annelistre​:

Turning as Anne calls out to her, Sarah keeps herself from wincing in sympathy of how much pain Anne seems to be in. And all because she couldn’t be a little better at her job. “Of course.” She picks up the brandy and glasses from the desk, bringing them over to the bed, setting them down to free her hands to go digging for the laudanum vial. She kneels down beside where Anne is sitting, pulling the chest from under the bed. “After the night we’ve been having, a bit of brandy is the least we deserve.” She pulls out the vial, holding it up for Anne to take as she returns the chest to it’s place.

Brandy and medicine found, Sarah turns her attention to the corset. Sitting on the bed behind Anne, she hesitates for a moment as she realizes the tightness of the corset might be the only thing holding her together. But still, there is no way to know until they take it off. Slowly, she works the laces undone, watching for any change. (Despite the careful pace, it could be said that Sarah seemed to be suspiciously natural at undoing a corset. If you were the kind of person to notice things like this.) “I know you’d rather be able to do this all yourself,” she murmurs, “but if it’s any consolation, patching each other up is something of a post fight ritual among hunters - when we work in pairs or teams that is.”

“How are you feeling?”

        Indeed, asking for the assistance of those deft fingers - however reluctantly - was a decision well made: despite her muddled state, Anne cannot help but admire a master at work. When has she last found herself undressed quite so knowledgeably? Even the most skilfully trained lady’s maid, she dares venture, would not divest her of so tightly laced a garment with such care and determination. She notes it down as another peculiarity to enquire about. A curious companion she’s made tonight — good lord, the explanations their nocturnal foray shall necessitate once the prying family eyes will set sight on Anne’s roughed-up state, on her equally unpolished visitor, on the trail of dirt and various bodily excretions leading up to her bedroom! She drowns her groan in a deep swig of brandy, adding a few droplets of the opium tincture before she swallows the rest.

         The glass is brought down on the bedside table with a heavy thud. Passing a tremulous hand across her mouth, Anne allows herself the fleeting respite of hanging her head, eyelids drifting shut for a moment. Patching each other up. A post-fight ritual. Hunters, working solitary or operating together. Still, her mind is awhirl with revelations - and something else, too, beside the shock. Pure, blossoming fascination stirs her blood. So much knowledge to be gained - a whole new world to be conquered! So great is Anne’s hunger for the forbidden, so grand her vision for a future dabbling in the widely unknown, that she barely feels the shifting of her knocked-about ribs as Miss Winchester at last frees her entirely of her corset. ( Or perhaps it is simply the laudanum taking effect. )

        With all the grace of a concussed buffalo, Anne turns to face the young hunter perched on the mattress beside her. In lieu of thanks, she catches Miss Winchester’s chin firmly in her grasp, tilting the girl’s face toward the flickering candlelight. She, too, has been thoroughly thrashed, it appears, though expertise and competence seem to have spared her the toughest blows. Up close, with the mirage of confusion slowly ebbing away, Anne realises just how young her life-saver truly is: still dewy-eyed with youth, yet such a world-hardened fighter already! Anne’s lips hint at a smile as she releases Miss Winchester ever so briefly, reaching once more toward the bedside table for a clean piece of cloth. She douses it in alcohol, annoyed at the irregularity of her movements, then raises the cloth to a jagged scratch marring the corner of the girl’s jaw.

         “ Well then. Let me return the favour of patching you up, “ she insists - a command, not a question -, and begins to work tenderly on Miss Winchester’s maltreated skin. Anne’s gaze catches her companion’s lighter one with probing insistence. At last, she regains some semblance of strength. All the better: she shall apply it to the noble purpose of hounding the poor girl for answers. “ So. Hunters. Who are they? WHAT are they? ”  ( How may I join?, is what she doesn’t yet say. )

Sarah had forgotten about the glass of brandy she'd poured herself the moment she'd set it down - there was a corset to remove and ribs to examine and very likely stitches to be sewn. She wanted a better look at the cut under Anne's eye especially, as well as any more she might not have seen yet. She was barely even aware of her own injuries, bruises beginning to bloom from being tossed around on the back of the giant. She was frankly more worried about the blood and muck she was sure they had tracked through the house. What time was it? What time did the servants - because surely with a house this big, Anne had servants - wake up? Would she need to rush and get things cleaned up before the rest of the house was awake to find the mess, and to find the two of them battered and bruised in Anne's room? If she could find a moment, she'd peak out Anne's windows, see if she could possibly make a quick escape from there, should the need be.

So lost in her own thoughts, Sarah had barely noticed how uncharacteristically quiet and cooperative Anne was being while she finished unlacing and removed the corset, save for some quiet groans and the finishing of her drink. Slowly, carefully, she rested a gentle hand against Anne's side, doing her best to get a sense of the damage she'd taken when she'd gotten hit, even still with a few layers of fabric between them. The problem being, she wasn't a doctor. She had no way to gauge just how bad it was, save for her own experiences with a battered rib cage, and anything she could feel and see.

She'd barely gotten a moment to try before Anne was shifting away from her, and any complaints she had about it died in her throat the moment Anne's hand gripped her jaw. Watching her carefully, Sarah let her face be tilted, trying to ignore the way her nerves tingled. (When was the last time someone had touched her that wasn't a fight or a fuck? When was the last time someone had looked her over, the way she was trying to do for Anne?) She hadn't even noticed she scratch on her chin until Anne started dabbing at it, the sting of the alcohol forcing a soft hiss out from between Sarah's teeth.

Of all the battles, Sarah knew this was not one worth fighting. Especially not if it meant she was more likely to be allowed to properly return the favour afterwards. She could submit, for the moment, to letting Anne clean her wounds. This gave her a chance to really look at her new companion for the first time, watching the little shifts in Anne's expression, the strong lines of her face, until Anne caught her staring. She didn't bother looking away, not many other places to go.

Questions, however, were both easier and harder to deal with. the answer seemed so straight forward, and yet even to herself it sounded a little ridiculous - and this had been the state of affairs for most of her life! Still, she couldn't help feeling like she owed Anne the truth, after she'd nearly gotten herself killed trying to help (never mind Sarah had told her to leave, had tried to let her get herself to safety.) "You have to promise not to laugh," she murmured. "We're monster hunters. Like you saw tonight in the woods with the giant, we track down and hunt things most people think are just in fairy tales and scary stories. In a way a lot of us are also researchers, digging through old stories and notes of other hunters to figure out what you actually need to take down a threat."

I think knights devoted to ladies and falling passionately in love with them is fucking sick as hell actually. Just also the knights should also be ladies.

“you’re going to DELETE a post you AGREED with just cuz you found out ops a terf??”

yeah turns out learning that people having uber bigoted ideologies changes the context of the post buddy

I once reblogged a post about how a women’s bathroom was an important place of refuge, and that was why women often go to the bathroom in groups or to cry and why people leave those domestic abuse cards in women’s bathrooms, and how it’s the one place women can be away from men, and I was like “this is a fantastic post, yes” and then I found out the OP was a TERF and that post was suddenly no longer about safety in women’s restrooms. It was actually about wanting to make it impossible for trans women to pee in a public restroom. It was about making trans women seem like they invade a sacred place and make it dangerous. You bet your ass I deleted that reblog.

thanks to my followers who hit me up when/if I need to delete something

&. 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥 / 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  various  dialogue  prompts  for  all  your  medieval  /  fantasy  /  d&d  inspired  threads  and  aus!  )

        The night presses against the window of Sarah’s bedroom, a pitch-black, impenetrable cloak that veils the road back to Shibden. The sight, in all honesty, is not a particularly welcoming one. Especially, acknowledges Anne with a hum at the back of her throat, to a woman who has been poured a few servings of brandy too many by her favourite barmaid.

        Her hand goes to the pocket watch tucked tightly away into her waistcoat. The silver lid snaps open with a sharp click. Twenty to two in the morning: her poor Aunt would be fretting herself silly, were she not to return home tonight. “ Ah, ” she says, stalling a definite answer as she turns away from the darkly gaping window and toward the fine young woman so eager for her to stay. All evening, Sarah seemed rather more attached to her side than under any ordinary circumstance, almost as though beset by some anxiety Anne cannot entirely comprehend. Her fingertips tap away at the silver watch in contemplation. Well! It is hardly the world’s most impossible choice: a cold, damp, solitary march on one side, the company of a fetching girl on the other. Nocturnal company, no less. She’d be a colossal fool.

       Anne smiles. The watch is slipped unceremoniously back into her pocket. “ If you will have me, I’ll be beyond delighted to accept your invitation. Shall I fit into your bed, do you think? ”

To say that Sarah is afraid of the dark would be incorrect, though perhaps not far off the mark. It’s not that she’s afraid, for herself or anyone else, only that her... peculiar upbringing has made her all too aware of the things that can lurk on the roads at night. And how easy of pickings a lone, drunk traveler might be.

It didn’t help that a few of the local creatures had made a habit of coming into the casino, playing the tables and drinking at her bar. She treats them just as well as any other customer, but that doesn’t mean they don’t make her a little nervous. Like tonight, when that siren had set her sights on Anne, and she’d had to put herself between them to scare her off - not that Anne knew that. Sarah was too good at her job for Anne to notice some of their more irregular regulars.

Sarah’s well aware her lodgings are likely nowhere near as comfortable as Anne’s back in Shibden, and she’d understand if Anne would rather make the walk home (though if she had to pick, she’d rather not make the walk both ways - because of course she’d be accompanying her home). For the first time, Sarah is slightly self conscious of her space, seeing it through the other woman’s eyes, and hoping it didn’t come up too inadequate.

“What kind of person would I be if I gave you an offer I didn’t want you to take me up on?” She asked, the little knot in her chest loosening. Now that the issue was settled, all she had to do was figure out a sleeping configuration that wouldn’t give away just how much affection she had for her boss. “You? definitely. The two of us might be a tight fit - I can always take the floor, if you’d rather.”

        In the cosy silence, Anne’s touch draws an invisible route onto the canvas of Miss Winchester’s skin: from the curve of her jaw to the sweet hollow between her clavicles, across one sharply angled shoulder all the way towards her sinewy forearm. She derives a quiet pleasure from her gentle explorations; a glowing satisfaction that thrives on the shivers ghosting through Sarah’s flesh and the keenness of the fine blonde hairs straining against Anne’s fingertips. She caresses the huntress with increasing contentment, lingering every so often to feel the contours of furled-up tissue where countless adventures have left their marks on her companion’s body.

        A scar of particular size and interest gives Anne pause. Her thumb wanders tenderly around its jagged edges; marvelling at the powers of healing that mend even a damage so grizzly as this wound. At last, she detaches her attention from the girl’s bare skin and catches her gaze instead, fondness written into her smile. And curiosity, too — she has never been able to resist an act of benevolent snooping, always plagued by an inquiring mind. “ Would you, ” she asks softly, certain that her wish shall not be denied, “ tell me the story behind this one? ”

In the cozy warmth of the early morning, sun streaming in through the window, Sarah is more than content to stay in bed and relax. She stretches a little, preening under Anne’s touch, watching her lover through half lidded eyes as she takes her time exploring. Every so often Anne’s fingers will ghost over a sensitive spot, and she’ll shiver and her hair will raise at the touch, and Sarah is sure that Anne is cataloguing those spots for later. It’s not uncommon for those she takes as lovers to be curious about her scars (at least, the ones she stays around long enough for them to get a good look at them), and she’s never been particularly shy about any part of her body, meaning she is happy to let Anne explore them, waiting for the almost inevitable question.

For her, Sarah is an open book, probably more open then she’s been with a non-hunter before. Anne’s curious mind being one of the things Sarah adores about her. She smiles as she catches Anne’s gaze, shifting to see which scar has caught her attention - the gnarled patch of skin on her upper thigh. Luckily, Anne has picked a scar with a good story behind it. And how could she deny Anne a good story? “Of course,” she murmured, settling back down.

“I’d gotten a letter from a man up in Scotland, who’d gotten my name from a friend I’d met a year or so prior, begging me to come help because he didn’t know who else to turn to. Swore up and down he was being stalked by some satanic creature, and he was afraid for his life. So I make the trip up, and he tells me about this ghostly thing with red eyes and fur black as coal that he’s sure is stalking him, and probably has been the thing killing some of the farmer’s livestock. It takes a little bit of asking around, but turns out that about ten years before, another family living on that land had been stalked by a similar entity, and then suddenly the husband had turned up dead. Put that all together and what you end up with is a death omen in the form of a Black Shuck. There’s not much you can do about a death omen - whether you were already destined and this is a warning, or if seeing the thing is what marks someone around you for death is an argument for people a lot smarter than me.”

“But I promise to stay, because maybe if I can scare it off, everything will be okay. People like to cling to little hopes like that. So I stay on the grounds that night, waiting to see if I can catch it when it shows up - and then it’s growling at the back of the neck. Hunting instincts kick in before anything else, and I whirl around and manage to catch it with the hatchet I’m carrying. And then it lunges at me, because supernatural or not, that’s what an animal does when you attack it. I managed to get it off me, but it got it’s claws into my leg first. One of the things that hunters know, but isn’t usually included in the legends, is that Black Shuck wounds are fatal, unless you can kill the hound that gave it to you. Which meant I was tracking down the damn thing, in the middle of the night, slowly getting more and more covered in my own blood, carrying my hatchet. I have never been more glad in my life to not get caught mid-hunt. I found it eventually, clearly, nursing the wound I’d given it. I looked at it, and it looked at me, and I think... I think it knew. And then I brought down the hatchet. The wound seemed to heal itself a little then and there, but I was still stuck stitching most of it up and having to be careful on it until I was sure it wasn’t going to reopen.”