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frizz22 · 4 years ago

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Prompt: what if there was a time Sabrina died (maybe when she was quite young?) and the aunties had to use the Cain pit to resurrect her?

It’s been a hot minute... okay, lots and lots of minutes, but I’m back and working on my one shots! 😜 hope you enjoy! Read on ao3

It was Sabrina’s second Solstice; her first without her parents. Not that the girl was aware, the sweet thing too young to know the difference.

Still, she and Hilda made an effort to keep the traditions the little family started the year before; roasted chestnuts, Ambrose reading aloud from The Christmas Carol—which had been done at Diana’s insistence… not that Zelda minded after the ghosts appeared.

After those traditions were observed though, there wasn’t much else to do or that they wanted to do. Neither she nor Hilda were in the mood for a boisterous holiday when they were experiencing their grief anew.

Firsts were always hard.

Thankfully, Ambrose seemed to be enjoying himself. He’d practically run from the room after they’d given him a new chemistry set for the holiday. And based on the sounds emanating from the attic it seemed their nephew was experimenting with how to blend the mortal science with magic.

A particularly loud bang had them jumping, first because of the noise and second because somehow the resulting combination snuffed out all the lights.

Grumbling good naturedly, Zelda made for the fuse box—which would likely see more use in the near future—while Hilda waved a hand to light some of the candles around the kitchen.

“Ambrose, love,” Hilda called as she picked up a candle and moved towards the stairs to check on their nephew. Just as Zelda flipped the switches and restored the electricity, though, Hilda shouted. “Zelda!”

Alarmed by her sister’s tone, Zelda rushed back through the house and found Hilda in the parlor, pointing to the fireplace.

The Yule log was out.

“Quickly!” Zelda exclaimed, rounding the armchairs and beginning the enchantment; Hilda joining her seconds later to add her strength.

Once the fire was relit, Hilda worried her lower lip. “Do you think anything got through? It was only out a minute.”

Frowning, Zelda shook her head. “With how close spirits roam to this realm during Solstice, a minute might be all they needed. Go get Ambrose, no more experimenting tonight. I’ll get Sabrina and check the house for malevolent presences.”

Her girl tucked firmly on her hip and the crook of her arm, Zelda moved through the house, tool in hand, praying to Satan it wouldn’t stop spinning.

It did.

Zelda squeezed her eyes shut and carefully backed out of the nursery where the device indicated the spirits were. She shut the door softly behind her though she knew it wouldn’t make a difference to the non-corporeal beings now haunting their house.

Hurrying back down the stairs, Zelda found the rest of her family huddled around the Yule log, making sure it remained lit.

“Auntie, I am a so sorry,” Ambrose began, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. “I have no idea how I managed to extinguish all light, but I certainly didn’t intend—"

She cupped his cheek and managed a weak smile. “I know, sweetheart, you wouldn’t have risked the spell of you’d known.” Ambrose exhaled in relief and covered her hand with his and pressed his cheek into her palm.

“Did, did you find anything?” Hilda murmured, coming up behind Ambrose and wrapping a protective arm around him.

With a grim nod, Zelda’s eyes lifted to the ceiling where they could hear the beginnings of the spirits moving around. “In the nursery. I don’t know what, yet, but we do have spirits.” She switched Sabrina to her other hip as the sounds above continued.

Brow furrowing, Ambrose inclined his head, listening hard. “Are, are they playing with Sabrina’s toys?” He asked, eyes drifting upwards once more.

At the suggestion, all three of them fell silent and waited. Sure enough, the bells attached to the mobile hanging above Sabrina’s crib tinkled and a musical tune from another toy broke the quiet.

Sighing slowly, Zelda turned to Hilda and her sister nodded. “The Yule lads.” They stated in tandem.

“Yule lads?” Ambrose repeated, tucking his hands under his arms. “Wait, they’re, they’re poltergeists are they not? A simple banishing spell should do the trick.”

Zelda shook her head. “Poltergeists of a sort,” she corrected, wincing as something crashed to the floor above them. “They listen to no one but their,” her mouth twisted, “their ‘mother’.”

A grimace pulling her features, Hilda turned towards the kitchen. “I’ll get the offering ready.” She muttered, clearly unhappy about giving up even some of the food she’d prepared.

Her nephew frowned. “Offering? Who do the Yule lads listen to?”

Surprised there was something Ambrose didn’t know, Zelda bounced slightly to keep Sabrina pacified. “Gryla, a powerful hedge witch who is centuries older than Hilda and me. She,” Zelda shook her head in disgust, clutched Sabrina closer and then went on to explain who Gryla was; her horrendous act of eating her child, the betrayal she felt when the other witch broke the pact. And how, for the past thousand years, Gryla attempted to replace her lost child by taking others; specifically, orphans or those who weren’t with their biological family.

Blanching, Ambrose covered his mouth. “She, she ate—"

“Yes.” Zelda cut in, not wanting to dwell on Gryla’s grisly history. “And she replaces that child by taking others and turning them into spirits. Spirits that only listen to her. Which is why,” she moved to the kitchen to see how Hilda was coming along, “we must summon Gryla. So, she can collect her Yule lads before they do too much damage.”

A series of loud clatters sounded from upstairs followed by another loud crash of what sounded like one of the dressers in their bedrooms being knocked over.

Setting out another plate of cookies, Hilda huffed. “And to appease her, for the audacity of summoning her, we make an offering.” She gestured to the large amount of food spread out on the table with a scowl.

Ambrose spread his hands out, at a loss and still processing this newest piece of witching history. “How can I help?” He finally managed.

Carefully placing Sabrina in her highchair, with an extra protection spell, Zelda cupped Ambrose’s chin. “You, my dear felon, can hide.”

Confused, and not listening, Ambrose grabbed a plate and carried to the table. “Why would I hide? I came help.”

She shared a quick look with Hilda and then blurted it out. “Gryla was abandoned by her husband and she doesn’t like men.” Though if her spouse ate their only child Zelda knew for a fact she’d have abandoned them as well—if not killed them. Of course, Gryla didn’t see it that way.

Poorly suppressing a smile, Hilda added on. “She does like eating them.”

Appalled, Ambrose swallowed hard. “Oh,” he murmured faintly, setting the plate in his hands down with deliberate ease. “I suppose the basement or my room would be sufficient?”

Unable to help herself, Zelda chuckled softly at his reaction. “Yes, either will do. Though the basement may be safer, the lads seem to still be wreaking havoc upstairs.” The sound of breaking glass confirmed her thinking. “Make sure to cast silencing spells on the room, so we can’t hear you, but you can hear us.”

“Of course, Auntie, I might just go prepare now, why wait until she’s almost here?” With a slightly grey tinge to his skin, Ambrose scurried off.

Turning back to Hilda, Zelda arched a brow. “Are we ready?”

With a begrudging nod, Hilda handed Sabrina part of a cookie to keep her occupied, and then joined her hand with Zelda’s to summon Gryla.

~~~~

The witch arrived with a howl of winter wind that made the windows shudder in their frames.

She curtly knocked on the door, a smug smile on her face when it swung open for her. “Have you found my Yule lads?” She remarked, arching a knowing brow as more bangs sounded from above when she entered.

“They’ve made themselves quite at home,” Zelda noted dryly, shutting the door behind the witch.

Stepping forward, Hilda swept her hand to encompass their offering. “We’ve laid out some lovely meat pies, cookies, pastries, roasted—"

Sharply holding up a hand, Gryla shifted her attention and Hilda petered off, unsure. “This child is not yours.” She breathed, eyeing Sabrina where she was happily munching on the cookie Hilda gave her.

Baffled, Zelda blinked. “Yes she is.”

A malicious smile spreading on her lips, Gryla crooked her head. “She’s not your blood. I smell it.”

The two of them moved instinctively to stand behind Sabrina, Hilda gripping the back of Sabrina’s seat before answering. “Not directly no, but she’s our niece. We are her guardians.”

Power suddenly built up around Gryla and the Yule lads abruptly appeared in the kitchen with them, knives whirling through the air forcing Zelda and Hilda to deflect them.

“Stop this!” Zelda bellowed, a blast of energy emanating from her and sending the knives flying to embed themselves in the walls. “Sabrina is our girl and you won’t touch her.”

If anything, this seemed to motivate Gryla further, a cackle escaped her as she joined the fight along with her Yule lads, eyes bright with cruel intent.

Magic thickly filled the air as she and Hilda fought ferociously to try and keep Gryla at bay; all while dodging whatever lethal missiles the Yule lads launched in their direction. A flicker of relief went through Zelda when she felt Hilda seal the basement door to prevent Ambrose from joining them; Hell knew what Gryla would do to him.

And though the strain she felt from the fight made it seem as though hours had passed; Zelda knew only minutes had gone by. Despite this, sweat dripped down Zelda’s brow as she held a shield spell in place against Gryla’s onslaught, gritting her teeth at the effort. Hilda breathed heavily behind her, the burden of fighting invisible and numerous spirits surrounding them also taking its toll.

As if sensing her growing fatigue, Gryla increased the intensity of her spell; the effect of which physically slid Zelda’s feet back several inches across the floor. Laughing, the witch dropped the spell and then launched another at Zelda’s shield, making her stagger back at the impact; her spell held, barely.

It was then Zelda realized Gryla was toying with them.

She was centuries older and far more powerful. The hedge witch was enjoying her game, the fight; but dueling with them wasn’t even a challenge for her. Their desperate effort was a lost cause.

Despite this horrible realization, despite the fact that it was futile, and Hilda likely had discovered this as well, they kept fighting.

What else could they do?

Give up? Let Gryla take Sabrina and then search the house to take what she pleased as payment for resisting her? Ultimately leading the witch to Ambrose, who she’d kill out of hand?

No.

Zelda knew neither she nor Hilda would ever let anything happen to the kids. Never. With one last frantic attempt, Zelda dropped her shield completely, concentrated her remaining energy into a lethal blow and flung it at Gryla.

The witch was thrown back over the kitchen counter with a sickening crunch and, for a moment, Zelda dared to hope. Until magic crackled in the air above where Gryla had disappeared and then shot across the room to take Zelda in the chest.

Eyes going wide in pain and panic, Zelda clutched at her chest and tried to breathe; without success.

“Zelds!” Hilda shouted, loosing a billowing cloud of fire into the air to deter the Yule lads before dropping next to her. “Easy, just let me...” Muttering a Latin phrase, Hilda countered the spell.

Air suddenly flooded Zelda’s lungs and she gasped, eyes watering. Before either of them could recover further, Gryla was looming from behind the counter and firing spells with such speed and force they couldn’t possibly block them all.

Crashes and small explosions filled the room, joining Sabrina’s shrieks which had been going since the fight began.

Then, suddenly.... The screeches fell silent.

Bruised and bloody, Zelda and Hilda whipped around to find Sabrina’s small form slumped to the side.

Not missing the lack of noise from Sabrina either, Gryla slowed her attack and then stopped altogether. She harrumphed when she saw the result of her reckless casting. “Well, either with me or dead, at least she’s not where she doesn’t belong. With you.” With an arched brow and a self-righteous smile, Gryla whistled and turned away, her lads following, scavenging the fallen food as they went.

A raw, primal roar ripped itself from Zelda’s throat and she staggered upright and after the witch. Snorting in amusement, Gryla gave her an assessing look and then teleported away; leaving Zelda to crash into the wall behind where Gryla had been standing.

Sobs wrenched themselves from her and wracked her body as Zelda slid to the floor, barely able to breathe.

Hilda painfully leveraged herself off the floor as well and carefully extracted Sabrina from the damaged highchair to cradle the inert little girl against her chest. Pale as a ghost and utterly silent in shock, Hilda turned to Zelda, mouth working uselessly.

Another howl emanated from Zelda as Ambrose barreled into the room; Hilda’s spell containing him having dissipated in her grief.

“Aunties! What—” He stumbled on the sight that greeted him in the kitchen; the room a crater of destruction and grief. When Hilda curled herself around Sabrina, a wounded wail warbling out of her at least, Ambrose strode forward; eyes focused and fierce.

When he snatched Sabrina from Hilda, Zelda almost hexed him. For being so callous, for…. It was then Zelda realized that her nephew was sprinting out to the garden.

The Cain Pit.

Gasping at the realization, Zelda lurched outside as well, ignoring the pain ricocheting through her; Hilda whimpering as she followed. Hell bless their nephew, their brilliant, beautiful, strong nephew.

By the time they caught up, Ambrose had already covered Sabrina in the shallowest layer of dirt possible and still have it count as buried. He likely dared not place her deeper, the girl certainly not old enough to dig her way out once she woke.

She and Hilda dropped onto their knees beside him; huddling together in the snow as they waited for their girl to return.

At some point Ambrose started to heal them, his hands stiff with the cold. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, casting a spell to start a small fire to keep them warm. “I’m sorry, I am so, so very sorry, Aunties, I—” falling silent, Ambrose continued to heal them. “I’m sorry.” He finished, so softly Zelda almost didn’t hear him the last time.

After yet another apology fell from his lips, Zelda turned to him and smiled tremulously. “Your quick thinking is going to save your cousin, sweetheart, don’t apologize. And if your Aunt Hilda or I had eventually gotten our shit together and thought to use the Pit, we’d have either bled out from our injuries or frozen to death without you.”

“It wasn’t quick thinking.”

Perplexed, Hilda hummed and tried to take Ambrose’s hand, but he backed away from them both. “Darling—"

“It wasn’t quick thinking,” he repeated wretchedly. “All I could do while I was stuck in the basement, listening to you fight for your lives against Gryla and her lads, was think of what I’d see when I finally got out.” Spearing his hands through his hair, Ambrose shook his head. “I figured the Pit would see some use, I just never considered that it would be Sab-, Sabrina we put inside. And,” his voice cracked, “it’s my fault they were here in the first place. My fault she was hurt. That you were hurt.”

They both exhaled in realization and converged on Ambrose, engulfing him in their embraces and murmuring reassurances; for it certainly wasn’t his fault.

Before Zelda could be sure their words had truly sunk in, though, a thin cry sounded from the Pit. “Sabrina!” She gasped, hurriedly brushing the soil off her girl and wrapping her in her arms. “My darling, my sweet girl.” Tears flowed down Zelda’s cheeks as she shifted to let Hilda and Ambrose check on Sabrina as well.

Touching Zelda’s arm, Hilda stood. “Come, let’s get the dear inside. She needs a warm bath and a bottle.”

Their normal bedtime routine took much longer than usual. Though Sabrina seemed almost entirely unaffected by the night’s events, she and Hilda couldn’t seem to put the girl down. When they finally did lay Sabrina down in her crib, neither of them moved from its side.

“I don’t understand,” Zelda murmured, breaking the silence at last as she reached down and fixed the blanket Sabrina partially kicked off. “Gryla’s abilities allow her to sense when a child is not with family which is why she feels empowered to claim them as her own. Sabrina is our blood niece, easily traceable to the Spellman line through Edward... what caused her to say such things? To attack?”

Hilda didn’t quite meet her eye, hands twitching on the crib railing. “Maybe she’s losing her touch in her old age. She’s nearly a thousand years old, after all.”

Scoffing, Zelda conjured chairs for the two of them; full well knowing neither of them would be willing to leave Sabrina’s side that night. “She must be, who else would be Sabrina’s parents? Her family?”

Making a noncommittal sound, Hilda sank into the chair next to Zelda and they started their vigil.

#caos #Chilling Adventures of Sabrina #writing prompt #Zelda Spellman #hilda spellman #ambrose spellman #sabrina spellman #Young Sabrina #gryla #yule lads #solstice #the spellmans #spellman sisters #fanfiction #fanfic #AO3 fanfic #ao3fic #ao3 #netflix

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luninosity · 6 years ago

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for @ninemoons42 - Happy Birthday, my dear - it’s an honor to be your friend - sending you so much love.

As per request, Bucky Barnes and blankets and comfort--

Bucky’s been collecting blankets. Fleece, knit, woolly, striped, tasseled, patterned with holiday kittens. Heavy, light, and in between. Sometimes he buys them online; sometimes they appear via a Wakandan matter replicator; sometimes people send them, a gift for a wounded hero. Bucky always hesitates when unwrapping those; Steve isn’t sure what emotions move behind those eyes, but then Bucky curls up into starry blue or rainbow-swirled folds, and smiles, and so: that’s something.

That’s everything, really: Bucky smiling.

Bucky wraps himself up in blankets like armor, like safety, like a way to be touched without having to be touched. Steve’s heart cracks each time: a splintering like snapped thread, frayed yarn. Bucky’s staying warm and being happy. Bucky’s hiding away every inch of bare skin and vulnerability behind a shield-wall of gold-traced gunmetal grey, a gift that matches his new fingertips when they tug a corner a bit higher.

Steve knows Bucky loves him. He knows it the way he loves Bucky Barnes: opal-bright and many-colored, every color, because Bucky’s woven into every piece of him. And they do touch; they kiss, they hold each other, they come together breathless and shuddering with the joy of each other, in the night.

It’s only the days. The need for Bucky to reestablish something—some walls, some boundaries, some comfort—that’s his, uninvaded.

So Steve sits down with Bucky on the couch to watch Star Trek—Bucky’s rediscovering a love of science fiction and hope about the future—and he doesn’t push, doesn’t disturb the blanket-ball that’s tucked itself into the cushions. A stray strand of Bucky’s hair’s visible, dark against orange pumpkin patterns—it’s autumn, after all, and Bucky grins almost like his old self when diving headlong into cinnamon-sugar scented candles and pear-with-brown-sugar luxurious lotion—and Bucky’s sock-clad toes emerge too, after a second, to poke Steve gently in the thigh.

“Hey,” Steve says.

“Hey.” Bucky pokes him again. “Did you bring popcorn?”

“Yep,” Steve says. “Regular and caramel. Just for you. Your and your weird need for sugar on a savory food.”

“Expand your culinary horizons, punk.” Bucky’s hand pops out to toss popcorn into his own mouth, and then at Steve. Steve, who does not mind caramel at all, catches the piece in his mouth too and makes exaggerated unhappy noises about it.

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky says. “Quit complaining.”

“I might like it better,” Steve says hopefully, “on your lips.” It’s a terrible line, and he sort of half-means it: he wants to, he completely wants to, but he doesn’t want to disturb Bucky’s blanket-nest.

Bucky, from under the pumpkins, groans. “Terrible line, Stevie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve agrees happily. “Captain America’s allowed. And you kiss me anyway.”

“I do. Actually…” Bucky wriggles around, sits up a little. “You know you can kiss me, right?”

“I do, don’t I?”

“I mean right now.” Bucky looks up at him. Those eyes are anchors, grounding Steve’s soul. “You know I like being warm. You’re warm. How come you never asked to join me?”

“Oh,” Steve says, newly breathless all over again. “Oh. I didn’t think…I thought you didn’t want…being touched…”

“Sometimes I don’t,” Bucky says. “I’ll tell you. But mostly it’s just really damn nice, feeling this. Even nicer if you were feeling it with me.”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Yeah, Buck—yes.”

“Then get over here. Bring the popcorn.”

Bucky’s arm moves; Bucky moves, and there’s space for Steve in the pile of blankets, there’s space for Steve at Bucky’s side, there’s room for Steve in the warmth—

Bucky tangles himself into Steve, easy as anything, easy the way loving Bucky Barnes has always been. The world’s been cruel and hard and vicious, but falling head over heels for James Buchanan Barnes, well. That’s never been hard.

“Extra warm,” Bucky observes, contented as a cat, and tips his head up. “You gonna kiss me or not, Steve, you can’t offer and then leave a guy hanging.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve says, “I’m getting to it, I love you,” and bends to kiss Bucky there in the protective fortress of orange-pumpkin blanket-waves, tasting caramel and warm cozy skin and Bucky’s smile, while sci-fi optimism rings out in the background.

#stucky #my fic #ninemoons42 #fic for friends #happy birthday #slightly late perhaps but #such is life #love you!

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binsofchaos · 2 years ago

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Schubart | Musical Keys

In July of 1878, soon after being released from the dungeon of a mountaintop fortress in Asperg¹, German composer, poet and journalist Christian Schubart published this superb list in his own newspaper, the Vaterlandische Chronik. The list, which was written whilst locked up, poetically describes each of the musical keys and their characteristics. It was later republished, posthumously, in a collection of his music writing titled Ideen Zu Einer Ästhetik Der Tonkunst, and in 1983 was translated into English by musicologist Rita Steblin in A History of Key Characteristics in the 18th and Early 19th Centuries.

C major: Completely pure. Its character is: innocence, simplicity, naïvety, children’s talk.

C minor: Declaration of love and at the same time the lament of unhappy love. All languishing, longing, sighing of the love-sick soul lies in this key.

Db major: A leering key, degenerating into grief and rapture. It cannot laugh, but it can smile; it cannot howl, but it can at least grimace its crying. Consequently only unusual characters and feelings can be brought out in this key.

D major: The key of triumph, of Hallelujahs, of war-cries, of victory-rejoicing. Thus, the inviting symphonies, the marches, holiday songs and heaven-rejoicing choruses are set in this key.

D minor: Melancholy womanliness, the spleen and humours brood.

D# minor: Feelings of the anxiety of the soul’s deepest distress, of brooding despair, of blackest depression, of the most gloomy condition of the soul. Every fear, every hesitation of the shuddering heart, breathes out of horrible D# minor. If ghosts could speak, their speech would approximate this key.

Eb major: The key of love, of devotion, of intimate conversation with God.

E major: Noisy shouts of joy, laughing pleasure and not yet complete, full delight lies in E Major.

F major: Complaisance and calm.

F minor: Deep depression, funereal lament, groans of misery and longing for the grave.

F# major: Triumph over difficulty, free sigh of relief uttered when hurdles are surmounted; echo of a soul which has fiercely struggled and finally conquered lies in all uses of this key.

F# minor: A gloomy key: it tugs at passion as a dog biting a dress. Resentment and discontent are its language.

G major: Everything rustic, idyllic and lyrical, every calm and satisfied passion, every tender gratitude for true friendship and faithful love—in a word every gentle and peaceful emotion of the heart is correctly expressed by this key.

G minor: Discontent, uneasiness, worry about a failed scheme; bad-tempered gnashing of teeth; in a word: resentment and dislike.

Ab major: Key of the grave. Death, grave, putrefaction, judgment, eternity lie in its radius.

Ab minor: Grumbler, heart squeezed until it suffocates; wailing lament, difficult struggle; in a word, the colour of this key is everything struggling with difficulty.

A major: This key includes declarations of innocent love, satisfaction with one’s state of affairs; hope of seeing one’s beloved again when parting; youthful cheerfulness and trust in God.

A minor: Pious womanliness and tenderness of character.

Bb major: Cheerful love, clear conscience, hope and aspiration for a better world.

Bb minor: A quaint creature, often dressed in the garment of night. It is somewhat surly and very seldom takes on a pleasant countenance. Mocking God and the world; discontented with itself and with everything; preparation for suicide sounds in this key.

B major: Strongly coloured, announcing wild passions, composed from the most glaring colours. Anger, rage, jealousy, fury, despair and every burden of the heart lies in its sphere.

B minor: This is as it were the key of patience, of calm awaiting one’s fate and of submission to divine dispensation.

#schubart #christian schubart #musical keys #music #notes #charactoristics #lists of note

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mechagalaxy · 5 years ago

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John T. Mainer(28840): The Smiling One with Melissa Leathers Powell (82360)

The Smiling One

Faction War side stories. Bolverk Borson here. I was running some side missions out of Cogwork Port. The war was digging in to the Bouncing Blue Brigade and Bouncing Blue Berserkers Hatoraid supplies, and resupply was suddenly either stupidly expensive or totally unavailable. Jessica Rabbit batted her baby blues at me and sent me down the rabbit hole to find out why. Turns out that psychotic bastard Mainer, in charge of the Berserkers sent the Smiling One, Melissa Powell to do the same. I cut her trail two gates out of Cogwork.

My official report was simple, and I have seen it cross the newsfeeds, so you all know the official story. What you don’t know is why we call her the Smiling One.

[Begin Transcript]

Bootleggers

You have been investigating a sudden rash of hijacked hatoraid shipments. Every one of the shipments was on the way to Cogwerk Port. Someone is trying to create an artificial shortage and drive up the prices. It doesn’t take long to connect the dots leading back to the Darknoll gang.

You head out to search their usual hideouts. As you approach you see someone has already engaged the Darknoll smugglers. The battle is all but over by the time you get there. Apparently recent King of the Mountain Div 2 Winner Melissa Powell figured it out before you and took action.

You do get mentioned as an “also assisting” in the news articles about the story and a small reward from the Games Commission.

You gain a Large Hatoraide

[End transcript]

Its not a lie, it just leaves a few things out. I got to the battle too late to see more than the wreckage, but on seeing Bouncing Blue on the IFF, I sent a hail and got a reply. A simple text that Melissa had taken two pirates alive, and was going to meet Duke Crimson at LaSalles to exchange her prisoners for interrogation. I was given the chance to sit in and carry the information back direct for the Brigade.

I parked in back, LaSalles manager and I go way back, due to a slight misunderstanding involving a cabinet minister, her twin sister, and a long mecha chase to escape husband number three and his AFF hired guns. Bottom line is, I can use the back entrance and skip the lineup.

I slipped in and saw Melissa sitting calmly at the back of the booth. A single sweating pirate sat on the chair in front, not restrained. His hands were flat on the table, and shaking. He wore a nervous smile and tan coveralls with unit patches stripped off, two empty holsters that once held weapons I bet he wished he still held.

How to describe Melissa. Well, she wore her Bouncing Blue coveralls half zipped, showing a decent amount of cleavage and a body that was comfortably lived in, not a delicate supermodel, but a woman who was comfortable enough in her abilities to not give a fiddlers fart about decorations or display. Her leather jacket had the dreaded Berserkers Logo, and the ragged bunny ears she wore on her head proudly proclaimed her membership in the Bunny clans. She was not smiling. Her face was calm and composed like some temple statue.

Duke Crimson walked in from the front entrance, he was sweating, and his bodyguards tried to restrain him rather than let him approach Melissa unescorted, but he shrugged them off. Pasted on his cheesy signature grin and approached her like a used fish salesman approaching a Great White Shark to discuss her dinner plans.

Melissa called me to join them and I slid into the booth. Duke Crimson was discussing payment terms.

“……and another two hundred if you can convince him to talk.” Duke Crimson was saying.

Melissa smiled for the first time, and my blood went a little cold. She turned to the pirate and asked him, sweetly as any kindergarten teacher.

“Sweety, tell the nice Duke how cooperative you intend on being. You are the cooperative and polite one, aren’t you?”

The pirate blanched and began babbling.

“Names, dates, account numbers, who we bribed, transponder codes, mobile gate frequencies, I got it all man, whatever you want, I swear!”

Duke Crimson looked surprised, but Melissa slapped her hand on the table and looked at the pirate again and asked sternly, like an unhappy kindergarten teacher now looking at a mess on her floor.

“I swear, what? Do you want me to treat you as impolite? Hmmm?” She asked

“No MA’AM, No ma’am! I mean whatever you want SIR!” The pirate was really sweating now, so was Duke Crimson. As I was beginning to wonder what put the fear of the gods into this Pirate, none other than Artemis Molly stepped up to our table.

“Melissa, I was so excited to hear about your kill. 40, 000 kills is quite the total. Here is a little token of our esteem. A hundred and fifty niodes, from those who appreciate your artistry with mecha, not simply the wars and pirate hunting, but your innovative tree decorating skills as well”

The two women exchanged a laugh and hug after Artemis Molly put the niodes cask on the table. Duke Crimson swore under his breath, and the pirate started to cry, and if my nose was correct, wet himself. What the hell was that about a tree? A second question crossed my mind and was out of my mouth before thinking.

“Melissa,” I asked “Didn’t you say you captured two pirates? What happened to the second one?”

Melissa smiled widely, and Duke Crimson went bone white, the pirate shuddered and wept openly as she replied softly.

“I am afraid he was impolite, and quite uncooperative. I gave him time to reconsider his life choices in the parking lot. He is, “ She smiled like a cat and made a little laugh “hanging out while we talk, then can choose to stay with me or go with the good Duke here for interrogation”

I really wanted to see what she was smiling about, and why the collection of Duke Crimson’s hardcase bodyguards kept shuddering when they looked this way. I walked with Melissa out to her mecha, having volunteered to carry the niode chest for her to stow in her X-mas tree.

There was a crowd gathered around it. The warning lights lit it in full holiday cheer, and its turrets spun in counter rotation gently at idle, like normal. What was not normal was the crowd staring up at the top where some pilots mounted a star or an angel. Holy crudsuckers. That was where the weeping sound was coming from. I guess I found the other pirate. Something other than an angel impaled helplessly on top of her Xmas tree.

“Please, please, please let me down. I will be good ma’am. I will be so good. I will tell Duke Crimson everything I promise”

I looked over at Melissa Powell, the Smiling One, and her smile was a thing that could part the damned in hell and bring the silence of a library to a city in full riot. I grinned in return, it was a beautiful thing that this Mecha Galaxy still held wonders and terrors. Like Melissa Powell, the Smiling One of the Spirit of Bunny.

John T Mainer 28840

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thecoliverlibrary · 8 years ago

Text

Truth or Dare

Gift Type: Fan Fiction Title: Truth or Dare Author: @ramblesandreblogs Recipient: @tonystarkjpg Rating: Teen Warnings: References to Underage Drinking (is that a warning? it’s late. i’m sorry. all these parenthesis are stupid) Word Count: 5.4k Summary: Certain truths about Connor and Oliver come to light during a New Year’s Eve game of Truth or Dare. Author’s Note: Hi Nive! You requested a high school AU and I tried my best! :) Hope you enjoy it. Happy Holidays and Happy New Year to all!! xoxo

~~~

“I can’t believe you are making me do this.”

Laurel rolled her eyes as she and Oliver made their way down the sidewalk. “Come on, Oliver. Don’t be like that. It’s gonna be fun.”

He glared at her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You and I have very different definitions of fun.”

She smiled beautifully at him and tucked a hand around his arm. “We do,” she agreed. “I think things like New Year’s Eve parties are fun—”

“Torture.”

“And you think things like staying home and ringing in the New Year working on college applications is fun.”

“A productive use of a night off.”

Laurel laughed and the sound echoed in the still night, bouncing off snow covered roofs and sparkling holiday lights. “God. I love you.” She squeezed his arm close and tilted her head on his shoulder. “‘Productive use of a night off.’”

Oliver bristled a that. “What?” What was the matter with that?

What was the matter with spending a night in to get ahead on his applications? His mom was out with her boyfriend (presumably doing things Oliver didn’t want to think about) and his dad was spending the holiday skiing with his new family in Colorado. Instead of feeling bummed about the idea of spending New Year’s Eve alone, Oliver had been a little excited about having the condo to himself for a few hours. Ordering in whatever food he wanted (regardless of Jeremy’s newfound veganism), working on polishing up his application essays, and maybe catching up on Netflix. The whole evening had sounded perfect until Laurel had begun relentlessly messaging him and dragged him out of his warm nest of solitude.

“Those application dates are going be here faster than you know,” he reminded her.

“I know.” Laurel rolled her eyes again but with affection this time. “But they aren’t tomorrow.”

Oliver let her lead him up the driveway and down the walk until they were almost there, Michaela Pratt’s front door.

“She didn’t invite me,” he whispered to Laurel, fast and a touch frantic. They were almost at the front door; his window of bailing was getting smaller and smaller.

“Who? Michaela?” Laurel stopped and turned, blinking at him with wide eyes. “Yes she did.” And she had. Laurel had been standing at Oliver’s side at the time, witness to the whole thing.

Oliver shook his head. “No. She—” He thought back onto that scene just a few days ago.

It had been the last day of school before break and they’d been at their lockers. Laurel was hanging back, waiting for him finish collecting his stuff before she drove them both home, when Michaela approached. The Homecoming Queen had been radiant as she told Laurel that her parents had decided at the last minute to visit an aunt for New Year’s and how she was going to have the house to herself.

“It’s gonna be small,” Michaela had explained to Laurel. “Just a couple of us on New Year’s. Connor and Wes. Maybe Asher. I’m thinking Sarah and Nat but then I’d have to invite Chelsea and I don’t know if I want to get into all that and—Oh!” Michaela had spotted Oliver lingering a few feet away. “You too, of course!” she had said with a smile.

“She did it just to be polite,” Oliver said to Laurel now as they were paused in front of Michaela’s house. “She didn’t really mean it. It was just not to be rude.”

Laurel snorted. “You really don’t know Michaela at all, do you?”

“Laur—”

“Michaela doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to,” she told him. “If she didn’t want you here, she would have ignored you. Believe me. I’ve seen it before.”

That didn’t make Oliver feel any better. He tugged at his sleeves, refusing to touch his hair. He’d actually spent time on it, okay? He didn’t need to walk in with it looking mussed. “It’s just—”

She put a hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there.”

But Laurel was able to move in this circle and Oliver would never be able to fully explain to her that he just couldn’t. She had the uncanny ability to jump social strata, move from clique to clique without a second thought and he just didn’t. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t built for spending New Year’s Eve at the home of the Homecoming Queen and her friends. He’d make a fool out of himself. A total fool. This group starred in the musicals and were on the starting line of the football team and ran the school paper and all already had full rides to the Ivy League. Oliver was a second-tier nerd who ran the tech booth during plays and never set a toe out of line.

He opened his mouth to tell all this to Laurel but she beat him to it.

“You’ll be fine. We’re going in.” Tugging on his arm, she rang the bell. “Just try to loosen up a little,” she said. “Just…Have some fun. What’s the worst that could happen?”

~~~

He was going to kill her.

“You did what?”

Michaela’s smile was a picture of innocence. “I invited Oliver Hampton,” she repeated. “Why? Is that a problem?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed as Michaela kept smiling. He was going to kill her. And he was going to enjoy it.

He’d known confessing his stupid crush had been a mistake. He’d known letting her in on the secret was dangerous. She’d just caught him during a moment of weakness is all.

Connor’d been distracted all those weeks ago as they walked to class. Oliver had been a few feet ahead of them — navigating the crowded halls on his own way to the next class — and Connor just hadn’t been able to look away.

“Connor?”

He’d hummed in answer to Michaela, too caught up in his own ridiculous fantasy to properly acknowledge her.

“God,” she had huffed. “What’s so fascinating?”

“Oliver’s ass,” Connor had answered absently, still not looking away from the beauty before him. Then his mind caught up to his mouth. “Oh fuck!” When he’d turned to look at her, Michaela’s eyes were wide and dancing with glee. “You didn’t—”

“I did!” The hand on his arm had been immediate, the grip fierce. “You have to tell me everything!”

“Mic—”

“Everything!!”

And so Connor had, reluctantly at first but quickly losing the hesitation when he realized how good it felt to actually talk about it with someone. Putting the feelings he’d been harboring for…Christ, for months now into words had been freeing.

But freedom came with price and apparently tonight was the night Connor paid up.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he said to Michaela. Then, turning to Wes. “Can you believe she did this?”

“What? Inviting Oliver?” Wes asked without looking up from his phone. “What’s the big deal? Oliver’s cool. He’s coming with Laurel, right?”

Michaela’s smile was indulgent. She had a soft spot for those two but knew they’d get there eventually. “She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.”

Wes shot Michaela a pointed look. “I’m not worried.” He turned back to his phone. “Besides, thought you’d be happy Oliver’s coming,” he said to Connor.

“I’m not unhappy,” Connor was quick to say. “It’s just—I’m—Why should I be happy?”

That made Wes glance up. “Well, you like the guy, right?”

Connor’s eyes found Michaela’s instantly. She told—She told Wes! Connor’d told her that in confidence. He couldn’t believe— “You told him!”

She held her hands up. “I didn’t. Connor, I swear I didn’t.”

“I can’t believe this, Mic. You—”

“She didn’t tell me,” Wes said.

“Then who did?” Connor demanded.

“No one. I just…” He gave a shrug. “Just figured it out.”

“How?” Connor demanded, louder this time. “How did you figure it out?”

“How’d who figure what out?” a new voice asked from the entryway.

Three heads turned to see Asher enter. He tugged off his hat and tucked it into the sleeve of his jacket as Michaela rounded on him.

“I don’t know about you but guests normally use the bell here.”

Asher’s smile held a secret and it was all for here. “Aww, Michaela. I figured I’d moved beyond guest status.”

Micheala’s only answer was a telling blush and Connor made a note to interrogate her about that later.

“What are we talking about?” Asher asked, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “Who’s figuring what out?”

Connor started to answer, “Nothing,” but Wes was quicker.

“I figured out Connor’s hung up on Oliver.”

Connor’s eyes widened and his heart nearly stopped. What the hell was Wes doing just blurting things out like that? What did—

“Oh. That,” Asher said dismissively. “What else is new?”

“Wha—” Connor couldn’t form words, couldn’t think.

“How did you—I didn’t even know!” Michaela nearly shouted. “How did you two know when I didn’t know?”

“Well, how’d you find out?” Wes asked.

“He told me,” she said, gesturing to Connor. “He told me everything, made me swear to keep it secret, and I didn’t tell a soul.” She said it casually but Connor knew it to be true. Michaela may be one of the school’s biggest gossips but she knew how to keep her mouth shut when it mattered. “I’m the best friend. I’m supposed to know these things first.”

“Well, you didn’t have bio with them,” Asher said. “I didn’t even know you could make heart eyes at someone during an enzyme lab but our boy Walsh here pulled it off.”

The comment made Connor pause. He and Oliver had shared a bio class freshman year, two years ago. He hadn’t liked Oliver then…had he?

“What about you?” Asher asked Wes.

“Orchestra,” he answered with a shudder. “Connor was third chair, Oliver was first, and I was the sucker stuck between them. Longest year of my life.”

Okay. Connor knew that was bullshit because he hadn’t been in orchestra in years. He’d dropped it during junior high because it hadn’t been fun anymore.

“Then, Oliver dropped it and things got worse,” Wes went on. “Had to suffer on for one more semester with this guy’s—” he pointed to Connor, “dark cloud hanging over my head before he dropped out too.”

Connor opened his mouth to explain to Wes that, No, he hadn’t dropped orchestra because Oliver dropped it too. He’d dropped it because he hadn’t enjoyed it anymore. It’d had nothing to do with Oliver…or had it?

“Awww.” Asher slapped Connor on the shoulder. “You miss your boo, Boo?”

“Fuck you.” Connor slapped his hand away.

Fuck all of them actually. This was such crap. Wes and Asher were wrong. They…they were just wrong. He and Oliver had started to hang out a little more over the summer and his stupid little crush thing had just sort of appeared from that. He hadn’t been crushing on Oliver in fucking junior high. He hadn’t had some ridiculous crush on the guy for all these years. That was just ridiculous. No, they were ridiculous.

“You both are so full of shit,” Connor started. Then the doorbell pealed and the words died on his lips. He was here. Oliver was here. “I—”

“No one says anything.” Michaela pointed a finger at Wes and then Asher. Wes nodded immediately but Asher…

“I mean it,” she said, finger still locked on Asher. The words were whispered with such venom that Connor found himself swallowing reflexively even though they were clearly directed at Asher and Asher alone.

“Ash—” she began in warning.

“I got it,” he answered quickly, his voice breaking a little. He coughed to cover it but they all heard. “Not a word. I swear.”

She gave him one more warning glance. “Okay. Good.” Then, Michaela clapped her hands together once and headed for the door. “Let’s get this party started!”

~~~

Have some fun. What’s the worst that could happen?

Laurel’s voice echoed in Oliver’s head as he looked around the room.

The ‘small’ party Michaela had promised didn’t seem all that small to him. Dozens of people littered the couches and chairs of her parent’s living rooms (rooms! plural!) and even more spilled down into the basement.

Somewhere in the midst of them all, Oliver had lost Laurel. He’d turned to ask if she wanted a refill only to find her gone. It had only taken a moment to spot her again, her smile and laugh tended to catch the eye. She was standing next to Wes across the way and, looking at them, watching them smile at each other, Oliver hadn’t had the heart to walk over and burst their bubble.

So he’d set about the party on his own. He wasn’t a child that needed to cling to Laurel’s apron strings. He went to school with all these people; he spent at least a class with nearly all of them. He didn’t need her to make introductions or hold his hand. By some stroke of luck, he, Oliver Hampton, was at what was turning out to be a pretty great New Year’s Eve party and he was going to try and have some fun.

What was the worst that could happen?

“Oliver!”

He automatically turned at his name and found his host waving him over.

“Come here,” Michaela called. “Come on.”

Dodging the drinks and gesturing hands of others, Oliver cut through the crowd to Michaela’s side. “Hey. Great party. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Of course! I’m so glad you came!” She said it with such enthusiasm that Oliver was pretty sure she was being sincere. Then, “Have you seen Laurel?”

Oliver gestured back at the kitchen where he’d seen her last. “She was with Wes.”

Michaela smiled but she didn’t move. “Figures.” Then, “We’re getting a game together.”

Something about the look in her eyes made the hair on the back of Oliver’s head stand on edge. “What kind of game?”

“A secret game,” she answered with a wink. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” She took his wrist and started tugging him along into the more formal living room.

“I don’t know, Michaela…”

“Don’t even worry about it.” She waved at the couch. “Just take a seat.”

Giving her one final, wary look, Oliver crossed the room to nab the last open seat on the couch, the seat right next to Connor Walsh. Trying not to draw attention to himself, Oliver settled in his seat and focused on breathing.

He hadn’t been fully honesty before, with himself or with Laurel. His reservations about coming tonight had nothing to do with the way Michaela had asked him or a general concern about the people who were going to be here. Oliver hadn’t been nervous about having fun or making conversation with others from school; yes he was a little shy but, under normal circumstances, he wasn’t completely inept. No, all of Oliver’s reasons for not wanting to come tonight were sharing a couch cushion with him.

Connor Walsh.

It wasn’t that Oliver didn’t like Connor, quite the opposite really. Oliver had been holding onto the most ridiculous crush on Connor for…well he wasn’t exactly sure when it had started but it’d been going on for too long now. It was embarrassing really.

Before realizing his feelings, Oliver’d always felt at ease with Connor in a way he didn’t with anyone else. It was like being around Connor somehow made Oliver forget that he was shy and a little nerdy and that he’d been told not to smile so big because it made his teeth look funny. Connor didn’t make Oliver feel as self-conscious as he normally did. Connor made him feel funny and fun and more like himself than he did with other people. That was it. Connor made Oliver feel like the best version of himself. It had been wonderful and freeing.

Then Oliver had gone and ruined it all be realizing he liked Connor.

Just like that it all went away. The easy communication and carefree friendship were gone overnight. All they were left with was awkward exchanges in the hall and stilted conversation the few times Laurel convinced Oliver to join her and the others at lunch.

It was horrible. And no matter how many pep-talks he gave himself or the countless times he played out conversations in his head, Oliver could never seem to find his tongue around Connor anymore.

It was horrible and humiliating and now they were stuck sitting next to each other at a New Year’s Eve party, waiting for Michaela Pratt to begin some mysterious game.

“She give you any hints?”

Connor’s voice in his ear nearly made Oliver jump and he turned. “What?”

The other man nodded at Michaela. “She give you anything?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Why?” He risked a glance at Michaela. “Should we be worried or something?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Connor said ominously. “I—”

“Alright, everyone! Listen up.” Michaela’s voice silenced all chatter in the room. “I know you’re all wondering about tonight’s game, which is…” She said the words slowly, heightening the suspense until Asher broke the silence with, “Just tell us already, Mic!”

“…Truth or Dare.”

~~~

He was going to kill her.

He’d been lying when he thought it before, thinking dramatically and in hyperbole, but Connor wasn’t lying this time.

He was going to kill her and he was really going to enjoy it. Really really enjoy it.

He’d bet every cent in his bank account that she’d arranged this whole little thing to torture him. The party, the game, sitting Oliver down next to him, close enough that Connor kept catching whiffs of the man’s cologne when he turned his head, all of it had been arranged to torture him.

And — damn it all to hell — it was working.

Connor couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe. Every sinew of his body was attuned to Oliver. Oliver’s scent in his nose. The brush of Oliver’s skin when their arms touched. The way Oliver’s laugh shook his whole frame. The ghost of Oliver’s breath whispering over his cheek. Throw in a middle school party game and Connor Walsh was in the middle of his own personal hell.

The game itself was fun; the waiting for Michaela to drop the other shoe was not.

Sure. He’d laughed when Wes was dared to tickle Asher until the man couldn’t breathe. He winced when Katherine had been made to tell her most embarrassing story. He watched in awe and disgust when Laurel’d downed a shot of hot sauce like was water to fulfill her a dare.

Then, without cause or warning, she did it.

The game had swung around and it was her turn to pick a victim. “I pick…” She tapped a manicured finger against his chin and Connor held his breath. “Paxton!”

The way she said his name made Connor’s spine snap to attention. He’d been expecting Mic to pick him or Oliver but both of them were too obvious. Paxton though…

“Dare!” The man said with a wolfish grin.

“Dare, huh?” Michaela pretended to think for a beat then her eyes latched on Connor’s and she shot him an evil grin, a grin Connor was coming to despite. “Do a body shot off Oliver.”

For the briefest of moments, the room fell silent, then exploded into noise. Under all the shouting and hollering, Connor picked up the quietest voice.

“I—I’m not sure if—”

His eyes found Oliver’s and his gaze never wavered. “You don’t have to.” Connor didn’t dare blink or breathe. It was vital Oliver knew this. No one in this room would make him do anything he didn’t want to and, if they tried, Connor would deal with them.

“No. That’s not it,” Oliver said softly. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “It…it’s just—”

Seeing his would-be-partner’s obvious hesitation, Paxton was quick to cut in. “Don’t worry, Ollie.” He crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the couch, between Oliver and Connor. “I’ll be gentle.”

More than one person snorted and Pax threw a glare over his shoulder.

“How?” Connor demanded. He didn’t care if his tone was too harsh, too telling.

Pax’s answering smirk was knowing. Great. Yet another person who’d figured out his stupid crush. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

At that moment, Michaela reentered the room. Connor hadn’t noticed she left but she returned with a salt shaker, shot glasses, and tequila.

“We don’t have any limes,” she said apologetically to Pax as she poured him a shot.

“Pity.” He took the glass and smiled at Oliver. “We’ll just have to do without, won’t we.”

For his part, Oliver looked like he’d lost a bit the nervousness from moments ago. “I guess so,” he murmured quietly and accepted the shot glass from Pax.

“You just hold that,” Pax said absently as he looked away to grab the salt shaker from Michaela’s outstretched hand. Turning back, he plastered on a smile Connor imagined Pax thought of as gentle before speaking directly to Oliver. “Now, I’m going to lick right along here.” He trailed a light fingertip down the side of Oliver’s neck and Connor was sitting close enough to small goosebumps rise up in wake of the touch. “Is that okay?”

Oliver licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Pax leaned in and Oliver tilted his head to the side, allowing Pax access. Connor’s hands curled into fists as he watched Pax’s tongue lick Oliver’s neck until the damp spot shone in the light. Connor watched Pax’s lips ghost of Oliver’s skin. He watched that tongue press again, lingering and tasting, savoring just a touch. Connor couldn’t bring himself to look away; he watched it all.

“That’s good enough I think,” Pax said as he sat back. He lifted the salt shaker up and raised an eyebrow, silently asking Oliver if it was okay. When Oliver gave a small nod, he sprinkled some salt over the wet patch on Oliver’s neck. “Now, to get all that off you.”

He didn’t ask permission this time but Oliver was quick to tilt his head to the side again, freely offering, and Pax’s answering grin was wicked. As he leaned down, Pax shifted just a touch so he could catch Connor’s eye. The bastard had the audacity to wink at him just before his lips touched Oliver’s skin.

Again, Connor watched as Pax kissed Oliver’s neck. He watched the movement of the man’s tongue and lips. He watched and wanted until he couldn’t look anymore; he couldn’t watch Pax do what he himself wanted to do.

So Connor stopped looking at Pax and looked at Oliver instead, which was so much worse. He glanced up in time to see Oliver’s eyelids flutter once then close. He watched as Oliver’s face went slightly lax with pleasure, his lips falling open just a touch, his breath catching just a bit. Glancing down, Connor saw Oliver’s hands twitch, begin to lift before he caught himself and locked his fingers together, keeping the joined fist firmly in his lap. Oliver had almost reached out. He’d almost lifted his hands so he could tangle fingers in Pax’s hair. What would that feel like? Oliver’s skin under his lips, Oliver’s scent in his nose, and then Oliver’s hands in treading through his hair and holding him close.

The thought made Connor nearly growl. Paxton shouldn’t be the one with his lips on Oliver’s neck; Connor should. Connor should be the one with his lips drinking in Oliver’s skin. And he certainly wouldn’t do it like this, in a room full of people as part of a fucking game. They would be alone, him and Oliver in a room that was quiet and warm. The bed would be soft beneath them. No one would be looking for them. No one would interrupt. He would have time in that room, all the time in the world to kiss Oliver, hold him close, watch as Oliver’s whole being melted with pleasure. He wouldn’t linger so much on Oliver’s neck. It’s a great spot Connor’s sure but there are so many other places to explore. Like Oliver’s hands. Connor’s spent many a class watching Oliver’s hands hold a pencil or type on a keyboard or tap at his phone. He wonders what those hands feel like. Are they soft or rough? Are Oliver’s fingers calloused? What would Oliver’s palm feel like under his lips, against his cheek, palm-to-palm? He’d answer all those questions and come up with dozens more in that room. Then, his curiosity sated for the moment, he would move on and there would be Oliver’s collarbone, the nape of his neck, that spot right there behind his ear, his shoulder, his chest, the run of his back. There were so many hidden places on Oliver that Connor would have time to explore in that room.

So no, Paxton shouldn’t be the one with his lips on Oliver’s. Connor should.

Pax sat back up then. Licking the salt off his lips, he winked at Oliver as he took the shot and downed it. The liquid must have burned as he went down because he winced. “See, this is why you need the lime,” he said. “Well…that and…” He placed a thumb on Oliver’s lower lip, pressing it down just a touch.Connor didn’t manage to hold back his small growl this time.

Knowing smirk firmly in place, Pax turned to Connor. “See? Gentle.”

Unsure what he was planning to do, Connor sat up, his hands curling into fists. “Really? You—”

“Alright! Let’s get back to the game.” Michaela’s voice held a hint of warning. “There isn’t much time till midnight. Let’s keep going. Pax. It’s your pick.”

“Well. I don’t there’s much choice for me.” He put a hand on Oliver’s leg, well above the knee, and squeezed. “Truth or dare, Ollie?”

With a quick glance at Connor, Oliver swallowed and blurted out, “Dare.”

“Dare. Really?” Pax stood and crossed the room, once again taking his seat on the opposite couch. “Dare. Dare. Dare.” The man gave Connor a pointed look and then said to Oliver, “Kiss Connor.”

Once again, the room was silent. This time, however, the silence wasn’t broken by shouts and laughter. It was broken by a single, vicious word.

“No.”

~~~

Oliver couldn’t breathe.

When Michaela had announced they were playing Truth or Dare, Oliver had groaned inwardly. He had one very important secret he wanted to keep from a very important person in this room but he’d still gone along with the game anyway, keeping Laurel’s advice to have fun in the back of his mind.

And, to his own surprise, he was having fun. It was fun to laugh and tease with his classmates, fun to be a part of something that was going to be a story others only heard about.

He’d even gone along with Michaela’s body shot dare. Sure he’d been a bit nervous at first but Pax had been more understanding that Oliver would have expected and Oliver himself hadn’t objected. In truth, he’d kind of enjoyed it a little. Yeah, it hadn’t really been a body shot in the ‘traditional’ sense of the word but it had been enough for him and no one had complained.

Oliver had been a good sport about it all. He’d gone along with it. He had been having fun.

What’s the worst that could happen?

This.

He turned to Connor. “No?”

Connor��s eyes never left Pax’s. “No,” he said again.

Oliver’s mouth twisted into a nervous smile. It was a reflex, trying to smile through embarrassing situations, and he had never hated it more than he did in this moment. “Come on, Connor,” he tried. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I—” Connor turned, blinked, and couldn’t take his eyes off Oliver’s lips. “We aren’t doing that.”

“It’s just a little kiss,” Pax said, his tone taunting. “What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed even though something in Pax’s tone made him pause. Something else was going on here but he couldn’t worry about that now. “It’ll be just a little kiss.”

“It can’t. Not with—”

Connor didn’t finish the thought but he didn’t have too. Not with you.

Connor’s face fell as his mind caught up to his mouth and heard back what he’d said. Then he saw the look on Oliver’s face. “No. Oliver, I—”

But Oliver had heard enough. Not with you. His face hot with mortification, he stood and stormed from the room.

“Oliver! Wait!”

Being unfamiliar with the house, he made a few wrong turns in his escape and somehow ended up in the garage but it was quiet and he was alone so Oliver decided to count the move as a win.

He only had a moment to appreciate the solitude of the garage, however, before the door opened and Connor burst through.

“Listen. I can explain—”

“Why couldn’t you just kiss me?” Oliver demanded. The shock and embarrassment melted away the nerves that were normally present in Connor’s company. When Connor simply stared at him in shock, Oliver demanded again. “Why? It wouldn’t have been a big deal if you had just kissed me. Simple kiss. It would have been over and done in a moment but you couldn’t just do it. Why?”

Connor hesitated. “Be…because—”

“Because why?” He waited a beat for Connor to respond but the other man stayed silent. “Why couldn’t you kiss me? You said you couldn’t have a simple kiss with me and I want to know why. What’s so terrible about me?”

“Jesus.” Connor’s eyes raised to the ceiling. “It wasn’t you—”

“Really? Because you were talking about me. It feels like it was about me to me.“ Oliver pulled a hand through his hair. He couldn’t believe they were doing this, having this conversation, and in Michaela Pratt’s garage of all places. "It would have been simple. It would have been just a simple press—”

“Because it wouldn’t be simple!” Connor nearly yelled. “There can’t be a simple kiss with you, Oliver!”

“Why? Why not?”

“Because…Because you are you, Ollie. You’re you and I—” Connor stopped then, catching his breath. Their eyes met and held.

“You are you,” Connor repeated, quiet and true. “And…and there’s nothing simple about what I feel about you.”

~~~

Connor decided that he was maybe going to let Michaela live.

“You…” Oliver let out a noise that was half laugh and have giggle; Connor wondered what he could say to get Oliver to make it again. “You have feelings for me?”

Connor nodded and Oliver did too. “Okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “That’s…that’s good to know.”

Waiting a moment and then one more, Connor opened his mouth. “Do…” He trailed off though; he didn’t know how to ask this question. He didn’t know if he could take the answer, either answer, any answer.

Answering a question that hadn't’ been asked, Oliver said, “I do. I…I really do.”

The breath caught in his chest at the look on Oliver’s face.

Connor was going to let Michaela live because, through her meddling, she helped put that look on Oliver’s face.

“I didn’t want to kiss you in front of them,” Connor explained as he took a step closer. “I didn’t want to have our first…first—”

“Kiss,” Oliver supplied.

“Yeah.” Connor coughed, distracted by how Oliver’s lips curved as they formed the word ‘kiss.’ “I didn’t want it to be in front of all of them. I didn’t want it to be…to be like your and Pax’s thing.“

“I appreciate the concern but…” Reaching out and twining their fingers together, Oliver confessed, “I don’t think our first kiss is going to be like anything like anything else.”

Connor couldn’t help the confused quirk of his eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

The other man shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a feeling I guess.”

“Well, do you think that maybe we should—”

Connor was interrupted by a shout inside the house. “It’s happening!” “The ball’s dropping!” “It’s almost time.”

Keeping their eyes locked on each other, they listened to those inside the house scream along with the countdown.

10…9…8…

Oliver licked his lips.

7…6…5…

Connor brushed a thumb over the back of Oliver’s hand.

4…3…2…

They squeezed each other’s hands.

1!!

A cry went up from inside, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”, along with confetti poppers and noisemakers and the faint sound of Auld Lang Syne playing over the speakers.

“Happy New Year, Connor,” Oliver whispered.

“Happy New Year, Ollie.”

They leaned in then. Lips brushing, hands reaching, tongues tentatively touching.

And Oliver was right. Their first kiss was nothing like anything that had come before.

Connor was definitely letting Michaela live.

#coliversecretsanta #HTGAWM #connor walsh #oliver hampton #coliver #one shot #T #10k #fic #css gift #submission

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rawinter · 7 years ago

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I’m excited today. Francisco Cordoba has announced his new series. Those of us who have read the series are bursting at the seams with glee. Check out The Naked Reviewerson Wed for a review!!

After two and a half years The Horsemen of Golegã was unleashed on the world Sept 1, 2017 with Book 1 in the 8 book series, Bosanquet. What do you do when your BFF’s dream vacation turns out to be your worst nightmare?

After a naïve relationship decision leaves Candice with a handprint on her face and no job, all she wants is to hide in a corner and lick her wounds. But when bestie Fiona comes begging for a last minute travel companion, what else can a true friend do but go along for the ride?

Fast forward to the bustling streets of Golegã during Portugal’s International Horse Fair. Where stunning horses and cocky macho men are every woman’s wet dream. Every woman except for Candice, that is. Horses are her least favorite animal and, right now, men rank a close second.

Determined to steer clear of arrogant males; pursued by a series of psychotic text messages, a crazed cavaleiro, and a vicious black stallion, Candice once again questions her judgment. The only thing keeping her sane is curiosity over the fascinating stranger who seems as drawn to her as she is to him. Tall, ruggedly handsome, and enigmatic, Gaspar Bosanquet is a man like no other.

Will a night in his arms change Candice’s mind about men? Or will one impulsive act become her biggest blunder yet? Only one thing is certain, neither Candice nor Bosanquet will ever be the same again.

Join them on their journey! Welcome to Francisco Cordoba’s debut novella. Available on Amazon

Explicit sex (tasteful), and some swearing.

And now to The First Chapter.

Grab your seat for a wonderful ride.

Chapter 1

“You are so going to pay for this,” Candice said, propped against her friend and using the edge of the curb to scrape fresh, sweetly pungent manure off her discolored sandal. “I already paid for it,” Fiona replied with a smile. Candice’s efforts were futile. The muck was a magnet for the sand and sawdust spread all over the road. Combined, these substances created a stinky, lumpy minefield with each pile issuing a siren-call just for her feet. Her once pristine footwear was stained beyond repair. She sighed and scraped again. “I cannot believe you lied to me.” “I didn’t—” Fiona’s words disappeared beneath the whoops and clattering hooves of a passing cavalcade. A fresh waft of equine and man sweat assailed Candice, causing her to breathe through her mouth while her friend flared her nostrils and grinned. When the noise had subsided to the general dull roar of the crowd, Fiona tried again. “I didn’t lie. I told you there’d be horses. You should’ve dressed appropriately.” “You told me there’d be a few horses.” Candice swept an arm toward a large open area and the wide track surrounding it, both were surfaced with the sand-sawdust mix. A low wood rail fence separated the open area from the track—the ‘manga’ the locals called it, making Candice view the scene through the lens of Japanese anime—and a similar fence separated the track from the road. Both the manga and the central ring were packed with horses—led, ridden, and driven. The street the girls stood on thronged with people and, inevitably, more horses. “Since when does a cast of thousands count as a few?” “It’s all in the perception. One person’s few is another person’s too many or not enough, just like one woman’s adequate is another woman’s too damn small or holy crap that’s huge. Besides, I had no idea it would be like this.” A broad grin split Fiona’s face. “Isn’t it fabulous?” Candice stopped scraping and started walking, slippery sandals skidding on the damp, uneven sidewalk. She’d only been here a couple of hours and already she was beginning to hate the artistic Portuguese mosaic street pavement. If she escaped this week without a sprained ankle at the very least, it would be a miracle. The squishiness between her toes made her shudder. “No. It is not fabulous,” she snapped over her shoulder. “It’s wet, it’s cold—you said Portugal was a warm country. It’s crowded—you said Golegã was a small town. It’s overrun with horses and cowboys, and horse shit and testicles. And this is different from Calgary, how? Ahhhhh!” Her arms wind-milled as the ground slid away under her feet. She caught a glimpse of gooey sandals against gray sky a second before her ass hit the road. “Crap!” “That hurt.” Fiona squatted beside her, green eyes full of sympathy. “You okay?” “Fine.” Candice sighed. “I always thought dignity was overrated anyway.” She examined her bleeding hand and slimed feet, and repeated her question. “And this is different from Calgary, how?” Fiona shrugged. “But look at it this way, Cans. You needed to get away from your unpleasant boyfriend—” “He’s not my boyfriend!” “—your cougar mother and her cubs—” “Two of them. Two!” “—your gay father and his fiancé—” Candice rolled her eyes. “Don’t need the litany, Fifs.” Fiona rolled on relentlessly. “—your self-centered brothers—” “As long as they’re happy.” Candice mimicked her brothers’ favorite words to her every time she complained about their parents’ split and new alternative lifestyles. “—and the dead-end job you got fired from.” “Behavior unbecoming of an employee.” Candice stretched her face and voice into a caricature of her haughty boss and surrounded her words with air quotes. “And your grief.” Fiona ended her list in a softer tone and paused before revving up again. “Coming with me provided a much-needed change. Think of it as a catalyst to propel your life in a whole new direction. Carpe diem and all that.” “The way I see it,” Candice growled, holding her sore and filthy hand to one side, “I was sitting in shit there, and I’m sitting in shit here.” She wiped the hand on her no-longer-white skirt. “The only difference is at home I spoke the language, and when I ordered a cup of coffee, I got a cup of coffee, not a thimbleful of black tar that would melt the hide off a rhino.” “Don’t be like that.” Fiona hauled her to her feet and started dusting her down, paused, and wiped her hands on the clean sleeve of Candice’s blouse. “Hey!” Fiona shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t want to get my clothes dirty, and this is wrecked already. Look, let’s go back to the hotel and get you cleaned up. Then we can go for dinner at that little café and ogle the eye candy while we eat.” Candice cringed but followed in silence as Fiona wound through crowds of olive-skinned men in tight black pants, short black jackets, and flat-crowned black hats. As far as she could tell, they were the same as the cowboys back home, with possibly better fashion sense. But for all their tight sexy attire, they were still ruled by testosterone, thinking themselves as virile and macho as the stallions they rode. Fiona seemed as much besotted by the men as by the horses she claimed to have come to see. But for Candice, fresh out of a brief and toxic interlude too short to even be termed a relationship, and unhappy with the whole cowboy scene she’d never even pretended to understand, this seven-day trip to Portugal’s National Horse Fair had rapidly assumed the guise of a nightmare. Fiona was footing the bill, but only because she hated to do anything alone. She’d planned the trip with equally-horse-crazy-man-crazy-Sarah, and Candice had looked forward to a solitary seven days secure behind the locked door of their apartment, licking her wounds and reading through the contents of box Hist. 2 from Ted’s collection. But Sarah had backed out at the last minute, and Fiona had come begging. Unable to leave her best friend in the lurch, Candice-the-mug-of-a-roommate and Candice-the-fired-without-a-reference and Candice-the-girl-with-the-most-fucked-up-family-in-the-world had smilingly agreed that a girl’s-only holiday in sunny Portugal would be just the thing. She’d closed the flaps on Hist. 2, packed Napoleon’s Wars: An International History into her travel bag and, ignoring her discomfort at having someone else pay for what she couldn’t afford, headed to the airport. There would be a few horses in Golegã. Fiona had been up front about that. It was a horse fair after all. For her friend, Candice reckoned a few—a few—horses could be coped with. But holy hell, this was never a few, and if this god-forsaken town had seen sun in the last month, she’d be amazed to hear it. Ahead of her, Fiona skirted a large pile of fresh droppings with a supple sway of her hips and barely a glance. Candice, envious of her friend’s grace, tried to do the same and promptly stepped on a turd ball. Her foot skidded, but a lucky grab at the nearby fence kept her upright. Muttering curses, she scraped her sandal on the lowest bar of the barrier and grimaced at the drab green stain on her ankle. “You coming, Cans?” Fiona called through the crowd. “In a minute.” After one final, pointless wipe, Candice moved to catch up. A large gray horse overtook her, clopping through a puddle, splashing her legs with malodorous water droplets. A brown one passed in the opposite direction, splattering her with yet more wet filth. The gray sky singled her out for the heaviest of the drizzle. Candice sighed. Fiona looked her up and down. “You’re a mess.” Without a word, Candice stomped past her into the heaving sea of masculinity. And then there were the men. Yes, the clothes were a definite plus, but the men inside the clothes? The muscles and other man bits were clearly in all the right places, but the hormones dripped right along with the sweat. So much sweat, human and equine, plastered all over them, wafting about them, worn like some super-macho membership badge. And the shit. So much shit; although, in fairness, she couldn’t blame the men for that directly.” “Candice, watch—” This time there was no fence to grab. “Ahh-ahhhhh! Ouch!” And the landing hurt. “—out.” Fiona gazed down at her, clearly fighting to keep a straight face. “Again? Really?” “Fuck off,” Candice snarled. “Don’t you think you’re pushing credulity just a bit?” Fiona abandoned any attempt to control her expression. “And right outside the hotel? I thought you didn’t like drawing attention to yourself?” “I may assist you, senhorita?” A deep, accented male voice blended with Fiona’s final words. “Oh. Fuck. Right. Off,” Candice said, loud and clear.

Book 2, The Great Gaspar Sept 15. Book 3, Loving North Sept 29 Book 4, Seeking Home coming in October. Can’t wait! Book 5, A Dama and Book 6 Keeper’s Wife coming in November Book 7, The Lone Horseman and Book 8, Candice will be out in December. If Life happens, they’ll be out in early 2018.

Visit Francisco Cordoba on Facebook today then head over and grab a copy of his wonderful books.

Don’t forget to check out The Naked Reviewers for her review and add yours!

Romance Author Showcase- Francisco Cordoba. The First Chapter I'm excited today. Francisco Cordoba has announced his new series. Those of us who have read the series are bursting at the seams with glee.

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rachel-langella-author · 2 years ago

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Black Christmas

Tonight's holiday horror pick is Black Christmas (1974), which is notable for being one of the earliest slasher films. Like When a Stranger Calls (1979), it was inspired by the "the call is coming from inside the house!" urban legend, but with sorority sisters rather than a babysitter.

SPOILERS below!

Low budget, early 1970s film quality--check! We open to a cheerful holiday scene outside what I presume is the sorority house, all decked out in lights and decorations. Cue the creepy mouth-breathing and slight camera wobble to signal we're in the killer's POV. Fortunately, that's just an establishing technique, and it doesn't last long. We switch to a steady camera while the creepy dude's shadow falls across the window of the sorority house. Mouth breathing intensifies.

Margo Kidder! What's Lois Lane doing smoking cigarettes and using foul language??

Return to Creeper Cam as he climbs the trellis to gain access to the house.

Olivia Hussey! What's Juliet doing at a college party with alcohol and boys?

Creeper Cam: He's in the attic. Why do they have a rocking horse in the attic of a sorority house?

Oh, god, the burnt orange carpet. The orange/brown/cream flower patterned drapes. I'm having Seventies flashbacks. If I see an avocado green or mustard yellow appliance, someone will need to send help.

Fake out with the first phone call--it's Barb's mom, with whom Barb obviously has a rocky relationship. (Calling her mom a "gold-plated whore" to her face was my first clue.) The second call, though, is Creeper Dude, and he's called before. The girls refer to him as "The Moaner." If he's called before and he obviously knows where the sorority house is, I think we can assume he's stalked them. So tonight is his escalation from gross creeping to murder. Yay.

The call consists of disturbing noises that escalate to very gross, very crude, and very misogynistic rambling. The young women crowd around the phone and listen with visible fear and concern while "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" plays in the background until Barb grabs the phone from Jess and delivers some stinging zingers. Creeper Dude dials his misogyny up to 11 and ends with "I'm going to kill you" before hanging up.

Claire mentions a "townie" girl who was sexually assaulted recently, and Barb replies in a way that lets us know she's a) a snob and b) carrying around some internalized misogyny of her own.

The house mother arrives, wearing a cloche hat and dangling a cigarette in an actual cigarette holder from her lips. Faded 1920s/1930s chic. She's the "recapturing her youth by overseeing the young women" trope in the flesh. She is also, of course, a secret lush who has bottles of booze hidden all over the house.

This script was written by a man, wasn't it.

First victim! It's Claire, who had a brief bit of dialogue with her boyfriend earlier. Not nearly enough to make us invested in her, but hey, someone's got to be brutally murdered first. Creepy Killer is lurking in her closet, and we see her through a sheet of plastic (why is that in the closet? who knows. Deus ex Machina killer cover, I suppose According to wikipedia, it's a plastic dress bag) from his POV.

The yellow flowered wallpaper in Claire's room. I can't.

Claire commits the common error of horror movie victims: moving toward the strange noise while asking, "Who's there? Claude?" I'm not sure if Claude is her boyfriend or the house cat. I'm just saying Creepy Killer better keep his fucking mitts off the cat. Do I care that much about Claire? No. But if the cat dies, I riot.

I low-key want Phyl's shawl.

We can see this movie setting up some of the standard tropes used in later slasher movies. Barb is a brash young woman who smokes and drinks set up in opposition to Jess, who tries to play peacemaker between Barb and Claire. Barb is wearing her shirt unbuttoned low enough that we can tell she's not wearing a bra, while Jess is fully covered in a sweater and wears a cross pendant. Clear good girl/bad girl juxtaposition. I predict Barb is going to be murdered, and Jess is going to be our Final Girl.

Jess's boyfriend, Peter, calls. He's a dick. Jess then goes upstairs and knocks on Claire's door, but, uh... too late.

Creepy Killer has her stashed in the attic, seated by the window in a rocking chair.

Update: Claude is the cat. He's trapped in the attic with Claire.

Plot twist! Jess is pregnant! Peter is overjoyed, but Jess wants an abortion. Peter: "Don't you ever consider anyone but yourself?" Jess, you can do so much better.

Creepy Killer calls the sorority house again, and this time, he does voices and mentions someone named Billy. "Where did you put Agnes, Billy?"

Peter bombs the piano audition/judged recital or whatever the fuck he's been practicing for, and OF COURSE it's all Jess's fault. He destroys the piano, because that's the reasonable and mature response.

John Saxon! I remember seeing him in everything back in the day.

House mother: "I might be gone when you get back because I'm going to my sister's for the holidays." So you're going to be murdered while everyone else is out of the house, and no one will find your body because they'll assume you've left town. Got it.

RIP house mother! She took a hook to the face when she went up to the attic to find Claude.

Peter: "I'm quitting the conservatory, and we're getting married...Let's get one thing straight: you're not getting rid of that baby." A controlling dick. Jess says she doesn't want to marry Peter, and he tells her she'll be sorry. I think we're being set up to suspect him as the killer? But no, I think he's just an abusive control freak.

Creepy Killer put a baby doll in Claire's lap and is rocking the chair. This is some Norman Bates level shit.

Having a plainclothes cop watching the house won't do any good when the killer is inside the house!

RIP Barb, murdered by being stabbed with the horn of one of her own unicorn figurines. Creepy Killer aka Billy rambled about Agnes again, so I think we can safely assume he did something bad to her. Probably his sister? No one knows Barb is dead yet because some kids who sound like the Vienna Boys Choir showed up at the door to sing "Oh Come Let Us Adore Him" and drowned out Barb's death screams.

It's a bit late to be locking all the doors and windows now, Phyl!

Oh shit, RIP Phyl. She went to check on Barb, and the ominous closing of the door behind her signals off-camera murder.

Oh my sweet Baby Jane--the house mother really was trying to cling to her faded glory! There are vinyl records of The McHenry Sisters propped up near Billy while he makes another call using the house mother's phone in her room.

"You left Billy alone with Agnes?" Okay, yeah, Billy killed his sister.

John Saxon's slow dawning horror as he realizes THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE. Also, the plainclothes cop is dead.

Nash, you dumbass, you weren't supposed to tell Jess that.

Jess, what part of "put the phone down and walk out of the house" do you not understand? Barb and Phyl are not going to answer you!

So they take Claire's dad to the hospital, but not Jess who has just killed Peter with a poker because he was being creepy and obsessive at the most wrong time of all and who is pregnant.

...I'm not sure if they've even found Claire and the house mother yet.

NOPE THEY HAVE NOT.

God damn it, this is why 1970s horror movies annoy the fuck out of me! The endings. The police left Jess alone in her bedroom in the house rather than taking her to the hospital while Claire is still visible in the attic window. Sure, there's a cop milling around outside, but the killer is still in there, and as the camera pulls back from the exterior of the house, we hear a phone start to ring.

Final Thoughts: I can see how it provided a foundation for the slasher films that came after it. We never see more of the killer than isolated body parts, and we never learn anything more about him or his motives than what he alludes to re: Agnes during the phone calls, and I'm fine with his motives being vague. I'm not so fine with the implications the movie makes about mental health issues. Clearly this is a guy who should have been in treatment of some kind. But stigmatizing mental health and making Billy a serial killer obsessed with young women is the easy and low effort path to creating a frightening antagonist.

I strongly suspect Barb is bisexual or a lesbian. I'd have to rewatch the movie to construct a supported thesis, which I don't want to do anytime soon, but maybe I'll circle back to that someday.

I really have to wonder if the scriptwriter thought he was being a feminist when he wrote this.

Overall, not bad, especially if you're interested in seeing an early slasher prototype. No jump scares (yay!), no gore, minimal blood. And the blood we do see is that Hammer Horror movie type blood that looks radioactive and is in no way mistakable for real blood. The murders aren't at all graphic; the movie is very careful in what it doesn't show, which lets us fill in the blanks ourselves.

As far as I can tell, Claude the cat survived.

I'm waffling between 3.5 and 4, but it's the holidays, so I'll be generous: 4 out of 5 zombie Santas.

#holiday horror movies #black christmas 1974 #slasher movies #horror movies #holiday horror 2022 #unhappy holidays collection on shudder

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