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Fear in the Night drabblings

The writing bug has gotten to me, apparently! Here’s a thingy I wrote about Michael and James first meeting.

Context: after the film’s events, Michael has been taken to an asylum, but due to his fragile mental state, he only vaguely remembers everything that happened in the film and is very confused as to why he’s being locked up. Deeming him aggressive after he tried to struggle away from the people trying to restrain him, his doctors have taken his prosthetic arm from him.

1872 words, content warning for referred to ableism

#fear in the night #fear in the night 1972 #fix it au #michael carmichael #hammer horror #peter cushing #christopher lee #hammer husbands #fanfic #my writing #drabblings

Sorry to be cringe on main but I'm such a sucker for Oc/Self Insert x Canon

Because as I've been catching up on the X-Men media and been binging the '97 show it reignited my love for Hank McCoy.

Do I think I'd be a cool, badass and suave magic user with a deeply intense backstory, amazing dynamics with the team, AND a heart of gold?

Absolutely not.

Only because in reality in-universe it would just be Beast and I as this meme:

And ya know what?

I'm fine with that.

#self insert #self insert x canon #oc #oc x canon #drabblings #beast #xmen #cringe #hank mccoy #selfship #selfshipping #crackship #ocshipping

thinkin abt how harley isn't a natural blonde and bruce helps bleach her roots. him sitting on the toilet seat, harley sat between his legs on the floor as he bleaches her roots w a technique he perfected years ago while she chats away abt whos picking damien n tim up from school tomorrow

#harleybat #batquinn #harley quinn x bruce wayne #bruce wayne x harley quinn #batfam #batfamily #mochi post #drabblings

Nearly a year has passed since King Richard fell on the field of Bosworth.

Far too long now had Nicholas sulked about the lanes of London, rarely obeying when summoned by the man seemingly too many had readily accepted as the true King of England. Disconnected, too bitter and too angry to give in and accept the fate which had befallen his chosen dynasty, he tailed the procession of the King with little interest based mainly in nowhere else to go. Had unseen forces not so heavily tethered him to the land of England, he might have followed vocal Yorkists into Ireland.

Instead, he found himself abuzz with a strange interest in the Queen consort, by this point visibly pregnant and due to produce a child in little over a month's time. This interest had manifested similarly on multiple previous occasions, and its recurrant charge left Nicholas apprehensive. He was not ready to cede to the will of Henry Tudor, had still yet to give an oath of allegiance to the man he still yet considered an usurper.

But the child of Henry Tudor and Elizabeth of York was going to be something of great interest, of that there was no doubt in Nicholas. His sudden interest in the royal court had caught the notice of King Henry, who rewarded Nicholas with distrust and similar apprehension of his own. Well known among those of note was the man's invested interest in Elizabeth's safety and well-being, but it was not enough to allow Nicholas near the seat of the crown unless he surrendered his armaments which was for the first time since the death of Richard the Third, what he allowed as the Lords waited anxiously in St. Swithun's Priory.

He kept in tensious silence a watchful eye on the pacing king, far removed from the chatter and socialising of those partied. It was too early. The anxiety from Henry was palpable, eased only by the assuring word that the birth would be eased by the smallness of a younger babe.

One sound was enough for the entire mood of the room to change.

Henry refused to wait for the baby to be brought out, instead rushing to the bedside of his wife. The interest Nicholas had been battling surged, to the point he was gaining questioning glances from a present Duke. Jokes about the tries of Lambert Simnel stirred the silence, jests made that spoke of the doubled security of Tudor rule, how now between claimants and the throne lie two lives instead of one. Such remarks would have as late as three days previous riled Nicholas into the point of challenge, but his attention was wholly fixed upon King Henry as he reemerged several minutes later to make an announcement.

"My Lords, -- I present to you: Prince Arthur. Our son, and Heir to England."

Those in attendance moved to kneel, but Nicholas, having been previously seated now chose an opposing stand. He had risen to his feet and very cautiously approached the King, hands laid flat to his sides and fingers splayed. His gaze lingered on the face of Henry for less than a second before dropping to the quiet bundle in the king's arms. Nicholas had spent the time between Bosworth and then accepting only poor outlooks on the character of Henry Tudor, angered voices lamenting the effable taxes and limits to retainers placed on the Lords of England. But now Nicholas has had a proper glimpse into a more human, more personal man to wear the Crown - one delighted by the birth of a son, pleased and content in his marriage, perhaps scared even of the grip he had on the tasted slippery kingship of England.

Part of what wracked Nicholas' demeanour was guilt, that he had so readily written this man off a villain. Guilt proceeding that he could nearly forgive the slaughter of the York King Richard. Uncertainty regarding the morality of his political moves previous and fear of the weight of his next action. Just as King Henry prepared to challenge Nicholas' presence and intent, still unanswered for his acts of treason given his position on Bosworth Field, the man of the House of Grey knelt before King and Prince.

Not a word was exchanged between the two. Only the confusion and uncertainty that rightly followed such a tumultuous chapter in each man's life, one spanning several years, the other circling the past century. Despite such unsure motives and motions, the two men saw within each other a spark of trust, however flimsy and minimal it might have been. And yet it was enough for King Henry to wordlessly accept Nicholas' unconventional notion of fealty and reward it with a very special privilege:

Henry exhaled slowly, signalling Nicholas to gaze up at him before the newborn child was passed to the kneeling man who tentatively cradled the young Prince against his chest, too stunned to give much of any reaction other than to stare in awe as Arthur settled.

Nestled in his arms he now held the future of England, the embodied junction of House Lancaster and House York, a tiny boy whose blood ran with every branch of Plantagenet and ancestry that delved deep into the history of Britain, far beyond even Nicholas' arrival alongside the first Norman king. He shivered under the weight history placed upon the moment, how such a delicate fresh life might have created so rich and deep waves of meaning and emotion encased in something so fragile. And for someone so opposed to Henry's rule to trust him to hold the king's son, much less be the first other than the parents to touch him!

Personifying one's Kingdom granted something quite special, and with that gift he earned so long ago he now felt humbled once more as he leaned his head down and gently as he could placed a kiss on the now sleeping infant's forehead. The babe who would one day rule as king over a united England under one single dynastic house. Or at least such was the great hope invested in the future of Prince Arthur.

#drabblings #arthur tudor #henry tudor #elizabeth of york #im not crying youre crying #im not going for accuracy in this just getting some emotions written down #ill rewrite this again when i have a better grasp of timelines #bc dear fuck the winter king is disorganised #it talks about warbeck THEN limnel and THEN bosworth???? wtf #i am confused but getting used to this authours style #note to self draw a timeline of henry viis life

Renegade American Pilot

A group mission. How many solo flights had he had? Almost too many- He was a good pilot and a proud American soldier. He had so far served his country with pride and honor, but now? They wanted him to play escort to a bomber. His first group mission. Four other escorts among the two bomber planes.

The bombers' target was a militia base on the southern side of Duesseldorf. Supposedly confirmation had been recently acquired that it held a large sum of various munitions, potentially bombs with American names on it. The recently set up base in Tuscany was the likely target of German operations. Therefore, it was the job of Johnny and his squadron to strike first, wipe out as much as possible. The mission was going to be simple enough. They had quiet escorts and skilled fighters among them. Jon, himself, was more used to running for picture shots, aerial views of targets to help plan furture strikes. This time? He was told his weapon wasn't a shutter but a gun.

That wasn't why he was nervous.

For a myriad of reasons, he never quite felt safe on the Tuscan base. Those uniforms standing next to him terrified him just as much as the black and grey uniforms across the border. He kept those reasons to himself. He was quiet, he complied with them, and reports of his nightly activities never saw the hands of their commanding officer. He now had to trust that these men had his back.

The mission itself went off without a hitch; it was only in wake of the explosions that they were even spotted. Jonathan knew this area, having taken photographs of the run twice before. Those German dogfighters were from Hammelburg, and they were targeting the escorts: There was little point in going after the bombers, now that their payload was down.

"Crash, get your ass back in formation! We're racing back, not duking out!"

The sharp voice hissed over his comset, but he ignored it. "Go home. I'll hold 'em off." That god damn callsign chosen for him never made him happy. It was one thing for the lad to joke of his own injuries, but to hear it from others? That hurt. Thin skin does not an obedient soldier make. He had dropped down low, abandoning the rest of the squadron in order to confuse and distract German dogfighters.

For the most part, it worked. Three of the five German planes swerved off course. Of course they were going to hiss for the one actually fighting back. Chances were the other two did not have enough fuel to make it to Tuscany, much less keep up with the faster P-51s. The thought of being hailed a hero if he returned to base in one piece faded quickly: A bullet struck home. His left wing engine was smoking hard, blotting out even the stars and forcing his Mustang into a barely controlled tailspin. Making it all the way to Tuscany from Hammelburg was out of the question. He was going down. At this point, he had few options: He could let the plane crash, and ensure that a valuable piece of military technology did not have a chance to be studied, or he could eject and ensure his own neck was safe, even if deep into the heartland of Nazi Germany. In the end, he chose a somewhat middle-ground. He shoved controls to the right, forcing her to fly on her side, towards the peak of a mountain, then ejected from his seat.

Perhaps his parachute didn't quite open in time, or maybe he just landed wrong, but when he finally woke up, he found himself sorer than he'd been in years. Immediately thoughts raced back to images of flames, burning alcohol, gasoline and oil dripping onto asphalt as sirens screeched from a distance. There wasn't fire this time, but by the time he blinked into life again, gloved hands were yanking him off of the ground, ripping away the connectors of the parachute and dragging him towards the mountain road. In his delirium he could not make out what was being said, only catching a few words and phrases here and there:

American. Duesseldorf bombing. Stalag.

Italy. Prosthetic. No, you can't take it unless you want Geneva on you.

He must be from the Italian base. Give him to the Gestapo. He's too hurt, he won’t survive it. Kommandant Klink. He's coming to-

His fighter's trashed. No use.

Question him later.

Send him to Stalag Thirteen.

No one has ever escaped from Stalag Thirteen.

Name, rank, and serial number.

Jonathan Thomas Edward Lanier. Airman First Class. N197108.

That’s all he’s required to give.

#Hogans Heros AU #drabblings #hey lookit i wrote an au intro #after already being in the au for a week #colpapabear #bossasbatch

Fear in the Night drabblings 2: Electric Boogaloo

Boys are back! And James has a little treat for Michael this time. Only… why does the headmaster’s main doctor in charge think this is a good way to treat his problems?

1924 words, tw ableism and usage of sedatives (I am not a mental hospital worker obviously so I cannot guarantee this all to be 100% accurate)

(The fix-it part of this AU is going to be more emphasised in future drabbles I promise, I cannot help myself with some whump tho 😇)