, what are the two to do when Crowley is given an extra special delivery, one which places the two unlikely allies alongside each other for the long haul? How will they keep the delicate balance of their arrangement from their respective sides? And how will they keep one boy from bringing destruction to the entirety of London?

The Currents by indigo (M)

Post-End-of-the-World-that-Wasn't, a bored demon sets up a Detective Agency and obviously drags his angel counterpart in to help out. They are tasked with preventing a murder before it happens and set off to the Highlands of Scotland - where, of course, nothing works out quite the way they imagine...

- Mod D

[linghxr]

50+ fundamental crime, suspense, & mystery Cdrama vocab words

I'm currently watching 《模仿犯》, so I was inspired to put together this list of essential vocab for 犯罪剧/悬疑剧/推理剧. I tend to gravitate towards dramas that fall into these genres.

I've sorted the words into categories. These were determined by vibes only. Definitions are adapted from MDBG, my loyal companion for nearly 10 years.

The Case

案子 ànzi - case / law case / legal case / judicial case

案件 ànjiàn - case / instance

办案 bàn'àn - to handle a case

破案 pò'àn - to solve a case

报案 bào'àn - to report a case to the authorities

命案 mìng'àn - homicide case / murder case

作案 zuò'àn - to commit a crime

现场 xiànchǎng - the scene (of a crime, accident etc) / (on) the spot / (at) the site

证据 zhèngjù - evidence / proof / testimony

真相 zhēnxiàng - the truth about sth / the actual facts

The Investigation

厘清 líqīng - to clarify (the facts) / clarification

线索 xiànsuǒ - trail / clues / thread (of a story)

细节 xìjié - details / particulars

痕迹 hénjì - vestige / mark / trace

追踪 zhuīzōng - to follow a trail / to trace / to pursue

追问 zhuīwèn - to question closely / to investigate in detail / to examine minutely / to get to the heart of the matter

排除 páichú - to eliminate / to remove / to exclude / to rule out

嫌疑 xiányí - suspicion / to have suspicions

怀疑 huáiyí - to doubt (sth) / to be skeptical of / to have one's doubts / to harbor suspicions / to suspect that

跟踪 gēnzōng - to follow sb's tracks / to tail / to shadow / tracking

不对劲 búduìjìn - fishy / wrong / not right

隐瞒 yǐnmán - to conceal / to hide (a taboo subject) / to cover up the truth

The Victim

被害者 bèihàizhě - victim (of a wounding or murder)

受害者 shòuhàizhě - casualty / victim / those injured and wounded

幸存者 xìngcúnzhě - survivor

失踪 shīzōng - to be missing / to disappear / unaccounted for

消失 xiāoshī - to disappear / to fade away

绑架 bǎngjià - to kidnap / to abduct / to hijack / a kidnapping abduction / staking

遗体 yítǐ - remains (of a dead person)

尸体 shītǐ - dead body / corpse / carcass

拯救 zhěngjiù - to save / to rescue

寻人启事 xúnrénqǐshì - missing persons notice

The Perpetrator

嫌疑犯 xiányífàn - a suspect

嫌疑人 xiányírén - a suspect

歹徒 dǎitú - evildoer / malefactor / gangster / hoodlum

凶手 xiōngshǒu - murderer / assassin

一伙儿的 yìhuǒrde - in on it together

开枪 kāiqiāng - to open fire / to shoot a gun

鬼鬼祟祟 guǐguǐsuìsuì - sneaky / secretive / furtive

可疑 kěyí - suspicious / dubious

认罪 rènzuì - to admit guilt / to plead guilty

自首 zìshǒu - to give oneself up / to surrender (to the authorities)

下落 xiàluò - whereabouts / to drop / to fall

动机 dòngjī - motive / motivation

犯罪 fànzuì - to commit a crime / crime / offense

The Police

报警 bàojǐng - to sound an alarm / to report sth to the police

警察 jǐngchá - police / police officer

警方 jǐngfāng - police

警官 jǐngguān - constable / police officer

刑警 xíngjǐng - criminal police (abbr. for 刑事警察)

被捕 bèibǔ - to be arrested / under arrest

包围 bāowéi - to surround / to encircle / to hem in

监控 jiānkòng - to monitor

检查 jiǎnchá - inspection / to examine / to inspect

调查 diàochá - investigation / inquiry / to investigate

排查 páichá - to inspect / to investigate one by one

质问 zhìwèn - to question / to ask questions / to inquire / to bring to account / to interrogate

前科 qiánkē - criminal record / previous convictions

Bonus: Here's a list of dramas I have seen/am watching in these categories:

《想见你》 Someday or One Day

《开端》 Reset

《消失的孩子》 The Disappearing Child

《她和她的她》 Shards of Her

《镇魂》 Guardian

《模仿犯》 Copycat Killer

《不良执念清除师》 Oh No! Here Comes Trouble

Now go forth and enjoy some more dramas! I'm a slow watcher, so I add new shows to my watch list faster than I can finish them.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Toronto Police Service says one of its officers has been arrested and charged following a landlord and tenant dispute last month. Police say on Dec. 6, a man and a woman engaged in a dispute related to tenancy. The man allegedly unlawfully entered a unit and assaulted the woman, officers said. The suspect allegedly stole property from the home valued at more than $5,000. On Sunday, a 54-year-old Toronto constable was charged with unlawfully entering a dwelling, theft and assault. He is scheduled to appear in court on March 5.

Continue Reading

Tagging @politicsofcanada

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ferrari 512M, 1994. A Ferrari that was stolen from F1 driver Gerhard Berger 28 years ago has been recovered by the Metropolitan Police in London. The car was one of 2 stolen during the San Marino Grand Prix in 1995. Police who have traced the car's history believe it was shipped directly to Japan after the theft. More recently the car was offered for sale in London but its patchy history raised suspicions. The London Metropolitan Police’s Organized Vehicle Crime Unit carried out a global investigation. “Our enquiries were painstaking and included contacting authorities from around the world,” said Police Constable Mike Pillbeam, who led the investigation. “We worked quickly with partners including the National Crime Agency, as well as Ferrari and international car dealerships, and this collaboration was instrumental in understanding the vehicle’s background and stopping it from leaving the country.” The car's estimated worth is £350,000 (around US$444,300) and though enquiries are ongoing as yet not arrests have been made.

[jrow]

May Prompts (26)

Day 25 here. Start from the beginning here. Day 27 here.

Manipulation.

He is master of manipulation.

It comes easily to him. Perhaps too easily. In recent years, he’s made a conscious effort to avoid manipulating those he loves (most of the time), but jerk clients and suspects? That’s still fair game. And a touch fun.

Getting constable moron to run was easy enough. It’s not that a chase is entirely necessary—they could have simply waited for Mycroft’s minions to arrive. That’s what John was likely planning, engaging the moron in meaningless small talk. But, they are doing this his way.

Besides, John loves a chase.

“And now you are spying on John. Worried he’ll remember?” was enough to get the moron running. And it was oh so easy to manipulate him to take off west, down the pavement. No roofs today.

The moron is fast, but not all nimble, knocking into people has he tries to weave between them. John is slower but far more deft on his feet, easily avoiding any barriers, be they human or otherwise.

As for himself, well, he’s both fast and nimble, but right now his focus is divided between ensuring John is okay and trying to manipulate the chase to their advantage.

Run. Run. Weave. Run. Weave. Jump. Force the moron towards the road, no chance to turn down an alley.

John is keeping up but his smile is evolving into a wince. This has gone on far too long.

But there it is. The library, always his saviour. He digs deep and finds a burst of speed, running up between idiot and the road, forcing him into left, through the front door.

“You guard the entrance,” he yells to John. They both know it’s a ruse to allow John to sit down and rest, but they can pretend.

“Right,” John says, hands on thighs panting for breath. “You go!”

And he’s off, manipulating the chase so they move up the stairs and into the stacks. He puts on bursts of speed when needed to push the idiot towards the small meeting rooms. The other patrons and staff keep their distance as they run. The police have surely been called but Mycroft’s team will arrive first.

Finally, they reach the back. He detours quickly to pull the fire alarm and the siren sounds loudly. The three meeting rooms empty, the people rushing to the exits.

The moron has nowhere to go, but continues past the fleeing patrons and into a meeting room. Tries to close the door.

But, he is there, pushing his way in.

“Nice try,” he says. “The police are on their way. It’s over.” He realises he still doesn’t know the constable’s name. He realises he doesn’t really care.”

“Look, I have money,” the moron starts, “if you help me get out of here. Then I’ll be gone—won’t set foot in the city again. Think about it, I have loads of cash and jewelry… would really help out that little girl.”

The mention of Rosie makes him see red. “Don’t you dare,” he spits out. “Don’t you move an inch. You are a lucky man, you know. If John had died or been badly hurt, you would not have got out of this room alive.” He forces himself to stay guarding the door, fighting the urge to rip the moron from limb to limb.

“Please,” the moron pleads, sounding genuinely terrified and looking on the verge of tears. Good.

He stands guard and says nothing, working to keep his rage in check. Mycroft’s team will be here soon and will be appropriately aggressive in their arrest. After a couple of minutes that feel like an eternity, he hears heavy steps running towards them.

“Hands in the air!” someone yells, pushing past him and entering the room.

The moron continues pleading. He turns around and makes his way back downstairs. Back to John.

Five years ago, he’d be desperate to be part of the interrogation. To understand every element of the moron’s crimes. Now, he just wants to get his family and go home.

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty @quimerasyutopias

[msilwrites]

Papa Bear Material Ch 3- (Captain Price Fic) - Kyle's Manifestation

Chapter 1 Chapter 1 (Shorter Version) Chapter 2

Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10  Chapter 11 (Last Chapter)

Summary:  Y/N is a reserved former constable and master sniper in the London police force, now working full-time as an artisan. She reconnects with old colleagues at a grill house for a catch-up, where her former junior, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, tries to play matchmaker. Gaz’s attempt to set her up with the retired SAS and Papa Bear material, Captain John Price, is met with resistance as Y/N is caught off guard by the unexpected attention. @darkangel4121 @teenagellamaangel @madzzz0797 @callsignferal (To the other's who want to me tagged when there's an update, just tell me at the comments) Terms and Information to take note: Reserved Officer - a former full-time officer who now serves part-time or on an as-needed basis. Is periodically called back for service to support high-demand periods, training exercises, or specific tactical operations. Master Sniper - A highly skilled sharpshooter trained to handle long-range precision engagements, hostage scenarios, and high-risk operations. SCO19 - is the Specialist Firearms Command of the Metropolitan Police Service in London. It is a highly specialized tactical unit responsible for armed operations, including counter-terrorism, hostage rescue, and high-risk arrests. Officers in SCO19 are trained in the use of firearms and other specialized equipment, operating in situations where conventional police methods aren't sufficient. They are considered one of the most elite units within the London police force.

-----------

A few days later, Y/N sat at her kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, tapping her phone against the wooden surface. Her thoughts kept drifting back to John Price—Papa Bear. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself. The nickname was ridiculous, but it had stuck in her mind like glue. She hadn’t exactly been thrilled about Kyle’s matchmaking stunt, but the whole situation nagged at her, especially because Kyle had been so smug about it.

With a groan, Y/N finally decided to make the call. Her thumb hovered over Kyle’s name in her contacts before she tapped it. The phone rang a few times before he picked up, sounding far too chipper.

“Y/N, mate! How’s it going?”

“Don’t ‘mate’ me,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Garrick.”

There was a pause, and Y/N could practically hear the grin spreading across his face. “Uh-oh. Someone sounds a little touchy. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you actually went through with setting me up with Papa Bear,” she snapped, the nickname slipping out before she could stop it.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by Kyle’s explosive laughter. “Papa Bear?!” he repeated, wheezing. “You’re really calling him that now?”

“I didn’t mean to! It just… slipped out!” Y/N huffed, slapping her forehead. “And I’m not ‘calling’ him anything. It was a one-off. A moment of frustration.”

“Oh, this is gold,” Kyle said, still laughing. “Wait till I tell him you’ve given him a nickname.”

“Don’t you dare,” Y/N hissed, her tone sharp. “You wouldn’t.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Kyle teased. “He’ll love it. I can already see the look on his face—‘Papa Bear,’ eh? That’s a first.”

“I swear, Garrick, if you tell him…” Y/N trailed off, already knowing she couldn’t stop him. “You’re such a little shit.”

Kyle’s laughter hadn’t subsided in the slightest. “Aw, c’mon, Y/N. It’s harmless fun. Besides, I think the two of you’d get on great. You just need a little push.”

“Push my arse,” she muttered. “This is why I don’t trust you, you know. You’re a meddler.”

“Guilty as charged,” Kyle admitted, far too proud of himself. “Anyway, gotta run. But I’m definitely telling him.”

“Kyle! No—” But the line went dead, and Y/N groaned, dropping her head into her hands.

Now she was horrified. Not only had she accidentally let slip the nickname, but Kyle was absolutely going to share it with John. She made a mental note to avoid Captain John Price at all costs—at least until she could figure out how to live this down. Papa Bear, indeed.

Y/N sighed heavily, sinking back into her couch as the soft tones of a BBC Earth documentary filled the room. The soothing narration about the life cycle of sea turtles did little to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in her mind. The television flickered with images of glistening waves and sandy shores, but her focus was far from the tranquil visuals.

Her thoughts strayed to a part of her past she rarely allowed herself to revisit. Back then, she’d been barely an adult—full of hope but weighed down by pain. She had liked dating, especially the idea of it. She had clung to the hope of finding someone who would cherish her, love her the way she craved to be loved. But her relationships during that time had been far from romantic. Instead of being fulfilling, they became her lifeline—her way of filling a void she didn’t know how else to address.

When she was 19, she’d been kicked out of her home, and the world had felt as though it had swallowed her whole. She stumbled through a cycle of unhealthy relationships, one after another, chasing affection and validation. Love had felt like something she needed to survive, and she sought it relentlessly, even at the expense of herself. Those years had been a kind of hell. The scars weren’t just emotional; they ran deeper, etched into her very being.

The toxic dynamics of those relationships had nearly destroyed her. Her performance at work—The job she’d clung to, her one source of stability, had almost slipped through her fingers. Her performance had suffered, her reliability questioned. The force, her only bread and butter, had been at risk. Her superiors began to question her reliability, her future in the force hanging precariously in the balance. It was only after she hit rock bottom, at 22, that something finally shifted.

There had been an incident—a breaking point. One she didn’t like to think about. But it became the catalyst for her to seek help. Therapy followed, long hours spent unraveling the years of pain and rebuilding herself piece by fragile piece. It wasn’t easy. Clawing her way out of that darkness had taken everything she had, but it was necessary.

She made a decision during that time, a promise to herself: never again. Never again would she chase love at the cost of her well-being. Never again would she live as though surviving was all she could hope for. Slowly, she transformed. She shifted her focus to work and then to the life she’d built now—a life grounded in stability and peace.

Her stoic demeanor wasn’t just a façade. It was armor. Protection she’d forged to keep her past at bay and her future on track. She had survived everything on her own, with nothing but her resolve and the things she loved to carry her through. And that was enough. Her love for herself, the life she’d carefully crafted, was more than she’d ever dared to hope for. It was enough.

The sound of crashing waves on the television pulled her back to the present. She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. Yet, despite the walls she’d built, something about John Price lingered in her thoughts. It wasn’t bad, but it unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Papa Bear,” she muttered to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. Maybe Kyle wasn’t entirely wrong, she admitted silently. But that didn’t mean she’d admit it aloud.

Her gaze drifted back to the screen, now showing a family of bears ambling through the wilderness. Papa Bear. It was almost laughable how easily that nickname had slipped out, but even now, the man himself felt worlds away from her life. She couldn’t imagine anyone being willing to deal with the weight of her past or the fortress she had built around her heart.

That thought settled heavily on her chest, a quiet ache she rarely let herself acknowledge. She leaned further into the couch, closing her eyes and exhaling deeply. Maybe it was just one of those days—one of those moments when the past felt too close and the present too uncertain.

But even as she tried to push the thoughts away, the image of John Price’s steady gaze and calm smile lingered in her mind. And it left her wondering, just for a fleeting moment, if there could ever be someone patient enough to break through her walls.

----------

After a few weeks of radio silence, Y/N was finally starting to feel a sense of relief. Captain John Price hadn’t made an appearance, and the teasing topic of “Papa Bear” seemed to have been forgotten by her friends. She could breathe easier, her life slipping comfortably back into its routine.

One afternoon, just as she was settling into her latest project, her phone buzzed with a reminder: her next reservist shift was coming up in a few days. As a reservist with the police tactical unit, she knew the drill. She’d be rotating into an active-duty role for a period, which typically lasted two or three weeks, depending on operational needs.

She stood and made her way to her closet, pulling out her gear. One by one, she laid out her uniform, combat boots, patches, and tactical bag. Her helmet and protective vest sat ready by the door. This wasn’t just a refresher course she’d be attending—it was a full deployment as an active-duty reservist. The refresher would take a few days to get everyone aligned on protocol and practice drills before the real work began.

There was something comforting about the routine. The precision and focus it demanded left little room for other distractions—especially thoughts of a certain retired captain with an annoyingly charming smile. This was her world, a space where she thrived on competence and purpose.

As she inspected her gear, checking straps and securing her patches, she allowed herself a small smile. A few weeks in the field might be exactly what she needed to clear her head.

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a faint orange glow over the city, as Y/N adjusted her gear one last time in front of the mirror. Dressed in her dark blue tactical suit, she inspected her patches: her surname emblazoned in bold letters on the velcro nametag above her chest, the SCO19 emblem stitched on her right shoulder,

and her Master Sniper qualification patch displayed on the upper left arm.

Satisfied that everything was in place, Y/N slung her ID lanyard over her neck. The badge gleamed in the soft morning light, a silent reminder of the dual lives she led: artisan by day, tactical officer by necessity. She grabbed her heavy gear bag, hoisting it onto her back with practiced ease. The weight was considerable, but she hardly noticed—years of carrying equipment as part of her tactical training had left her deceptively strong for her petite size.

She opened the ride-hailing app on her phone, ordered a car, and glanced at the time: 6:15 AM. The drive to the deployment camp wasn’t long, but punctuality was drilled into her as non-negotiable. She couldn’t afford to be late.

----------

The car pulled up outside the police tactical training center at exactly 7:10 AM. Y/N stepped out, her boots hitting the pavement with a reassuring solidity. Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, she made her way to the gates, flashing her ID to the officer on duty.

“Morning, Constable,” the officer greeted, stepping aside to let her through.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice steady but polite.

Inside, the camp buzzed with activity. Officers in tactical gear moved with purpose, some heading towards the firearms range, others loading equipment into vehicles. Y/N made her way to the briefing room, where her team—familiar faces from her previous deployments—was already gathering.

"Y/N!" one of them, a burly sergeant with a perpetual grin, called out. “Back for another round, eh? You just can’t stay away.”

“More like they can’t survive without me,” she quipped, setting her bag down and receiving a few chuckles in response.

----------

The briefing room was packed with officers in dark blue tactical suits, their faces focused and sharp. The hum of quiet conversation fell into silence as the door swung open and in walked the last person Y/N ever expected to see.

Standing tall, with his broad shoulders filling the doorway, was none other than Captain John Price—clad in a dark polo shirt that hugged his muscular arms, his dark brown trousers neatly pressed and tucked into his boots. His strong build was impossible to miss, and Y/N felt her mouth drop open in shock. She muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the silence of the room.

"What the fucking shit."

As John stepped to the front, the room erupted into applause. Y/N's brain was still trying to catch up, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. His presence was commanding, and it wasn’t just his muscles that had everyone in the room riveted. There was an air of authority, of experience that seemed to fill the space, and it was impossible not to notice.

"Alright, listen up!" John’s voice boomed over the room. "I’m Captain John Price. Some of you might know me from the field, others not. But you’re about to. I’m here to observe, assess, and improve your skills. I’ll be training and retraining you for the next few weeks. We're not here for fluff or drills that don’t matter. We’re here to make you better. If you think you’re prepared for anything after this, I’ve done my job."

----------

As the briefing came to a close, Y/N stood up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor as she stormed toward John. Her boots echoed through the room, the sharp sound matching the sharpness in her glare. Her arms were crossed tightly, and her eyes were locked on him with an intensity that would make anyone think twice.

John didn’t notice her right away. He was too busy packing up his gear, his posture relaxed, the kind of ease you’d expect from someone who was used to dealing with soldiers, not this kind of storm. But when he looked up and saw her standing in front of him, his eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.

“Y/N? What are you—” His voice trailed off as his surprise turned into something else entirely. He clearly didn’t expect to see her here, and he was genuinely taken aback. “You’re here? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Y/N couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “No kidding,” she snapped, crossing her arms tighter. “What the hell, Price? What the hell are you doing here?”

John blinked, a bit caught off guard by the intensity of her reaction. He chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I guess it’s fate, huh? I’m just here to train and observe units like yours—keep you all sharp.” He looked around the room, shrugging casually. “Didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you sure did, Captain. And you can thank Kyle for this mess,” she bit out, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure he’s the mastermind behind this whole shitshow.”

John’s grin widened, clearly enjoying her frustration. He let out a light laugh and shook his head. “Kyle, huh? Well, I can tell you one thing—Kyle doesn’t have any power here in SCO19, and neither do I.” He shrugged casually, the playful gleam in his eyes not dimming. “I’m just here doing my job, keeping you all sharp. It’s all a coincidence, really.” He leaned in slightly, looking at her closely, his eyes scanning her uniform with newfound interest. “You’re in the tactical unit, huh? I didn’t know you were with the force, let alone SCO19.” His eyes dropped to her patches, noticing her ‘Master Sniper’ patch with a subtle look of respect. “And a sniper, too? Nice.” He chuckled softly, as if impressed.

Y/N froze for a moment, eyes widening in surprise. He doesn’t even know. She had assumed Kyle had told him everything, but apparently, he’d been kept in the dark. All he’d known about her, apparently, was that she was Kyle’s longtime friend and an artisan. Kyle hadn’t mentioned the force, her tactical role, or her being a sniper at all. Her reaction shifted from anger to a mix of confusion and annoyance.

“Ah,” John said, his gaze flicking to her name patch, “so your full name is ‘Y/Full First Name Y/Surname.’” He smiled, his tone playful. “Nice name. Fits you.”

Y/N, caught off guard by the sudden attention to her name, quickly moved to cover the patch with her hand, a flush creeping up her neck. “Enough, Captain. Don’t call me that,” she muttered, visibly uncomfortable. She quickly changed the subject, trying to regain her composure. “Kyle didn’t tell you anything, did he?”

John shook his head, shrugging. “All Kyle told me was you were a long-time friend of his, and an artisan. He showed me a picture of you, —said you were my type, too,” he said, the grin on his face widening as he teased her.

Y/N’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. “That’s not funny,” she gritted through her teeth, clearly embarrassed now. She threw her hands up in frustration. “I’ve got real gear to set up, Captain. Not this nonsense. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got actual work to do.”

John’s grin didn’t fade. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll be waiting.” His voice softened slightly, the teasing still there but mixed with a hint of admiration. “But I’m gonna push you, Y/N. You might be capable, but I’m here to make you better. You can hate me all you want, but this is what I do.”

“Enough, Captain! I never said I hate you!” Y/N muttered under her breath, but despite herself, there was a small smirk tugging at her lips. She was pissed, but she wasn’t blind to the fact that John wasn’t exactly a slouch. And there was something about his attitude—his confidence—that got under her skin.

John raised an eyebrow, still amused and chuckled. “See you in the field, Constable Y/N.”

Y/N froze mid-step, her name rolling off his tongue again. She couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine, and she forced herself to keep walking, doing her best to ignore the slight warmth that had crept into her chest.

Cosmic, my ass. She swore to herself, if she heard that word again, she was going to lose her mind. But she knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t going to be the last time she ran into Captain Price. And for some reason, that thought didn’t sit well with her.

----------

As soon as Y/N stormed out of the briefing room, practically fuming, she yanked her phone out and dialed Kyle. She didn’t even let him greet her before she launched into her tirade.

“Kyle. What the hell have you done?” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous.

Kyle’s laughter bubbled up instantly. “Whoa, whoa—hold on, Y/N. What’s got your knickers in a twist? Did someone outshoot you, or—”

“Kyle, don’t test me right now,” she interrupted, her boots clicking sharply as she stalked down the hallway. “Why is John Price—your Captain Price—training my unit? Did you tell him I’m SCO19? Did you pull some strings? Manifest this mess?”

There was a pause, followed by a loud bark of laughter. “Wait—you’re telling me Price is your trainer? Oh, this is too good! I didn’t know, I swear. But if I had known, I totally would’ve manifested it!”

“Kyle!” Y/N growled, gripping her phone tightly. “Stop laughing! You’re telling me this is all just some massive coincidence? He’s in my unit, training me, calling me cute, and you’re trying to tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this?”

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Kyle said, still chuckling. “I’ve got no power in SCO19, and neither does Price, at least not like that. This? This is pure manifestation magic. Clearly, the universe is doing all the heavy lifting for me.”

“Stop saying manifestation!” she hissed, her face heating up. “This is not the universe, Kyle. This is you being sneaky and setting me up for humiliation.”

“I’m not sneaky!” Kyle replied, feigning offense. “I didn’t tell him anything about you being a constable, a sniper, or in SCO19. All he knew is you’re a good friend an artisan of mine and, well…”

Y/N’s steps slowed as she caught the hesitation in his voice. “And what, Garrick?”

Kyle snorted, and she could practically hear the smirk on his face. “I might’ve shown him a picture of you once and mentioned that you’re his type. You know, classic Price preferences.”

She froze mid-step, her stomach dropping. “You what?!”

“Relax! It’s harmless,” Kyle said, unbothered. “How was I supposed to know he’d end up training your unit? I didn’t even know you’d be there! Clearly, my manifesting skills are next-level.”

“Kyle, I swear to God, if you say ‘manifesting’ one more time, I will fly to wherever you are and smack you,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Alright, alright, no more manifesting,” Kyle said, though his tone still dripped with amusement. “But seriously, Y/N, you’ve got one of the best trainers in the world now. You’re gonna crush it—and maybe even charm the Captain while you’re at it, maybe give Price a run for his money while you're at it, huh?”

“I’m done with this conversation,” Y/N muttered, her patience at its limit. “I’ve got a rifle to set up and no time for your nonsense.”

“Sure thing, sister,” Kyle said, clearly grinning. “But don’t forget—Papa Bear’s got his eyes on you!”

With an exasperated groan, Y/N ended the call and shoved her phone back into her pocket. She let out a frustrated sigh, stepping into the armory and shaking her head.

Manifesting, my ass. If this was Kyle’s idea of a cosmic joke, she wasn’t laughing.

NEXT CHAPTER ----->

[capn-twitchery]

summary of twitch's Saturday Zee Adventure yesterday:

wanted to see what happened if you hit 8 suspicion out at zee. zail around the khanate for so long

do surgery on a guy in the middle of it all

finally hit suspicion 8. no police boats show up to arrest them on sight. oh no. twitch is gonna get arrested as soon as they get back to london

unless.

time the healer comes on monday. just gotta zail around for 2 days

immediately fail 95% check. mutiny. marooned. 8 troubled waters

break the game and pick up a zee leg again before they die

die

undie

immediately arrested

what happened,,,did the police go drag their corpse off the marooning rock,,,did twitch revive already in jail. did they wake up surrounded by constables. that was so fast

[head-post]

Violent anti-Muslim crowd clashed with UK police in Southport after young girls killed

A large crowd of anti-Muslim protesters clashed with police in the northern English town of Southport, where three girls were stabbed to death and five other children were seriously injured in an attack at a Taylor Swift-themed event a day earlier.

A horrific stabbing incident in Southport on Monday shocked the British people. However, police claimed it was not terrorism-related and that the suspect was born in the UK.

Nevertheless, national-oriented groups fuelled rumours that the suspected teenager was linked to Islam, and police reported that Tuesday’s violence erupted when several hundred people began throwing objects at the mosque. Police has linked the crowd to the English Defence League, a group that sometimes stages violent demonstrations against Islam.

Police cars were damaged and set on fire, officers were attacked with bricks and large rubbish containers. Away from the violence, hundreds of people gathered for an emotional vigil to pay tribute to those killed in the attack by laying flowers and toys. Earlier, Prime Minister Keir Starmer also made a visit to the town to lay flowers.

“The people of Southport are reeling after the horror inflicted on them yesterday. They deserve our support and our respect. Those who have hijacked the vigil for the victims with violence and thuggery have insulted the community as it grieves. They will feel the full force of the law.”

However, after the visit, disgruntled residents approached him with insults and condemnations after which he was forced to leave the town.

Stabbing details

A 17-year-old is currently in custody on suspicion of murder and attempted murder following a bloody rampage at a “Taylor Swift yoga and dance workshop,” a summer holiday for children aged 6 to 11. Besides the three deaths, eight children were stabbed.

Five of them and two adults who were trying to protect them remain in critical condition. Assistant Chief Constable Alex Goss stated:

There has been much speculation and hypothesis around the status of a 17-year-old male who is currently in police custody and some individuals are using this to bring violence and disorder to our streets. We have already said that the person arrested was born in the UK and speculation helps nobody at this time.

The Liverpool Region Mosque Network said a minority of people had tried to use the Southport stabbing to spread hate.

“This evening we have seen distressing scenes outside Southport Mosque with angry protesters gathering outside. This is causing further fear and anxiety within our communities.”

King Charles and his family expressed their horror. US singer Swift also wrote on Instagram that she was “just completely in shock.”

These were just little kids at a dance class. I am at a complete loss for how to ever convey my sympathies to these families.

Read more HERE

[stephensmithuk]

The Sign of Four: Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

Snib means to bolt, lock or fasten a door or window. Can't say it's a term I've heard of myself.

Sixty feet is 18.2 metres. That's a long way down!

"Horny" here means that his hands would have been hardened like a horn, from extended periods of manual labour. Sailors would have done a lot of rope pulling and climbing up rigging. This, along with the tar used to seal the wooden would have also made their hands quite dirty, which is why the Royal Navy salute has the palm facing rearwards.

Also, rope burn hurts.

Senegambia is a historical term for the region of African between the Senegal and Gambia rivers, covering a larger area than the two modern states of that name.

The spring return tape measure was invented in 1864, but the practice of applying length increments was not widespread at this time.

A Hippocratic smile is a rictus grin. It can be a sign of tetanus or poisoning by strychnine. It is a feature of the later discovered Wilson's disease, a genetic disorder where too much copper builds up in the body and is eventually fatal if not treated.

It can also be observed in cases of execution by hanging, although at this point, the condemned in Britain had hoods put on to stop spectators seeing this.

Norwood being in the Metropolitan Police District, Athelney Jones could justifiably be there in a case.

The French Holmes uses translates as "There are no fools so inconvenient as those who have wit!", implying that the detective knows just enough to be dangerous.

Police officers in England and Wales make a sworn attestation that they will serve the King in the office of constable. The Scottish and Northern Irish equivalents do not mention the monarch, for obvious reasons.

The Metropolitan Police were operating at this point under the Police Code written by the former head of CID, Sir Howard Vincent and first published in 1881. This included a A-Z guide of various offences and practices for the officer but did not include a standard form of wording used on an arrest. This book was informal, and it was not until 1912 that the "Judges' Rules" made an official recommendation that suspects be cautioned, but formally suggested wording only existed when charging someone.

Goethe's words translate as "We are used to people mocking what they don't understand."

[yanderes-galore]

Bobby from We happy few Romantic Concepts

Hm... I can try, sure!

Yandere! Bobby General Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Jealousy, Unhealthy power dynamic, Mentions of drugs (We Happy Few Joy), Implied coercion, Blackmail, Dubious/Forced relationship.

If I'm correct the requester didn't mean any specific Bobby, like John Constable.

They just meant it in general so this is a short concept of my thoughts on them.

Bobbies are the police force of Wellington Wells.

They take a special version of Joy that makes them still able to do their job.

They're seen patrolling Hamlyn Village and the Parade District.

They're extremely strict with their job due to being the police force.

There's specific ones with names but this concept will tackle general behavior.

We can assume this concept means one specific unnamed Bobby grows a bit attached to a Wellie like you.

Maybe you're a Downer and are hiding it.

Or maybe you take your Joy like a good Wellie!

Either way, this Bobby seems to patrol very close to you.

It's hard to tell though since most Bobbies look the same.

That's if he's blue. If he had the red suit then he'd have a harder time blending in.

Yet that doesn't mean he doesn't try.

For the sake of this concept I will imply you are a Downer.

The Bobby often checks in on you, reassuring you he doesn't think you're doing anything wrong.

Maybe he knows you're a Downer and keeps quiet.

He's watching you closely and making sure you don't break any rules.

Plus he uses the fact you're off your Joy to excuse watching you so closely.

You constantly feel you're being monitored, which in reality you are.

Just by one Bobby… one who's rather interested in you.

If you think about this concept there's a lot of potential.

All of it revolves around an unhealthy power dynamic, however.

Maybe the Bobby pretends to arrest you just to be close to you.

Maybe he simply watches your home like a hawk.

Perhaps the Bobby uses the fact you're a Downer as blackmail.

That way you have to listen to him.

Don't want to get in trouble, do you?

In that case… better do what he wants, yeah?

A Bobby would either use this unhealthy power dynamic to take advantage of your vulnerability or to protect that vulnerability.

He's either a guardian or just corrupt.

A Bobby can't publicly display his affection for you.

He'd have to stay professional!

However, if he finds you wandering somewhere private, he may stop by.

Don't worry, doll, he's just checking in on you!

The unfortunate part is you can't really report on the Bobby's behavior.

He's part of the police and if you say you're uncomfortable everyone knows you're a Downer.

So isn't it best just to try and befriend him?

He'll excuse your behavior because you're so lovely!

You won't have to take your Joy if you just give him a little attention, okay?

He'll be nice with you… he'll keep you safe.

If anyone gets too close with you he may just report them.

If they get a bit too affectionate with you… he may just have to tussle with them, yeah?

The sight of his favorite Wellie being all coddled by someone else makes him sick.

That's his job… isn't it?

He'll just toss them out of town, they won't bother you again.

Then it'll just be you and him… then he can continue his parasocial relationship with you.

Or real relationship, depends on how far he's managed to coerce you

Relationships are quite taboo in Wellington Wells I feel.

However, there won't be any problem with him!

So long as you're his, no trouble will come to you.

You'll be his, won't you?

[viric-dreams]

The Unassuming Confidante

Robert "Robin" Jones

Born: Cardiff, 1862

Occupation: Midnighter

Closest to: The Great Game

Qualities: Watchful, Persuasive, Mithridacy

Quirks: Subtle, Steadfast

Jones grew up in the aftershocks of London's Fall. For a brief period, it seemed like anything was possible, the powers turning the wheels were not as inevitable as they seemed. He turned to politics at an early age, notably agitating for a Celtic Union in London's absence from the Isles.

His political ambitions came to a sudden and violent end in the mid 80s, when he was arrested at a rally-turned-riot, charged with the murder of a police officer whom he'd hit with a brick after being unable to pry him off of a fellow agitator. He'd been a thorn in their side for years. This time, he would be made an example of--to serve his extended sentence in New Newgate.

Those first several years in the Neath were not pleasant. The conditions at New Newgate had nearly worn Jones down, when one day a letter appeared in his cell. An interested party knew of his political background and was willing to make a deal: He could either continue to rot in his cell, or take the offer and step onto the chessboard.

The Great Game gave him a new lease on life, but he refuses to let it consume him. Jones believes in a strong wall between profession and personal life, and has no interest in speaking about what it is that he does to either friend or stranger. He does enjoy the work (what he remembers of it) and the sense of absolving agents of their burdens. Outside of work, however, he works to maintain an active social life. His time in Newgate took a toll on him and he's no longer the young firebrand he once was, but he still holds a certain degree of magnetism, when he wants to turn it on. He enjoys social gatherings, content to stake out a corner and observe the guests around him. On occasion, he'll step into the centre of the group and entertain them with a tale in which he somehow manages to express so much, yet nothing at all.

(the scar near his temple came from a constable's baton that riot that had turned ugly)

[blueiscoool]

Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers' Targeted Again With Soup in UK After Activists Jailed

Just Stop Oil supporters have thrown soup over two Vincent van Gogh paintings, hours after two activists were given jail sentences for targeting one of the same works of art.

Three protesters threw an orange-coloured soup at Sunflowers 1888 and Sunflowers 1889 in the Poets and Lovers exhibition at the National Gallery in central London. They have been arrested on suspicion of causing criminal damage.

Earlier, Phoebe Plummer, 23, was given a two-year jail term, while Anna Holland, 22, got 20 months, for throwing soup over Sunflowers 1888 in October 2022.

The National Gallery said the two paintings targeted on Friday had been removed for examination and were found to be undamaged.

'Right side of history'

As the latest activists – two women and a man - threw soup over the two paintings, onlookers could be heard shouting "no" and "don't do it".

In a video posted on X by JSO, the activists can be heard telling an angry crowd: "There are people in prison for demanding an end to new oil and gas, something which is now government policy after sustained, disruptive actions, countless headlines and the resulting political pressure.

"Future generations will regard these prisoners of conscience to be on the right side of history."

A spokesperson for the gallery said three people entered Room 6 of the exhibition just after 14:30 BST and threw a soup-like substance over two works.

The Metropolitan Police said three people had been held on suspicion of causing criminal damage and its inquiries were continuing.

It is the third time in recent years an artwork at the National Gallery has been selected as a target for protest action.

In July 2022, two activists glued themselves to John Constable's The Hay Wain.

[daydream-cement]

Heavenly Aether Ch. 1

Miranda Hilmarson x Reader

Cults, death, and corruption are in store as Constable Hilmarson, with the help of a nosy reporter and her trusty partner, Robin Griffin, attempts to take down a powerful organization before more people die.

I hope you are all ready for another twisty-turning installment of falling in love with Miranda Hilmarson. Thank you to @booitsrue for helping me get started :)

TW: cults, suicide, death, corruption, brief descriptions of violence

January 15th, 1996

Sergeant Don Marshall had enough of your bickering, finally standing from his desk and pointing towards the front doors of the police station. With the most hateful scowl and through gritted teeth, he gave you his final warning, “For the last time. Get out of my office before I charge you with misleading an investigation.”

He hadn’t listened to a word you had told him. Three days ago was the third time a group of five had ended up dead in honor of their religious organization: The Church of Mithras. The first time five died in connection to the church was April 1, 1995, the second time June 9, 1995, and now… five more.

The specific details of the gods, religious context, and true beliefs of The Church of Mithras were a true mystery to you. There was no documented evidence of the church's activities or beliefs. Everything occurring within the organization was kept a complete mystery to those who were not binded to the religion. All of the information you had gathered was based on your own assumptions combining the name of the church with the dates of the mass deaths.

Your research assumed this cult was a reinvention of the Cult of Mithras, a Roman mystery religion centered on the god Mithras with connections to astrology. The messy, weblike collage at home on your wall best depicted the complex symbolism and Gods the religion utilized to justify the harm that befell their followers. While it was challenging to gather information on this ancient cult, they recognized a torch-bearing icon named Cautes who you found to be in connection with the Roman god Caelus and the Greek god Uranus.

All of this was information you had tried sharing moments before, but it was obvious the detective wasn’t listening. Slamming your hands down on Don’s desk, you hope if you showed enough urgency, he would understand the seriousness of the situation, “Detective Marshall! You aren’t listening to me! Each of the dates matches up with Uranus entering different zodiacs! The Church of Mithras is copying the Cult of Mithras! There are connections to-

You wouldn’t have bothered Detective Sergeant Marshall about any of this if you doubted any bit of your evidence. Just as he had done in June of ‘95, he ordered you to be escorted from the station, “That’s it! Butler! Lee! Escort this woman out of my office!

At eighteen, you knew you were more overzealous than the other reporters for The Sydney Monitor, but it was your gumption and bite that gave you the job in the first place. You become more desperate, needing Marshall to listen to you, only for a moment. It was a matter of life and death, “More people will die in 2003! Don, you can’t-”

When a hand came down on your shoulder and another grasped your forearm, you twisted about to make eye contact with two constables. Attempting to pull your arms away from them, you growled as they followed after you, grasping you even tighter as they dragged you from Sergeant Marshall's office, “Let go of me! Let go!”

The two officers pulled you to the front of the station, the rounder of the two following you as you were pushed from the building, “You need to go. No one is interested in arresting you, but if you keep coming back here, we will.”

You glanced at his name badge, which read ‘Butler,’ and by the look of the markings on his sleeve, he was a senior constable. Looking back to his face, you narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the kindness in his voice. He was still one of the people who stood in the way of getting justice for the 15 who were dead and the many more who would follow if things continued without intervention, “There is blood on all of your hands.”

He sighed and shook his head, turning away from you to head back inside the station.

You shook this failure of obtaining police intervention from your mind, knowing if you wanted the case solved, you would have to do it all on your own. You needed more information on the cult and the only way you were going to get this was through insiders. The next step was getting people to talk.

-----

February 6th, 2023

“Robin… This case is currently open. Why would the files for it be kept back here where no one can find them?” When Miranda asked the question, she was well aware the files were in this backroom far before Robin’s arrival to the department, but as her mentor and partner, Miranda wanted the brunette’s advice before she assumed the worst. The box was labeled: ‘The Church of Mithras’ with the opening date of the case being April 1, 1995.

Last week, Miranda and Robin solved yet another large case, breaking nearly a dozen rules and laws in the process, relegating them to various clean-up tasks around the station as punishment. Today’s assignment was organizing the back storage room, leading to the discovery of the open case box with an absurd amount of entries with such little evidence to go along with it.

The mass suicides of The Church of Mithras were something Miranda was well aware of, the first of them happening when she was 14 years old. It was absurd to her that there had been 11 occasions where members of the church had died in groupings of five, and now that she was looking at the files, it was obvious no one had ever looked into the case.

“I’ve heard about this church. They are responsible for the deaths of 55 people.” Robin glanced up to Miranda before reaching into the box, thumbing through the few pages that existed within the files. “I can’t understand why there is no evidence. After nearly 30 years, you would expect something more than the general documentation of the event…”

Miranda pulled out a few of the pages, skimming them for any inconsistencies or patterns. One thing she recognized from all of them was a name. Your name. She offered the page up to Robin, pointing out your name to her, “This name keeps coming up in each of the files. Maybe we could talk to them on our lunch break?”

“Are you asking me to shirk our duties here at the station so we can go research a case that has been deliberately ignored for decades?” Robin smirked as she asked her question, obviously pleased to participate in another round of rule breaking with her partner.

“Maybe.” The constable gave a coy shrug, rolling her eyes and glancing up to the clock. Their typical lunch break was in a half hour, just enough time to look up the name and find a possible place of employment or home address.

Griffin turned her head back down to look through the files. She needed to familiarize herself with the case if they were going out to interview anyone, “Are we taking your car or mine?”

-----

Over the past three decades, your journalist work kept you attached to the world of true crime, but with no true momentum with The Church of Mithras case, you had to diversify your interests. Working for The Sydney Monitor had been a fruitful career, and you were well aware you were able to write and research in a way that left you fulfilled. There was always a gaping hole left in you from the case that always went unsolved.

You still kept the dates of the mass deaths and their correlated astrological events written in the inside of your notebook.

April 1, 1995 - Uranus enters Aquarius June 9, 1995 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Capricorn January 12, 1996 - Uranus enters Aquarius March 10, 2003 - Uranus enters Pisces September 15, 2003 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Aquarius December 30, 2003 - Uranus enters Pisces May 28, 2010 - Uranus enters Aries August 14, 2010 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Pisces March 12, 2011- Uranus enters Aries May 15, 2018 - Uranus enters Taurus November 6, 2018 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Aries

The death toll was far higher than you ever anticipated. After each event, you gathered more information, and set off to the police station where you had been escorted out each and every time.

At some point, you would have assumed someone would have taken you seriously. Don Marshall, who kicked you out as a sergeant, was now the deputy commissioner, and Adrian Butler, who had escorted you out as a constable, was now a superintendent. Both of the men had continued to climb the ladder of success, regardless of the number of lives that had been lost due to their negligence.

You knew the next event was in four weeks.

Four weeks and the death count would be up to 60.

Or… at least, you thought the death count would rise to 60, but that was until Constable Hilmarson and Detective Griffin appeared in your office doorway.

For once in your career, the police wanted to hear what you had on The Church of Mithras.

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: A Worthless Criminal Condemned

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

Contents: grief, panic attack, hopelessness

Previous | Masterlist | Next

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

A Worthless Criminal Condemned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Woulda got caught.”

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

“No, they would have gotten away!”

But Geoff shook his head.

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

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

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

While he stood by and did nothing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will. Breathe.”

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

“I can’t fucking breathe!” he gasped.

“Breathe. Slow.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I. Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** 

They broke into a bakery once the sun had set.

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

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

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

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

Unless she, too, had gotten busted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are we going to do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bree?” he managed.

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

Except he wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

“You promise me?”

Another nod.

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

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

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

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

It’s not good news.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Are you ready to hear it right now?

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

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

She’s not in jail.

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

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

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

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

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

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[weshallc]

Old Skool Turnadette FanFic Alert!

When is the Wedding?

Happy birthday my best china! @fourteen-teacups 🥰🎁💝🎂

You are the Doc to my Grumpy, the Amelia to my Juliet, the Cathy to my Kelly, the Caroline to my Gillian, the Audrey to my Helen, the Sister Julienne to my Trixie.

I'm having a moment, so let's roll the fic!

This fic obeys no rules. So you snooty lot who couldn't possibly read something without a specific POV and perfect grammar that so many of us find so difficult and all the rest of it. This fic is not for you. It's for my mucker!

CHAPTER ONE

Half past ten on January 25th 1959.

“Hello, it’s just us.”

Sat at the kitchen table, Peter Noakes looked up from bouncing his baby son on his knee and shared a smile and a wink with Freddie’s mother.

“Why does she always say that? Does she think we’ve given a key to every waif and stray in Poplar.” Whispering as the front door slammed shut.

Camilla scowled at him from the kitchen sink and flicked the tea towel resting on her shoulder towards him in warning. “I think she is still getting her tongue around the ‘us’ part. Sort of trying it out on her friends until she feels comfortable saying it in company.” 

Camilla smoothed down her apron and pushed her chestnut hair behind her on alert ears. “And Shelagh is not a waif and stray. She is our house guest.”

Peter grinned at his wife’s indignation and couldn’t help himself.

“I think it’s because she knows how flustered you get when Dr Turner visits, and is giving you the old heads up. So you can plump the cushions or wipe down the kitchen surfaces.”

“I have never heard such outrageous nonsense in all my days, Peter Noakes!” Camilla ranted, wringing out the freshly soaked dish cloth. “I do not get flustered over any man, whether he be a respected GP or an annoying police constable.” She quietly fumed, taking her wrath out on the countertops with the wet rag.

“As much as I’m happy to accommodate such undemanding and pleasant company. We waited so long for a home of our own, so we could move out of Nonnatus, and now it seems like Nonnatus has come to us.”

Camilla turned and looked at him properly. “You really are the most patient of men. But, I couldn’t see her go back to that frightful boarding house and all those dreadful gossips, after what occurred at Christmas. I don’t think, young sir, minded too much giving up his room for a few weeks.” She nodded at her son, who was looking alternatively between his parents intently, like he understood every word.

“And I agreed there was no other suitable arrangement, with Nonnatus awaiting the wrecking ball and, as you say, every snoop worth their while, observing the comings and goings at the flat over the surgery. I just wonder when we could revert back from Noakes’ Home for Wayward Nuns back to Noakes’ Love Nest.”

“That’s enough. They will hear you." Camilla was beside herself. "Hopefully, we will find out in a matter of moments. They had an appointment with the vicar at All Saints this morning.”

The lull in their own conversation made the voices behind the kitchen door echoing from the passageway audible, if not discernible,

Peter broke the silence, much to Camilla’s delight, as she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping. When she hadn’t been able to make out a single syllable.

“If this goes on much longer, I’m going to have to arrest the pair of them for loitering with intent.”

“It’s not a boarding house. She doesn’t have to clock in and out with us. We didn’t issue a curfew. Well, at least I didn’t.” She looked at Peter accusingly and then got back to wiping down the kitchen table and picking up her husband's half-drunk cup of tea, throwing the remaining liquid down the sink.

“I hadn’t finished that!” Camilla didn’t hear him as she rearranged the fruit in the crystal bowl. Someone she couldn’t quite place had bought them it for a wedding present.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to your mummy, but she definitely does suffer from occasional bouts of flustration. Doesn’t she Freddie?” Peter diagnosed, addressing his son, who responded with a gurgle of approval. "Maybe we could ask the good doctor for a second opinion ?”

Peter’s grin widened. He looked like a naughty schoolboy scrumping apples, rather than a doting husband, but in that moment, he was both.

The wet cloth landed on PC Noakes’ head just seconds after the kitchen door opened and an apologetic voice chimed, “It’s just us.”

After a lot of silent but meaningful looks between all parties and the missile safely deposited in the sink, Peter had a fresh cup of tea set before him, as did everyone else. Freddie, who had been watching the morning’s events like he was reporting for the Poplar Gazette, was now sitting on the new addition to his family's knee, observing events from a different angle.

Freddie didn’t really know if he preferred a pink wafer to a bourbon. But he was mildly affronted no-one had asked if he had a preference. He kept trying to grab the pretty pink one out of the hand of the person they called Auntie Shelagh, but she was quick, and said “No” in such a sing-song voice he forgave her.

They were talking again about the weather, crocuses (whatever they were), something called whooping cough, which sounded much more fun than the frowny faces suggested. One of those awkward silences occurred again. That was always his cue. Gurgle, make spit bubbles, form fists, shake arms and giggle. It works every time. Like a charm. Eventually, Mummy found the courage to speak.

“Would it be so very out of turn? If one enquired how your appointment went this morning.”

Shleagh and Dr Turner glanced at each other in that ‘we know a secret sort of way’. It looked like he was about to take hold of her hand, but there were too many obstacles in the way like pink wafers, teacups, a baby and proprietary.

The look Shelagh gave Dr Turner reminded Chummy of an old retainer of her father's who began every sentence with “Permission to speak, Sir?” She caught Peter’s eye. The telepathic consensus was; how long will that last? It was received and understood between them.

Chummy’s attention was distracted when she noticed how tight Shelagh was now holding her son. He seemed very content and his eyes were closing, so all was well.

Shelagh began, “Dr Turner and I have set a date to be married at All Saints' church on the second Saturday in February.”

“So soon?” Exclaimed Peter, ignoring an imaginary dishcloth hurtling towards him.

“Well, yes,” Shelagh replied in the tone of a pregnant schoolgirl with a father brandishing a shotgun rather than an ex-nun with a penchant for purity. “We were hoping for March, to give young Timothy time to grow a wee bit stronger, but of course Palm Sunday and our Lord’s resurrection must always take precedence.”

Peter noticed Shelagh gave Dr Turner that look Camilla gave him when it was his turn to talk. He thought to himself he was only mastering that level of communication, but the Doc picked it up straight away. What a pro!

“That left us with the option of an April wedding, which seemed like an eternity away.”

This time, he took her hand as it warmed itself on the teacup.

Peter smiled to himself. He knew that eternity. He was actually experiencing that eternity right now. Most new fathers understood the consequences of a new baby entering their lives. But no-one had prepared him for a baby at the bottom of the bed and an ex-nun in the next room and the effects on his wife's libido.

“Here here.” Peter cried, “Carpe diem, Doctor, carpe diem!”

Peter’s joy was short-lived when he realized everyone, including a sleepy Freddie, were now staring at him.

“So when’s the wedding?” He meekly asked.