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amphtaminedreams · 5 years

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We Voted for Murderers

65.2%.

That’s the percentage of people who voted for the Conservative candidate in my constituency, and I feel completely heartbroken. See, things have properly gone to shit.

If we’re talking numbers?

Local councils estimate the number of people sleeping rough on any given night between 2010 and 2018 has risen from 1,768 to 4,677, a 165% increase. The Trussell Trust, the UK’s largest food bank charity, has reported a 5,146% increase in emergency food parcels being distributed since 2008. An 8% cut in spending per school pupil since 2009. Funding from central government to local government cut by 60% in that same period. £37 billion less spent on working-age social security compared to over a decade ago by 2020. A 90% fall in the number of social homes being built since 2010. A £7,300,000 decrease in funding for women’s shelters between 2011 and 2017. Don’t even get me started on the government’s treatment of the NHS.

I’ve heard stories of individuals applying for PIP due to mental illness being berated about suicide attempts and the likelihood of another as part of a “formal interview” process to see whether they qualify. People collapsing in job centre queues, freezing to death on the streets and the elderly in their homes, suicides whilst on never ending mental healthcare waiting lists. In fact, 17,000 sick and/or disabled individuals have died whilst waiting for PIP payments to come through, and in total, UCL researchers have linked 120,000 deaths to austerity (I’m not going to comment on the irony of my former university that’s notoriously lacklustre when it comes to giving a fuck about the wellbeing of its students publishing this unless...I just did?). 8 years of negligent homicide of the most vulnerable people in our society under the Conservative government and we voted them back in.

So I ask, are people really stupid enough to believe that the politicians responsible for this mess are the ones who are going to fix it just because they make a few characteristically empty promises on TV or does the British public at large really give even less of a fuck about other people than I thought? As in actually not give a fuck about people dying?

I have to tell myself it’s the former. The press’ treatment of Jeremy Corbyn and Labour was scathing.

Corbyn, a man who has stood by the same principles of fairness, justice, and equality, for the entirety of his career, was criticised by the likes of The Sun, The Daily Mail, and The Telegraph, for being indecisive and a threat to this country whilst Boris Johnson, a man who can barely string a sentence together when he is asked to give a straight answer to something and blocked the release of a report covering Russian interference in British politics, was held up as the one people should put their faith in.

I know, the press are never going to be completely neutral. But shouldn’t they at least be committed to integrity? And the truth? Isn’t that the WHOLE FUCKING POINT of journalism? I’ve been hearing the phrase “post-truth world” thrown around a lot and it’s probably an indication of my privilege that it was only with this election that I properly understood what that meant; it was found by the NGO First Draft just 2 days before the election, damage way past the point of done, that 88% of the Conservative Party’s Facebook ads (compared to 0% of Labour’s ads) contained misleading information. The repercussions were non-existent. After Boris Johnson’s claim that Jeremy Corbyn wanted to raise corporation and income tax to the highest levels in Europe was publicised, only Channel 4′s Factcheck website published the actual statistics (France, Belgium, Portugal and Greece all have much higher corporation tax rates than Labour’s proposal). Similarly, in many constituencies, the Lib Dems were posting fliers where Labour candidates were, in the previous election, the runner ups to the Conservative candidate, claiming that it was instead THEIR party’s candidate who had the highest chance of unseating the latter. Days before the election, the headline of one of Britain’s most highly circulated papers claimed that a Corbyn government would plunge us into a crisis the likes of which “we haven’t seen the Second World War”, which is kind of wild considering that 130,000 preventable deaths have been linked to austerity under the Conservative government compared to 70,000 civilian deaths in said war. Not that either is good, obviously, and I can’t believe I have to point that out. But then, right-wingers did paint Jeremy Corbyn as a monster for passing up watching the Queen’s Christmas Day speech to volunteer at a homeless shelter, so I thought I’d just cover my back, y’know.

Shouldn’t there be standards that the media is held to? You know, like not making slanderous statements about some politicians that have no actual basis in fact whilst brushing over the statements of others. Whilst the PM’s father Stanley Johnson was on nation television calling the public illiterate, and Jacob Rees-Mogg was blaming the Grenfell victims deaths on their “lack of common sense”, and Michael Gove was stating that people who needed to use food banks had brought it on themselves because they were not “best able to manage their finances”, it was Jeremy Corbyn who was being called an enemy of the people, accused of trying to plunge us into a “Marxist hell”...I mean, if Denmark and Norway and Finland with some of the highest living standards in the world are “Marxist hell”s then sure, that’s what he’s doing. But that’s a hell I’m sure a lot of people would find much comfier than a freezing cold pavement. Before Labour had even released their (fully-costed!) manifesto, barefaced lies were being published about how much it would cost and how it would plunge us into trillions of pounds worth of debt, as if it hasn’t increased from £1 trillion to £1.8 trillion in the years since David Cameron took office. Meanwhile, when Labour did publish their manifesto and the Financial Times published a letter signed by 163 prominent economists and academics backing their spending plans? Crickets. Nothing sums it up better than the debate around Jeremy Corbyn’s alleged anti-semitism, discussed ad-nauseam whilst Boris Johnson’s actual racism, islamophobia, misogyny and classism, RIGHT OUT OF THE HORSE’S MOUTH, was completely ignored by most news outlets.

You know what, maybe people earning £85k just DON’T want to pay an extra £3 in tax a week to make sure children get an education. Maybe everybody IS just as selfish as that one twat on Question Time who got all red in the face over the prospect of having to give up an amount less than the cost of a tub of Ben and Jerrys a week. But if that’s true, this isn’t a country I want to live in at all, or a planet I want to live on, really. I hope it’s not. I hope it’s a case of a need for some kind of collective realisation that the Sun ain’t shit. Merseyside did it. The younger generation are catching on. And look at the results there.

Labour probably couldn’t fulfil ALL of their promises. No political party is perfect. I was told again and again how unrealistic those promises were as if that was enough to make me go ”oh...I guess I’ll vote for 4 more years of people dying in the streets instead”. Yes, in an ideal world, the entire manifesto would be made a reality, but it depended on far too many rich people being good and honest. Let’s be real-the elite will always find a way to avoid paying their fare share on the premise that they “earned it”, as if anybody earns billions by sheer hard work alone and past a certain point, not off other people’s backs. As if there aren’t nurses and teachers and firemen and other public sector workers who don’t put in just as much energy and as many hours and emotional labour as CEOs and business owners and investors. But the point is that Labour under Jeremy Corbyn acknowledged this, and their manifesto aimed to give the power back to the average person, from the vulnerable to the supposedly middle class still struggling to make ends meet, and give them the quality of life they deserve. It was built on the simple premise that the people should use their government, not the other way round, and that everybody deserves the basic human rights of shelter, nutrition, safety and dignity, regardless of their fortune in life. However many of Labour’s policies would actually have been fulfilled, it would’ve been a shift in the right direction.

Now the election’s been and gone and I’m scared. Already, the narrative is being rewritten by the billionaires in control of this country that a manifesto like the one we saw this year will never sit right with this country, when it is what so many desperately need. The people putting this information out there know the truth: that Labour’s membership trebled in size under Corbyn (more people voted for him than for any Labour leader since Tony Blair), that most of the safe labour seats were lost because of Brexit, and that if the manifesto had been represented accurately, there’s a good chance that Boris Johnson would no longer be our Prime Minister. I’m scared a person like Jeremy Corbyn will never front Labour again.

Because I do not want a tory painted red who’s friends with Jacob Rees-Mogg behind the scenes, I do not want a war criminal who thinks that bombing innocent people is ever acceptable, I do not want a person who doesn’t see people of colour as part of the working class and indulges in the occasional bit of TERF-ism.

Already, the Conservative party are backpedaling on the few promises they made to increase NHS spending, and I am scared. I am scared for myself, in the event that I need urgent mental health care again, and I am scared for those less privileged than me who don’t have a family to support them, who don't have a roof over their head, who weren’t fortunate enough to be born in a country with relative economic and political stability, who cannot physically go out and work to earn a living. I am worried about the bigots that this election has already emboldened, the Katie Hopkins and the Tommy Robinsons of the world, who think the things that blind luck have graced them with they somehow earned, who pride themselves on ignorance and cruelty and selfishness.

So for now, what can we do?

Join trade unions. Organise. Write to your MPs. Bring attention to those who are vulnerable. Be vocal with your criticism of the establishment. Call out those in politics for an ego-trip hiding behind “personality”. Do your research. Keep an eye on the numbers. The “it doesn’t matter who you vote for, just vote” sentiment is old, because it does. No “as a feminist, I exercise my right to vote for whoever I want”, because as a feminist, you should care about ALL women, not just the white, middle class, able-bodied ones.

And if anyone has any more suggestions, let me know. Because I am sick and tired of living under a government who doesn’t give a fuck about the people it’s supposed to protect.

Lauren x

[DISCLAIMER: The photo is not mine. Just devastated and trying to find the words to express it.]

#socialism #labour #politics #british politics #feminism

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trrriple-rrr · 5 years

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Greg Lestrade/Reader - Werewolf!AU - NC-17

When 3333 words turn into nearly 5000... the wonderful and generous @atoffandhisbobby won the story I offered for the @rupertgravesbirthdayproject 2019 and gave me this prompt which I have secretly wanted to write for ages. Thank you again for your generous bid for the story and your donation to the Trussell Trust! (This story is posted here with the winner’s permission.)

Warnings: mentions of blood and bodies

***

You will never get used to this. The weird feeling as if, just for a few seconds, your world is turned upside down and you feel incredibly queasy. It’s the feeling that you get every time your phone is ringing in the middle of the night, waking you up in seconds, with the growing knowledge that something horrible has happened. Again.

It has happened more and more lately. You know it comes with the job – the late night calls, the horrible news and sights – but you didn’t expect it to feel quite like this.

You sit up, swing your legs out of bed. Adrenaline is already pumping through your veins, making you feel instantly awake and a little bit lightheaded.

You answer the phone and start to get dressed immediately.

It has happened again. New bodies have been found. In the very early morning hours. Just dead for a few hours at most. The scene would be horrible, as bad - if not worse, than the other ones. You could hear the tremble in the voice of the operator calling you. They all feared the next call, the next murder.

You brush your teeth hastily and splash some water into your face. That’ll have to do. The sun is slowly starting to rise, tinting the sky in a beautiful blueish-grey. You almost wish it was still the middle of the night, the sights of these murder scenes just do not seem to fit to an early summer morning.

When you arrive at the scene you can see the blue lights of the police cars flashing before you can see any person. The sight of the ambulance makes your stomach clench. They will leave soon. There is just nothing they can do here.

They are waiting for you already. Holding up the tape securing the scene. You duck and nod to the young DC. He’s looking pale but he’s trying his best to keep it together. You push your shoulders back and swallow hard. If this young guy can do this – you can too.

“He’s here already.” The DC nods over to where the bodies are lying, not yet covered by the gleaming white sheets.

He. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Thank you.” You give a terse nod and smile (that probably looks more like a grimace) to the young DC before walking to the figure kneeling next to one of the bodies.

“Lestrade.” You call out, focusing on him rather than the sight before you. It’s easier for the moment.

The man before you gets up in one smooth motion. You haven’t worked with him before but you knew they’d call him to work the case soon. You have heard the rumours about him, of course. Everyone in Scotland Yard has.

DI Lestrade was known for taking the most difficult and grisly murders. And he was known for solving them. He was working harder than ever and he was successful. Which came as quite a surprise to some people since they expected Lestrade to fail, now that his friend and “Consulting Detective” Sherlock Holmes was dead. But Lestrade did not fail. He threw himself into his work, not taking any time off till the DCI forced him to.

But after his return from his holiday things just seemed to get worse. Lestrade came back looking tense, almost haunted. He wore his hair shaved close to his head now. It suited him. A lot. But it also made him look…harder. You know people are saying that his grieving for Holmes was slowly driving Lestrade round the bend but you aren’t one of them.

The man standing before you is hurting. You can see it in his eyes. But he is also determined and he is really pissed off about what had happened here. It still touched him. And you knew that he’d not give up till he’s found the ones responsible for this: the pain, the blood, the grief someone was suffering because of this.

“Two people. Again. Male and female.” Lestrade says instead of a greeting. He also doesn’t hold out his hand. He’s wearing gloves and the golden early morning sunshine gives his eyes a yellowish gleam.

You swallow hard and let your gaze wander over the scene. You can think about Lestrade later. Now you’ve got work to do…

“You should get some sleep.” His rough voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You cross your arms in front of your chest before you slowly turn around. It has been almost 24 hours since the newest murder. The light of the moon shining through your office window was almost enough to light up the room. The full moon was close. Your eyes had been hurting so you’d just turned off the lamp on your desk for a while, watching the dark river through your window instead. Your thoughts were flowing slower than its black waters right now.

“I can’t sleep.” You say quietly. It seems very intimate to admit that to him. The silver moonlight paints shadows across his face and the pictures taped to your walls. The blood on them looks as black the Thames’ waters.

He just nods and scratches his face. The rasping sound that’s making tells you he needs a shave. You are smart enough not to tell him to get some sleep himself. His gaze is wandering restlessly over to the windows. You just watch him leaning against your doorframe, his muscles bulging under his shirt as he copies your stance and crosses his arms as well.

“Are you hungry?” The sound in his voice is gruff but you know that he does not want to be alone right now. You feel yourself nodding before you can figure out when you had your last meal. You don’t want to be alone right now either.

“Come on then.” He says and walks away and you follow him quickly.

He takes long strides walking down the corridors. You almost stumble into him when he stops in front of his office and holds the door open for you. You expected to get some food in the cafeteria.

His office almost looks like yours. The same pictures on the walls, the same desk, the same lamp. He turns on the light. He had closed the heavy drapes in front of the windows. It makes his room look like a cave.

“Here. I got some sandwiches. I hope you eat meat?” He says and lets himself fall into his chair. You just nod and try not to look at the pictures behind you.

“Thanks.” You say when he gives you one half of his sandwich that he takes out of a Tupperware container in his drawer. “This is really good.” You smile and take a large bite of his cold steak sandwich.

“Thanks. I did not make it.” He says with a grin. “But I guess that’s not surprising.” He says and takes a large bite himself, wolfing down his sandwich in three bites.

“Hm. Maybe.” You just grin back and wonder when the last time he had eaten was.

“A friend of mine made it. She…is very concerned about me. Wants to make sure I eat…right. And keep healthy. She’s a doctor.” He shrugs and grins again. You like seeing it. You can tell that he’s thankful for his friend.

“Then tell her that this is great.” You smile and finish your sandwich.

“You can tell her yourself. You’ll see her tomorrow. She’s the forensic doctor.” He says and his eyes get that yellowish gleam again as he watches you.

“Oh.” You say and just hold his gaze. You won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing shocked. “I will tell her that then.” Tomorrow. Today. You’d get the forensic report and the obvious result that these new murders were the work of the people you were looking for four month already.

“Eight dead.” Lestrade seems to read your mind and you nod. “Yes. But they are not acting any quicker. About every four weeks there is a new murder. Makes me think they are acting after some personal calendar.”

He just looks at you and nods slowly. It takes a while till he speaks again and when he does he talks about the places the bodies have been found. You just know that he has figured something out…and that he’s keeping it from you…

The forensic report tells you exactly what you expected. Ripped limbs, bite marks, cuts and scrapes…methodical killings. The victims suffered a lot.

Your stomach turns and you leave the morgue to get some fresh air. You know Lestrade is throwing you a look but he doesn’t follow you. He stays behind with the pathologist who had greeted your colleague with a quick smile and a lot of concerned looks. She really is worried about him.

You lean against the cool façade of the building and tilt your head up into the warm sunshine. You wonder what is keeping him so long.

When Lestrade finally leaves the building too he doesn’t offer an explanation. Probably thinks he did you a favour – giving you some time to get your stomach and emotions under control again.

“Let’s get some coffee.” He says, sounding almost friendly this time. There is a new Tupperware container in his hand.

“Yeah. Let’s.” You murmur and walk beside him. He seemed to know where he was going, tilting his head upwards, slowly moving it from side to side before choosing the direction. Soon you are standing in front of a small café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee making your mouth water immediately.

He just grins when he looks at you and goes inside to order your coffee. You sit down at one of the small tables.

You push your shirt sleeves up and watch him carry out two large mugs of coffee. You can see people around you turn to watch him when he walks past and you definitely understand why.

His short grey hair shines silver in the sunshine. His skin is tanned and his dark eyes seem larger without the hair falling into his face. The stubble on his cheeks only adds to his attractiveness. His shirt is a tight fit and stretches over his arms when he pushes your coffee into your hands.

You are both quiet for a while, following your own thoughts.

“We need to catch them.” You suddenly burst out. He doesn’t seem surprised. He just nods. “We will.” He says with a confidence that you are not feeling. But the tone in his voice and the way he clenches his jaw and fingers shows you just how determined he is.

“We don’t know anything about them though…” You sigh and watch his fingers play with the hem of his sleeve.

“We know more than they think.” He says with a sudden grin. It’s very distracting to see his face light up like this. But it’s not so distracting that you don’t see a part of a large scar on his forearm as his sleeve is pushed back from his wrist a little bit.

You immediately open your mouth to ask what happened when you catch his eye. There is a warning in his gaze.

“Don’t.” His voice sounds like a low growl and you don’t manage to ask the question. Instead you focus on your coffee again.

“These will be the last victims.” He says suddenly, his voice sounding normal again. His leg is twitching restlessly under the table…

The next day you don’t see Lestrade at all. His DS tells you that he is away, working on a lead. She is meeting your gaze but something doesn’t feel right to you. But Donovan isn’t saying anything else and sits down to work on a file that you saw lying on Lestrade’s desk before.

You also don’t see him the day after that but only get the same answer when you ask about him. You were supposed to work the case together now after all. And he just disappeared.

So you work through the night, letting the light of the full moon streaming through your office window, hoping its silver shadows would give you a new hint, something you have not notice before…

“Sir! You’re back!” Donovan’s voice echoes down the hall. She sounds half relieved and half worried. You jump up immediately but you only see Lestrade’s back as he walks towards his office. You just want to talk to him but Sally Donovan steps forward before you can do it. Her hand hovers over Lestrade’s hunched shoulder protectively (but not daring to touch him) as she quickly stirs him into his office and closes the door firmly behind the two of them.

You curse and go back to work hoping to get a chance to talk to him later. You have a lot of questions…

When you finally see him again you suddenly understand DS Donovan’s look the other day. Lestrade looks tired and a bit grey. He is slowly nursing a coffee. There are many things you want to ask and say to him but what comes out is a harsh “Where were you?”

He lifts his gaze to look at you. His face lights up a little bit again and you feel your heart beats faster. “Working on another case…” He says as if he rehearsed it.

“You look like you ate something wrong.” You reply and wish you could just stop saying the first thing that comes to your mind.

“Ha! No. I didn’t. I can safely say….I did not do that.” He says and sounds almost proud. “I would have told you. But it all happened quite quickly. Now I’m back. I’ll tell you where I stand with our case.”

You sigh. You wish you could be angry but you hadn’t found out anything new. You sit down across from him at his desk and he opens his files.

“How did you…?” You gasp, reading the notes upside down. There are new leads and results, some names crossed off and some circled twice. You reach out to grab the file. In your eagerness your hand brushes against his. You feel his soft skin against yours, a jolt runs up your arm and you meet his startled gaze.

He hisses and pulls away his hand quickly, rubbing his knuckles.

“Sorry.” You stutter and pull your hand back into your lap. Your skin is still prickling were it touched his.

“Don’t worry.” He says quickly and turns the file around so you can see. Your eyes scan the page, the words luckily chasing away the weird moment from before out of your mind…

One week passes, then two and three. You’re getting closer to figuring this case out. You can feel it. You can also see it in Lestrade. He is looking better again. Healthier. Full of energy and strength. His hair is freshly shaved to its new short length, he’s like a bloodhound or a bulldog chasing these murderers. You know he could probably solve this case alone but after his disappearing act he makes sure to work together with you.

You spend more time with him than at home. And you don’t mind at all. He shares his sandwiches with you. Always finds the best coffee places. He grows a bit more careless and doesn’t hiss when your fingers happen to touch or covers the hint of his scar on his forearm anymore when you notice it again.

You like it most when he sits next to you while you are working and you can breathe in his scent. It does something to you, stirs a almost primal longing deep inside of you. You think about him when you are with him at work, and you definitely think about him when you are alone at home, lying awake in your bed, unable to get some sleep…

“Fuck!”

You will never get used to this! Even though you are awake this time. The sound of your phone ringing in the middle of the night makes your stomach flip again.

“Yes?”

“I need help! I need you!” Your heart starts to race when you hear that voice. It’s his voice. Lestrade.

You shout his name when the line goes dead, your fingers already flying over the phone to find out from where he was calling. You throw on the next best clothes and head out. The lights and sound of the siren is grating on your nerves.

It has been four weeks since the last murders! Lestrade! His name is the only clear thought you can grasp. You want to scream but you have to stay calm to be able to help him.

An address pops up on your phone and you pull the steering wheel of your car around immediately.

“He’ll be fine! He’ll be fine!” He had to be fine!

The city lights are disappearing around you but you don’t even notice it. You have to help him!

As soon as you reach the address you jump out of your car. You can feel your heart beat in your throat but your hands are steady as you reach for your weapon. It is quiet. And dark. The only light is coming from the full moon bathing the old building in front of you in its silvery light.

“Thank God for that.” You murmur and hope that back-up was close behind you. You should wait but there was no time.

You want to shout his name but just manage not to do that. You push open the door. Stairs are leading down. It is cold inside the thick walls of what you think is an old bunker. You switch on your flashlight, taking one step at a time.

Please, be alright.

There are scuffling noises from your left and you quickly walk over there. You feel like weeping when you see Lestrade, he’s hurt, bleeding from cuts and scrapes. But he’s sitting up. Leaning against the opposite wall.

In front of him are lying two people. They are bound and unconscious. You can worry about them later.

“Lestrade! Thank God!” You stumble into the room and over to him. You smile and reach out to touch his face. But then he lifts his gaze, his eyes are burning bright yellow. He hugs his body, presses himself against the wall even more. He hisses and throws his head back.

You gasp. His body! You see the large scar on his arm for the first time. Its raised skin is flaming red, hair’s growing around it quickly.

“Greg!” You whisper, unable to move.

He manages to look at you again. His eyes gleaming and his voice a low growl. He kicks his phone over to you.

“Call Mycroft!”

“Here. You should drink this. It’ll help.” The beautiful woman across from you smiles and pushes a cup of tea closer to you.

You don’t know what happened really. It all went down so quickly. Suddenly there had been helicopters and people in suits. Taking away the bound people, writhing in pain, growling, hair spurting out all over their bodies.

But you couldn’t care less about them.

The people in suits also took away him.

“Lestr…Greg? Where is he?” You manage to ask before you sip the tea. It’s scalding hot but it does make you feel a bit better.

“He’s here. Don’t worry about him. You’ll be able to see him in the morning.” The woman smiles and pushes some biscuits over to you as well.

“The morning? Why?” You suddenly feel very calm but your thoughts were running slow like syrup.

“That’s not my story to tell.” The woman smiles again and easily catches you when you start to fall off the chair from whatever it was she just drugged you with.

“You!” The woman is the first thing you see when you wake up. Sunlight is shining through the windows into the room.

“How are you feeling?” She asks and does not seem to be bothered by the curses you throw at her. It takes a while till you realise that you are still dressed and in a beautiful bedroom.

“I’m fine.” You murmur, surprised that it is the truth.

“Good. He’s asking for you.” She smiles again and obviously tries not to laugh when you stumble to your feet instantly. “I’ll lead you to him.”

She types out a quick message on your phone and just starts walking. You hurry to follow her. Down one flight of stairs and another. And another one. She’s leading you down into a cellar and just when you start to think you shouldn’t trust her she turns a corner and Lestrade is standing there. Right in front of you. Alive.

Looking pale and tired again.

“Greg!” You are so happy to see him you push the woman out of the way and hug him.

He hisses again but just wraps his arms around you to pull you closer. You breathe in his scent and feel his strong arms wrap around you.

He’s fine.

He’s really fine.

You’re not even aware of the sound of high heels clicking against concrete as the woman disappears and leaves you two alone down here.

“Your watch...” He hisses again after a moment and pulls away from you. You notice that he’s wearing a T-Shirt and sweatpants. That his eyes are dark brown again and that his scar still looks big and scary but that the hair surrounding it was gone.

“Your watch…” He says again when you don’t move. “It’s silver…Please take it off.” He says and you narrow your eyes but do as he asks you to.

“Thanks. I’ll…I guess I have some explaining to do.” He says.

You just nod and let him lead you behind the huge steal doors. He’s talking but you can’t seem to grasp the words he’s saying.

Wolf…

He tells you about his scar, the full moon. He tells you that werewolves are real and that he is one of them. He tells you about the murders and the men he found. They are wolfs too. Vicious and dangerous. Out to hunt, letting the beast inside of them take over right before its time during the full moon.

You have seen what a wolf can do now.

He shows you the cellar, where he spends his full moon nights since his turn about a year ago. He tells you about his friends helping him. Making sure he’s okay and healthy. Not a threat to himself or society. He tells you that he’s a better copper since his turn…

…and then he looks at you and asks you if you are afraid of him.

And you just shake your head and step closer. Breathe in his scent again and let your fingers slide along his jaw. “No, I’m not afraid of you.” You whisper and he leans into the touch. Seeks it out. Closes his eyes.

You have seen what a wolf can do. What two wolves can do. But you’ve also seen what a wolf with a good heart can do… this full moon no one has died by the hands of the murderers.

His stubble makes your fingertips prickle and you step closer still. You wrap your arm around his shoulder and he smiles at you.

You hold his gaze and kiss him. And suddenly it all makes sense. Your lips brush against his and he moans quietly. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you flush against him. You can feel his muscles through his shirt and let your fingertips run along his arms. You can feel him getting goose bumps and groan into the kiss.

His tongue licks along your bottom lip and you open your mouth for him immediately. You are not scared of him but you were scared for him. And now he’s okay. And he’s here and he’s kissing you.

Your tongue wraps around his. His taste fills your senses. You groan again and kiss him deeper, harder.

His hands push you against the cool concrete wall of his cellar. His face looks flushed when he pulls back. His lips are glistening. You lean forward to nip on them and he lets out a primal groan. You feel a shiver run down your spine.

He looks strong now. Not pale and sickly anymore. You suck on his lip and he presses himself against you fully. You tease him. Kiss along his jaw and neck. He growls again when you suck on his skin. His pulse is racing underneath your lips. You taste his sweat on your tongue.

Your lust is pooling low in your stomach. You can feel that he’s aroused. His hard cock pushing against his hip. His fingers are running through your hair, pulling you closer to his neck, urging you to suck harder before pulling you away.

He’s breathing hard. There is a flash of yellow in his eyes and you know the wolf is still close to the surface. “I…”

“I know…” You gasp and let your eyes slip close when his fingertips slide under your shirt. “I want you …”

He groans and almost rips off your shirt as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. His skin is hot and your body reacts to his touch instantly. Your nipples grow hard when he teases them, squeezes them. He kisses you again. Breathlessly. Hard. You just press back against him. Into his touch.

There is no question in your mind right now. Just lust and longing.

You roll your hips forward and he stares at you. “I want you…” You say again and he licks his lips.

His fingers slide down to your trousers and he rips them open quickly. Your fingers are fumbling with his sweatpants before you can push them down. His hard cock springs into your hands. You moan and squeeze it. His hips thrust forward.

“I’ve never…not since…” He groans and grabs your thighs. You somehow manage to get out of your trousers and kiss him again, pushing your tongue into his mouth. Making him growl again.

“Okay. It’s…please.” You gasp and guide his hand to your wetness. Your knees start to tremble when he lets his fingertips slide through your wet folds. His closes his eyes again, leans forward, teases your clit with the tip of his thumb.

“Greg!” His name echoes through the cellar. He groans and quickly grabs your thighs. You wrap them around his hips and he pushes you against the wall. Your arms wrap around his shoulders. Clinging to him.

“Please… Yes!” You moan. You can feel his hard cock against your vagina. So close! So fucking close. And not close enough!

He takes himself in hand and guides his cock to your opening. Your body takes him in, in one smooth, hot, wet motion.

He moans your name, presses his forehead against yours. You clench around him. He fills you completely. “Feels so good.” You moan and he starts to thrust. He looks at you and you can see the wolf inside of him take over.

His hips snap forward. He’s holding you up himself now as you are quickly losing yourself in pleasure. You can feel him deep inside. Every thrust. Hard and fast. So perfect.

You try to move with him but he just presses you against the wall. He growls your name and rolls his hips. You can’t think clearly anymore. Your moans are mixing with his growls. The sound of his skin slapping against yours. He’s sweating, kisses you again. He rolls his hips and suddenly he’s hitting the spot. You gasp and just let the amazing feelings take over.

His cock. His tongue. His voice. His skin.

He thrusts even harder and faster. Grabs your hips. He’ll leave a mark and you want him too. You blindly reach for his arm, pull it to your lips.

You close your mouth on the skin next to his scar. His rhythm falters but then you start to suck and he only fucks you harder. You leave your mark on him now and he knows it.

The thought makes you tremble. It’s a heady feeling. Sweat is running down your back, his chest brushes against your hard nipples. His thick cock stretches your inner walls…you lose yourself, you’re falling into pure bliss!

And then you’re coming… Loudly. Quickly. Lust is thundering through you, burning along your nerve endings, making your inner walls clench, hold him even tighter.

He pushes forward and finally lets go. He comes, pushing deep, spilling his come inside of you. Trembling in your arms.

You’re both soaring high and it takes a while till you can think and feel clearly again. Your heart is still racing when he gently kisses your temple. You close your eyes and just lean your head against his chest. You kiss the hint of chest hair visible at his collar.

He smiles and caresses your hair.

“Don’t think I won’t be yelling at you later for going after the suspects on your own…” You murmur and smile when you feel his chuckle rumbling deep in his chest…

#rupert graves birthday project #rupert graves #greg lestrade #lestrade #reader insert #werewolf!au #fantasy #fiction #nc17 #rupert

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duckbunny · 7 years

Text

FIVE TIMES DASHCON DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY (AND ONE TIME HE DID)

So, due to the Fight Back Fic Auction @fightbackfic and a generous donation to the Trussell Trust (feed the hungry), this happened. It’s Dashcon/Fyre Festival slash. You’re welcome.

You can read it on AO3 if you’d rather.

Persons of a nervous disposition may be reassured that there are no ball pits in the following narrative.

It was three pm on an overheated Tuesday, and Dash just wanted a frappucino. He'd barely made it out of bed this morning, had spent an hour dicking about on his phone without reaching the end of Tumblr or sitting up, and he just wanted a coffee milkshake with a lot of ice and syrup in it, but the barista at the fancy coffee shop was looking at him like he'd asked for a bowl of slugs.

“We don't sell those,” she said, the implied sweetie, this should be obvious ringing clear. “If you're looking for something cold, I can recommend the affogato.”

Dash was already kicking himself. He shouldn't have come in here. He should have known from the atmosphere that it wasn't for him – from the artfully worn wooden tables and the way the menu said 4.5 where any normal place would have put $4.50. “What – what is that?”

“It's vanilla ice cream topped with a shot of espresso.” The barista was still smiling at him, like a particularly unimpressed dragon might smile. He didn't like espresso.

“Um, I'll have, uh, could I just get a latte, please? With two shots of caramel syrup?”

Her smile didn't waver. “I'm afraid we don't stock syrup.”

“Oh. Then just the latte?”

“Coming right up.”

Dash fumbled in his back pocket for the right change. The right change made things go faster and then he could sit down and wait for his face to stop burning. He had a five crumpled up from sitting on it and he tried to smooth it out unobtrusively before the barista came back and he had to hand her a creased bill and coins warm from his body heat. The latte cost twice as much as he expected. He really should have just gone to Starbucks.

He sat down with his coffee. He stood up again. No syrup, okay, but he couldn't drink it plain. There had to be sugar in here somewhere, right? They couldn't only cater to people who liked it bitter? No coffee shop was that purist, right?

There was sugar. It was brown and came in rough craggy lumps. Dash had to walk all the way to the end of the counter to fetch it, past the barista who was wiping down the counter with all-recyclable natural brown paper towels. She stared at him.

She wasn't the only one. The guy in the corner was watching him, must have been watching the whole ordeal, with a grin Dash did not want to like, but which brought out dimples and made his eyes crinkle just a little bit. He was perfectly blond and perfectly turned out, his hair tousled in the way that said both I woke up like this and I spent three hours getting the perfect look. Dash never spent three hours getting the perfect look. He rarely spent three minutes. He kept glancing over at the blond guy while he sipped his still-bitter coffee, and the blond guy kept smirking at him, and Dash thought he would quite like to die.

It was one am on a Saturday, and Dash definitely wanted to die. He had a deadline next week, really shouldn't have come out at all, but the club only had one Gay Night a month and he hadn't managed to get out to one yet, so his friends had nagged him into going with them. They'd since vanished, whether with each other or with hookups he wasn't sure, but either way Dash was stuck propping up the wall of this very dark, very loud place and wishing he had someone to split a cab home with.

“Buy you a drink?”

Dash said, “No, thank you,” automatically, before he clocked who was speaking to him.

“Probably for the best, I don't think they do fraps here, either.”

The man from the coffee shop was leaning on the wall beside him, with a tilt in his hips that made it look stylish and his hair slicked back with gel. His shirt was all black mesh and latex panels and Dash shouldn't be trying to see his nipples but he was. The guy grinned at him. “You're cute. You got a name?”

“Dash. Dashel, technically.”

“I'm Fire. With a y.”

“Wow. Your parents were even worse than mine.”

“Hey,” Fyre said reproachfully, “I like my name. Do you dance, Technically Dashel, or should we just get out of here?”

“I – uh – buh - “ Dash said. “Um?”

Fyre patted him on the arm. “Okay. You got your phone on you?”

“Uh-huh?” Dash handed it over in a daze. Fyre typed something in and showed it to him. Phone number.

“This is me,” Fyre said. “I'm going to go dance. Call me, find me, whatever.”

Dash stayed on the wall for a long time watching Fyre's hips shake, and then he drank a glass of ice water and crossed the dance floor.

It was nine am on a Saturday, and Dash had a headache. That was the first thing he noticed, before he opened his eyes, that somehow he'd got the hangover without any of the drinking beforehand. His hair had wrapped around his face in the night and he peeled it away, grimacing. He was lucky it hadn't tried to strangle him.

There was a noise from the other side of the bed.

Dash froze for a moment, his whole mind going blank. It couldn't be the cat. He hadn't had a cat for the last five years.

He flipped over like a well-greased pancake and stared at Fyre, glowing golden in the morning light. He had one arm tucked behind his head, already posing, and Dash could vividly recall what the rest of him looked like, under the artfully draped sheet.

“Morning,” Fyre said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Oh. Oh. You're… not a dream?”

Fyre smiled. It was slow and rather predatory. Dash would fight a tiger to keep that smile turned on him. A really angry tiger. “I'm real. And you're real, and it's far too early to get up on a Saturday.”

“But we're both awake,” Dash said, and immediately felt very stupid.

They fell asleep again afterwards.

It was seven pm on a Thursday and Dash hadn't heard from Fyre all week, except to set up this date – was date the right word? Was he allowed to use that word? He felt like maybe that word was a bit ambitious, given what Fyre looked like, namely a bronzed Greek god with piercing blue eyes and a devastating smile, and what Dash looked like, namely a particularly scruffy Muppet. He could maybe be the awkward librarian that Fyre flirted with on the way to break hearts and save the world, but he clearly couldn't be the boyfriend.

Anyway, Fyre wasn't exactly late, because he'd said they should meet up to get a drink before dinner and their reservation wasn't until half past, and Dash had a feeling that the smooth thing to do would be to go and sit down at the bar like he owned it and order something in a tone of cool confidence, but the only time Dash had been smooth was as a teenager when he'd stolen his sister's razor and his legs had felt very strange for a week. So instead of that, he was sitting on the plinth of a statue, wishing Fyre would turn up and whisk him inside.

He felt even stupider when Fyre did arrive, and swept confidently into the restaurant expecting Dash to be in there already. He had to scurry in after him and tap him on the arm before he noticed Dash and took off his shades. “There you are,” he said, in a voice as warm as his name. “You look like you could use a drink. Long day?”

Dash made his routine work annoyances sound much worse, just to avoid admitting he'd been nervous. He managed to sound like he had an opinion on his cocktail, so that was something, and Fyre didn't seem to realise that he'd spent his whole lunch break frantically Googling cocktails to find one he might actually like. Coffee and vodka had seemed like a safe bet and he'd said “Espresso martini” on the first attempt.

It was a little like being in a cutscene. Fyre would ask him something and Dash would try to sound friendly or interested or interesting, and out of his mouth would pop a random sentence that didn't at all match the option he’d meant to select. Fyre had something very clear and strong-looking, with ice and lemon and some kind of herb all piled into the glass, and he sipped it much slower than Dash drank his and didn't look confused about where to put his hands. Dash hated him suddenly, for his perfect hair and his smile and his manners. He'd probably had lessons in small talk. Dash said “So, what do your parents do?” and that carried them through to the appetisers.

The gentle jazz piano didn't help at all with the unreality. Dash picked at his goat's cheese tart and wondered aloud if it was really supposed to taste that much like goat, and Fyre laughed and told him he was adorable. Dash let him order after that. It seemed easier. Fyre sent his steak back twice, once for being too cooked, once too rare. Dash could hardly fathom spending that much on a meal in the first place, let alone wasting it. He worked dutifully through his unexciting side salad and didn't mention the prices. Fyre had promised he'd pay. Dash hadn't even had to ask. It would be fine.

Fyre leaned over the table while they were waiting for dessert and took Dash's hand. Dash looked up at his smiling face and tried to find his missing vocal chords.

“I've got an idea,” Fyre said conspiratorially, before Dash could cobble something together about how nice the evening had been. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

He flagged down a waitress, still holding Dash's hand on the table top, and looked up at her through his lashes. “Hi. No, no, everything's fine, thank you, everything's been great. It's just – it's our anniversary.”

Dash sat up straight, his mouth falling open, and Fyre squeezed his hand hard. “So I was just wondering – could you ask the pianist to play something for us? Something romantic? Oh, thank you so much, that's very kind of you. Thank you. Oh, we will, and I hope you have a nice evening as well. Thanks.”

He settled back in his chair and winked at Dash, finally letting his hand go. “We won't be paying for that steak, you wait and see.”

“Oh,” Dash said. He looked over at the pianist, who inclined his shaved head very solemnly and started playing something almost parodically sweet. “That's smart, I guess. You could have warned me.”

“You wouldn't have reacted right if I had. That little shy shocked face was perfect, I wouldn't have missed that for the world.”

“Thanks,” Dash said, and tried to see if their desserts were being brought yet.

The bill had twenty percent knocked off, and Fyre didn't tip.

It was midnight on a Wednesday, and Dash was staring at himself in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes weren't softened a bit by Fyre's bathroom, all steel and white tile. His mouth tasted thick and unpleasant. He should have brought a toothbrush with him. He should have gone home for a change of clothes first.

“I'm going to go home,” he said abruptly.

“What? Baby, come on,” Fyre said, lifting his head up in bed. “Don't just cut and run, give a man some romance.”

Dash wasn't an expert, but he thought romance probably had more reciprocation in it, and not taking him places that made him feel stupid, and not laughing at him when he was just trying to explain about amatonormative microaggressions and how Fyre shouldn't assume he was attracted to men just because they were having sex - “No, I'm just going to go,” he said. “I have work tomorrow.”

“I'll get you a cab.”

“You mean you'll order a cab.”

“That's what I said.”

“What am I supposed to wear? You dragged me all the way out here and I don't even have a shirt for work. I'm going home, Fyre.”

Fyre looked him up and down in exactly the way he wished Fyre wouldn't, because it made him shiver and blush. “It's your call, baby.” Fyre said. “You know you're always welcome right here.”

“Yeah,” Dash said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I'm gonna. I think I'm going to head back.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

It was five pm on a Tuesday and Fyre had finally texted him. He'd been ignoring Dash all weekend, or maybe Dash had been ignoring him, refusing to be the first one to break the silence. He wasn't going to be the needy one. He wasn't going to apologise.

Dash looked at the text – Your place or mine? Bring a clean shirt, and spent twenty minutes gnawing on his thumbnail and trying to make up his mind.

Fuck off, he sent back, and went to get himself a caramel frap with extra syrup.

#fight back fic auction #dashfyre #fyre festival #dashcon #anthropomorphic personifications

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spektijim · 7 years

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Hello everybode!

A month ago I ran the Derby 10k for The Trussell Trust, who run food-banks in the UK.

A little more than a month ago I posted a blog about the fact that I would be dressing as a Unicorn to do it.

Well, never let it be said that I let my public down, because that’s exactly what I did, and here is the picture evidence!

1. Ears and Horn

The ears were the first thing I made, using some felt I had acquired during a mad felt-buying spree (fellow craft addicts – you know how these things happen) several years ago.

Nearly finished ears!

Being me, a lot of the felt was pink, and so it was an easy start.

Next was the horn – I decided early on that the basis of this, the most important part of the costume, should be an alice band, as many people on Pinterest had shown the way with their own unicorn horns – onto this would fit a ‘head-dress’ with horn and ears.

I used the time-honoured cereal box and toilet roll tube as a base. There really should be some kind of tribute – a poem or song – to these crafty stalwarts which have saved many a parent (and even more so their children) every end of term, Halloween or birthday party.

These were covered with tissue paper (first white, then pink) and decorated with acrylic paint and plastic gems. The inside was painted purple and eventually it was hot-glued to the alice band – hooray! My horny head-dress was my pride and joy.

Getting shiny…

Grumpy, craggy unicorn.

My pink horn. Ooh err missus!

I was just putting some extra gems on two days before the race when I realised…I nearly forgot to add the ears!

Because I’d started on them so early they had completely passed out of my memory – sadly the full ears were a little too big to work with the head-dress, so I trimmed them in half and glued them on. A sad fate but the result was pretty good, if I do say so myself!

2. T-Shirt

This T-shirt was one I bought last year for a costume, but I ended up using a long-sleeved on instead- it seemed perfect for this task, just needing some careful applique. This was my first time using applique and I have to say I am now hooked. It was much easier than I first thought and produced some great results.

I cut the pieces I wanted out of paper first, then ironed a rectangle of the bondaweb on a piece of material, slightly bigger than I needed, then traced around the original paper and cut out the shape. This worked well because, like interfacing, the bondaweb makes the material slightly stiff and easier to cut through. Then I ironed each piece onto the t-shirt – it looked pretty darn good. Sad to say I think I spoiled the perfection by securing each piece with some stitches, as it cause the fabric to ruck up in places, but I suppose it was worth it knowing they wouldn’t fall off mid race.

The lettering was in the always unpredictable 3D Pearl paints – it work eventually but the mix kept on going wrong and sinking into the fabric, hence why it’s not quite as neat as it could have been! I added extra stars with some acrylic paint and it was all ready for running!

The colours might also give a subtle clue to something. Maybe.

3. Tail

The tail was a relatively easy build – using strips of felt sewn together and then sewn into a tube (and sealed), I more or less cut of random sections of gauze to put in – finished off with a couple of hot-glued gems, of course!

On the day of the run it was attached using that age old tail-attached- safety pins!

At this point in the making I got a chance to visit the local Trussell Trust food bank in Sawley to make a food drop – a wonderful friend of mine very kindly drove me there and took some photos of the nearly-finished cozzy…

My donation to the trust!

Posing with a lovely volunteer at the foodbank!

Posing with Twilight Sparkle!

4. Finished Article

The finishing touch to my look was, of course, makeup.

I have been getting pretty good at day-to-day makeup recently (though I don’t actually wear it day-to-day, more’s the pity) but I thought I should go one better for this unicornage. Of course, sparkly was the order of the day with the majority of the leg-work being done by eyeshadow (isn’t it always?).

I used four different colours, starting with a dark blue in the corner of the eye, working through purple into pink, with silver below the eye, topped off with liquid eyeliner and mascara. So sparkle, much glitter!

5. The Race Itself

The Derby 10k took place on the morning of a lovely sunny day – thankfully it started at 9am so it wasn’t roasting (as it became at midday) but mild. I have to be honest, I wasn’t at my best – my right knee had been giving me some problems after my last 10k practice and I hadn’t run in about a week – that is a sensible part of the ‘tapering’ process common to running but it meant that I’d had no opportunity to test my leg, and was worried it might go wonky at the starting pistol or – even worse – halfway round!

I arrived a little late (thanks to putting on my makeup – damn my vanity!) and had to join a queue of about 10 million to put my bag into safe storage, as I would be starting all on my own.

The moment I dropped it off I had to hot-foot over to the starting line which was already bustling the four top tiers of runners – A-D. I was group B – as I’d waited to put my bag away I’d found myself worrying if I’d been perhaps a bit ambitious – perhaps even hubristic – as I saw much more keen looking runners in groups C and D.

It was barricaded all along the side with such a press of people I had no idea how to get over and into the fray. Eventually I was naughty and hopped over the barricade, there being no wardens around to either advise me or prevent my scandalous behaviour.

Although 10k is enough distance for you to find your pace by about mid-way and join the runners who are your natural speed-mates, it is frustrating to have to start in such a tightly packed knot that you lose valuable seconds at the off.

Still, all this aside, I tried to give it my all – I smiled at the wardens and the cameras, gave high fives to a couple of kids, waved at people pointing to ‘the nice lady dressed as a Unicorn!’ and kept up a decent pace. As I drew in they announced my time but I was wearing headphones (safe ones, I promise!) and missed it – all I knew was they were calling 58 by the time I’d collected my bag and gone to meet my friends.

I had to wait until that evening to discover that I had come in 892nd of 3208 at a time of 49:57 – my goal of being under 50 minutes was reached, if only by a hair!

I sadly don’t have any pictures of me actually running in the 10k (there were some by a professional photographer by I haven’t got the money to buy one right now – maybe another time!) but I do have one right after – as you can see, I was quite tired. Most of my makeup melted.

6. The Aftermath and What’s Next

Thanks to the generous support and donations from friends and family, my running with a pink sparkly horn managed to raise (drum roll please)….

£365!

Not too shabby! Way off my target of £1000, but I knew that goal was over-ambitious anyway. So, what’s next? Well, I plan to continue supporting the Trussell Trust in whatever way I can – I haven’t had a chance to volunteer for them yet but I have got my papers so I will be signing up soon!

If you feel that my banging on about it for ages has made you care about people who need food-banks and more, please do start a monthly donation for the trust or bring stuff for a food parcel – trust me (groan) it’s worth it! Depending on the result on the election on June 8th, we may sadly find ourselves needing them more and more.

On the running side I am planning to do the Wilne 10k in September, a nice break before a new challenge, and am also signed up to my local Park Run at Markeaton parkMarkeaton park – join us there every Saturday at 9am! Although I won’t be dressed as a unicorn there, sadly.

Thanks once again to all my lovely pals who contributed, you are awesome and I love you.

Spekti out!

Flight Of The Unicorn Hello everybode! A month ago I ran the Derby 10k for The Trussell Trust, who run food-banks in the UK.

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