#I can’t make bricks without clay

[australianklaviergavin]

Not sure if this has already been done, but I need to know what people think

[afyrian]

epilogue - yeah this is it m.list

    standing in front of earthen kiln, you stare at the large sign above the window. the newly painted green color complimenting the light brown bricks, the grout being a beautiful beige that ties it all in. resting your wrists on your hips, you hope not to get any more paint on your overalls than it already harbors. taking in a deep breath, you can still smell the fresh paint. 

  inside, you can just barely see the new decorations you set up recently. potted plants hanging from the ceiling, the ceramics resting on wooden shelves. no longer are the old wire racks bulking up the shop and ruining the aesthetic you’ve worked so hard to build. even a mural is painted on the side, soft colors that bring a smile to every customer’s face. 

  you close your eyes for a second and let every little thing echo through your mind. letting it all marinate, you wonder if this is it. not necessarily in a bad way. but rather, you wonder if this is how you’ll get to live for the rest of your life. to take a leisure day, painting something new, enjoying having someone else to cover the classes. and most importantly, be able to work next to him. 

  it’s easy to commute for lunch, ending up at the back of the onigiri miya kitchen. familiar to the cooks and cashiers, all you have to do is enter through the front doors. your apron off, clay somehow still on your pair of shorts. and they’ll start making your favorite dish, guaranteed to stay on the menu til the day it closes. 

  ‘no, you can’t come to another couple’s class! they’re paying customers and all we end up doing is talking’ you’d mention, crinkling your nose as he talks about joining for another session. however, you’d obviously recommend the private lessons that you’re so famous for. in which he makes some joke about having all the private lessons he could dream of. whispering that the ones at home are the most enjoyable. 

  ignoring his little comments, you’d make your way back to the pottery shop. inside will always sit yachi who is teaching a children’s class. her bright disposition working well with the kids coming in while their parents are at work. with the pottery parties that you’d rather not host because of the influx of people, giving you a little more freedom. 

  finally, you can open your eyes and feel a sense of peace wash over you. you can look out at your shop and think, this, this very thing is it. especially when onigiri miya’s door opens, osamu exiting with a bag of food in his hand, “it’s nearly one, you’ve missed lunch.”

  “aw, thanks, guess i got a little too invested,” you grab the bag from him, the compression sleeves he wears wrapping around your shoulders. 

  looking up, just barely resting his chin on your head, he can see the green under the sunlight. it’s a mellow green, reminiscent of his favorite piece by you. the glaze a little lighter than you had hoped for, yet still one of the most beautiful pieces he’s ever seen (which he’s said about all of them). “well it looks wonderful, and i just know these renovations are going to bring the place to life,” he moves his head to the side, looking at you.

  looking back, you roll your eyes, bringing your free hand up and grabbing ahold of his forearm, “what would i do without you?”

  “live another long and fulfilling life.. without the handsome cook for a husband, which would be oh so devastating,” osamu leans his head forward and kisses you on the temple, trying to ignore the faint smell of paint on your forehead. 

  holding back a smile, you push your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “oh would it now?” you lean back, raising your eyebrows in a mocking manner.

  “i sure hope it would be, you know, i make your lunch for you. if that isn’t the most fundamental part of your life, then i don’t know what is,” he shakes his head, removing his arms from you, backing up in a playful manner.

  “you are so insufferable, hon,” you reach your hand out, grabbing his, only to pull him in a for a kiss.

  just like every lunch break, you can taste the quintessential flavors of onigiri miya. sometimes even down to the last spice that was added to the dish. his lips are soft against yours, even hints of a subtle chapstick that he applies every few hours. his hand reaches up towards your neck, thumb dancing along your jawbone. 

  his other hand rests on your cheek, the feeling of his wedding ring chilling your cheekbone. a slight stubble on his face just barely grazing your lower face. some scratching just below your nose. ignoring it all you kiss him deeply, soaking it in like your own form of photosynthesis. osamu becoming your sun and the water you receive. 

  “mmh.. i love you,” you whisper, moaning ever so softly into the kiss. 

  “i love you enough to let you know your food is gonna get cold,” osamu whispers back, smiling into your lips, something he tends to do after your lunch goodbyes. 

  leaning back, you rest your forehead against his, hand white-knuckle holding the bag, “you’re ruining the moment hon.”

  “no moment could be ruined when it’s with you,” he whispers, moving forward just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth.

a/n: so crazy that it’s ending :(( but do not fret!! the mbb story will continue as a set of oneshots in ‘a kneading kiss’

taglist: @causenessus @osakis-gf @eggyrocks @brkfclub @marisabel14

@bbybibi @etoiile @miyamoratsumuu @girlokarina @gsyche

@cherrypieyourface @zephestia @acowboykisser @whosmarjj @gumiiiiezzzz

@guitarstringed-scars @19calicos @savemebrazilhinata @phoenix-eclipses @theycallmenanamisgirl

@softpia @certaindreampost @miiyas

[likeadeadbattery]

Mmmmm, I’m so sick and in so much pain that idk what level of reality I am on anymore. I have been sick since Friday and I’m starting to lose it. I didn’t get any sleep or rest because my finger hurt so god damn bad and I woke up to the pain.

What day is it? Hell if I know…

I’m patiently waiting for my clothes to dry, because while in my current state, I came up with a horrible idea to make me feel better. I can’t make clay things (which makes me really sad, Ma just bought me several bricks and a fancy schmancy tool set) so I wanted to try sewing again.

Without accidentally ripping my finger open and pouring blood everywhere, that is.

I dug through some old clothes in the basement and threw them in the washing machine because they were rank. (Fine otherwise) What can I say- I don’t have the money or nagging skills to obtain more fabric.

I can’t make a plushie because I don’t have cash or the skills to make it/have someone make it for me.. so the next best thing… his puppet.

I will try, but I guarantee you, this will fail. Fun times though. I will hafta learn some new skills to try to do this one.

It’s the best way I can comfort myself in these trying times. I’ve been laying on the bathroom floor for hours now.. somebody help…

New friend… new friend, save me :(

[evilasiangenius]

“I found a bucket,” Crowley said glumly as he stood in the doorway, rain-sopped despite having wrapped a fold of his black toga over his head and his black pallium over that, which gave the effect of appearing as if the demon were in in mourning, half-blinded by the water dripping down his dark glasses, and holding up what looked almost more like a large sad wooden cup with pretensions as he stepped inside. “But it’s small, and it leaks miserably. Would probably take half an eternity to draw up enough water to fill just this bucket much less a tub. Damned, how is this place so poor in things?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know, things. Things. Human things. Buckets. Baskets. Buttons. Cloth. Even rope. It’s like everything that wasn’t nailed down was carried off and hardly anyone is selling much of anything. And while things are falling apart enough to maybe take some materials from crumbling buildings, they’re certainly not good enough to use. Couldn’t find a pole longer than my arm, and the river’s at least ten cubits down even when the tide is high. Do you think I could maybe tie a few poles together? Damn, that would only work if I could find enough rope…”

“I’m afraid this city is slowly coming apart at the seams,” Aziraphale explained. “I suppose that’s what happens when the neglect from the central authority has spread. Not that there is a central authority anymore.

“Which of course tells us just how important it is to have a powerful, controlling hand at the wheel, keeping everyone in order, putting everything and everyone in their place. Without absolute control, without leaders like the Metatron and the Archangels, it’s all chaos and misery. I can’t wait for all of this to be properly destroyed, it’ll all be quite lovely then,” Aziraphale smiled politely, even though something in his eyes looked distressed. “But…but in the meantime, please come in and dry off!” In the angel’s hands was a towel, something plain but clean and when Crowley unpinned his soggy pallium, willing it away and put the towel over his head, the linen smelled like lavender.

“Oh…” Crowley sighed, as Aziraphale led him to the makeshift hearth, which he now realized was part of the old furnace, though with many narrow bricks taken away from the inside wall to make a makeshift fireplace, where the outer furnace opening had been blocked off with the cracks of said bricks mortared together with daub.

The fire burnt merrily, and he sighed as he was guided to a cushion made of creamy undyed wool that was not here last time. Another similar cushion leaned against the wall against a leg of Aziraphale’s desk. Like the bed, it was stuffed with fresh straw, generously, and he wondered when Aziraphale had made these. Perhaps during any number of his naps? He sat down on the cushion which was heated through from the floor and was just perfectly, perfectly warm.

Now that he was sitting here, he noticed that some of the floor tiles near the hearth had the traces of a cat’s footprints in them, the fired clay retaining indelibly the memory of scampering paws from some distant summer’s day.

He wondered if the tough black cat was related to this cat from generations past.

Crowley felt the damp steaming off his clothes. For a moment he wondered if he should miracle himself dry and then he realized that Aziraphale had spent an entire miracle upon him when he had first arrived, when the angel was not even using any to live and certainly even living was not living comfortably.

“Thank you, Aziraphale. You didn’t have to do all this for me–”

“No, the opposite is true. Thank you for taking this trouble for me,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley thought that the angel’s words sounded rehearsed. “But you needn’t go through all this difficulty on my behalf, slogging about the city in the rain trying to find materiel.”

“Why not?” Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale, as he wiped the dark gemstones of his glasses with the clean towel.

Aziraphale seemed to shrink in upon himself as if a flower shriveling, wilting under the blazing heat of the desert in those golden eyes, and Crowley waited for him to respond.

“D-don’t be silly. It’s not necessary. Why should anything be done for me? Much less by you. When I’m obviously here to serve and not be served. Besides, it’s not as if you owe me anything. Which you don’t,” Aziraphale said sternly.

more

[dathen]

As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

Holmes: You can’t expect me to come up with theories when I don’t have hard facts!!

Holmes: *spends hours staring into space fretting about a stranger*

Holmes: Okay so I have seven theories—

[bakerstreetbabble]

Granada TV Series Review: "The Copper Beeches" (S02, E01)

Season 2 of Granada's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starts with a gripping, dramatic episode, complete with a creepy "bad guy" (played to great effect by British actor Joss Ackland), a winsome heroine (the late Natasha Richardson playing Violet Hunter), and a bloodthirsty hound (not that hound, mind you). Honestly, re-reading "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches" just now, I felt like the Granada series took a fairly average story and made it into something much more exciting. Overall, they were very faithful to the source material, but they managed to rearrange a few plot points and use a fine cast to elevate the adaptation beyond its original form.

For one thing, Joss Ackland is extremely creepy as Mr. Rucastle. Sure, he's jovial enough most of the time, but Ackland is a talented enough actor to make every line seem sinister. From the very first time we meet him, we feel as if things just aren't quite right with this "generous" employer. Meanwhile, Natasha Richardson as Violet Hunter gave the role the right balance between a young lady who's getting more and more frightened and the kind of ingenuity that obviously wins the great detective's respect.

Jeremy Brett and David Burke are excellent, as usual, and there's a particularly delightful sequence at the opening of the episode where we are treated to one of Holmes's rants about how Watson has injected too much romance into the stories that Holmes thinks should be cold, logical case studies. We also are treated to a classic Holmes line, as the detective and his sidekick take the train to meet up with Miss Hunter: “Data! data! data! I can’t make bricks without clay.” (This line, which happens back at the flat at 221B Baker Street in the story, is moved a bit later in the TV episode, which I think works quite well.)

I should also mention the little detail of the slight change of setting of Mr. Rucastle's daughter's prison: in the original story, it is merely a mysterious, shuttered wing of the Copper Beeches estate. In the adaptation, however, it has been transformed into a mysterious "turret," which I think works a bit better.  That's what I enjoyed about this episode: the writers, while staying quite faithful to the original story, made minor tweaks to the plot, which ended up giving the story a lot more drama and forward momentum.

This was really a top-notch episode to begin the second season of the successful series. Before I wrap up the review, I should probably mention the entertaining final scene, in which Watson is clearly reading his most recent write-up of the events at the Copper Beeches, with no little delight at the effect his "romantic" storytelling has on his friend. By this point in the series, one can easily tell how comfortable David Burke and Jeremy Brett were becoming in their own roles, as well as in the camaraderie shared by the two friends. It really was a very fine episode to begin the second season!

[the-whumpening]

The Freed Tiger | (Ash's Recovery Arc, Part 8)

Prev | Masterpost | Next

CW: Fantasy racism and hate crime, fantasy slurs (may still be triggering to some), semi-graphic violence, tw blood, fear of abandonment, intrusive thoughts, self-loathing, Big Feelings

————————————————————

(Ash’s POV)

————————————————————

Then

“Ash!” Kane called. “Where are ya, bud? I brought something for you!”

As silently as his gangly limbs could manage, Ash slipped down from the branch he’d been napping on and crept behind Kane.

Kane turned to face him with a knowing grin. “Oh, there you are! Here, hold this.” They thrusted a wicker basket full of supplies into Ash’s arms and continued deeper into the thicket of trees. Ash followed without question, though a bit disappointed Kane caught him so fast.

When they finally arrived at Ash’s makeshift camp, Kane took the basket back and sat down by the fire pit.

“We’ll definitely need to get this re-lit,” they mumbled to themself absently. Ash cocked an eyebrow as he sat beside them.

“Why? Not cold or nighttime—what fire for?” Ash stumbled through his limited Common. Kane usually had good reasons for things, and Ash liked that they always explained it to him. Kane was a good friend.

Kane held up a brick of wax paper-wrapped clay from the basket in explanation. “I’m gonna show you how I make my beads! The fire helps them dry out and harden faster.” Their lips pursed at the barren fire pit. “But we’re definitely gonna need some kindling to get that going. Can you go gather some while I set everything up?”

“Sure! Ash help.” Ash liked when Kane let him help. Kane always let Ash help, even if he messed up. It made him feel good. Useful. He’d never been useful with Mama Tiger—always in the way, underfoot, making mistakes. She was patient, but Ash knew he was frustrating sometimes. He just couldn’t help it; his strange human-like body wasn’t made for the same things tigers were.

But Ash was good at gathering kindling. He knew how to tell which sticks were the best, and where to find the driest leaves. He had big, strong hands for grasping and reaching, and he could carry the pile with ease in his arms. Yes, this was a task Ash was great at.

Ash was also great at listening. His tiger ears tuned in to all the sounds around him: the peeping of birds, the rustle of the underbrush, the chatter of conversation nearby. Conversation? Kane was he only one who should’ve been this deep in the forest. No one else knew about Ash or his camp.

Two voices. One high, one low. They spoke with the same bubbling rhythm Kane did—was that Common? Whatever it was, it was growing closer by the second, and Ash didn’t trust it.

He wound his way back towards his camp, skulking between the trees to hide himself from view. The voices were louder the closer he got; the deeper one seemed almost slurred. Who are these two?

“Nekane?” the deep voice laughed. “I figured you’d be out here. Weird little nature-freak.”

Ash’s blood turned to ice in his veins. These people know Kane?

“Go back to town, Ekhardt. You’re drunk. You too, Alicia.”

That was Kane’s voice—Ash was sure of it. But it didn’t have the same easy, relaxed tone Ash was used to hearing. No, Kane seemed . . . nervous.

“You don’t own the forest, halfer.” That must be Alicia, the higher-pitched voice. “What—we can’t go on a walk without your permission?”

Ash picked up his pace. He didn’t understand everything they were saying, but he could tell: these were not friends.

“Just-just get out of here, okay?” Kane’s voice was starting to wobble and rise in pitch. Ash’s heart began pounding louder in his chest. “It’s not safe this far out.”

The deep voice—Ekhardt?—scoffed. “Spare me; I’m the best hunter in town. I think I can handle myself. Or what—did you mean you’ll do something? You gonna call your faerie friends to beat me up?” He laughed; Ash could hear the stumbling of his drunken feet as his balance swayed. “Besides, I’ve been fol-low-ing y-ooo-uuu,” he teased in a sing-song tone.

“W-what?”

Alicia picked up, “You must not be as observant as you think, huh? We’ve been watching you. Nobody else comes out this way. No hunters, no foragers. Just you and Pietra—and she’s gone now, isn’t she?” She whines with faux sympathy. “Poor halfer. Now that your mommy’s dead, nobody in town cares if you live or die.”

Ash finally reached the edge of the clearing, stopping short to survey the scene. A thick-muscled blonde woman leaned heavily on Kane’s shoulders, hissing her venom into his pointed ears. A matching man dropped the bottle in his hand; instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a hefty pair of scissors.

He stumbled towards Kane, brandishing the scissors in his clumsy hand. “Now nobody’s here to stop me doing what I should’ve done years ago. Grab ‘im, Licia.”

Alicia snatched Kane’s arms and locked him in place, allowing Ekhardt to slink closer. He raised the open blades to the point of Kane’s ear, and—

Ash shook with anger.

He was furious. He was in a frenzy.

He was enraged.

The scent of Kane’s blood hit the air, and Ash dropped his armful of kindling. His vision pulsed with his racing heartbeat; the forest around him condensed into a hazy blur. Before he could stop himself, his body was in motion: he sprinted from the treeline to collide with the shape attacking Kane, his hands and mouth ripping and tearing at anything and everything he could reach.

He could taste the iron on his tongue and feel the splash of blood on his chin. His knuckles connected with something—bone, judging by the satisfying crack—and came back wet.

Roars pounded in his ears from every direction; he soon lost track of which were his screams and which were outside of himself. Hard hands pummeled his body, his face; they clawed for freedom beneath him, but he refused to relent.

When the body beneath him ceased to fight, his focus shifted to the blur retreating back into the trees. He launched himself to it, slamming it over and over into a sturdy trunk until it, too, began to slump in his grasp.

“Ash!”

Wha—huh?

“Ash, stop!”

Why? His body vibrated with hate; why would he stop when it felt so right? They tried to hurt Kane—they hurt his friend!

They had to die.

“Stop! It’s okay, Ash! Everything’s okay.”

Kane. It’s just Kane.

Ash groans, his head aching and thudding. “P-protect Kane,” he spat through his bloody, busted lip. “Bad people . . . Hurt friend.”

The blurry fog over his vision began to slowly lift as he caught his breath. The shape he’d bashed into the tree sharpened in front of him: Alicia, the woman, her pale skin blooming with bruises and her limbs jutting out unnaturally. She glared up at him through half-lidded eyes, halfway between fear and fury.

Ash turned. Nearby, the body of Ekhardt laid strewn by the fire pit, torn and weak but—just like Alicia—somehow still breathing.

And Kane. Kane cupped their hand around their ear, trickles of dark blood spilling out between their fingers. With their other hand, they reached out to Ash. Slowly, slowly, they stepped closer.

“Ash. It’s okay. I’m alright.” Their voice was steady and calm. Just like always.

Kane was okay.

Ash stumbled closer to them, adrenaline still surging through his system. His muscles shook with the effort of each careful step.

Behind him, he could hear Alicia scrambling through the fallen leaves. She snatched up Ekhardt’s limp body and dragged it back the way they came.

“Fucking freaks,” she hissed under her breath as she made her escape.

Ignoring the comment, Kane closed the distance between them and Ash. As soon as Kane’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, Ash collapsed into their embrace. His knees wobbled and he gasped for air—his empty lungs screamed as sobs wracked his chest.

Kane was okay. Kane is okay. Kane’s not dead. He repeated the mantra over and over until he could breathe easily once more.

“You’re okay, Ash. You’re alright. But we . . . We can’t stay here anymore.”

———————————————————————

Now

I’m okay. I’m okay. Breathe, Ash coaches himself through the blinding rage. The forest around him is blurry and warped; the trees seem to envelop him in a nest of thistles he can’t escape. Breathe.

In. Out.

He’d had a handle on his rage for a time—before Ozmund trained him to stay raged for as long as possible. Now, he feels as out of control as his teenage self. Everything sets him off. Anger, fear, shame; it’s all the same to him now.

He scrubs at his face with the pads of his clawed hand. Stop it. Calm down.

Right. In. Out. In. Out.

The blurriness fades a little; the branches seem a little less menacing. Ash can make out the shape of a toad resting on a nearby log. He breathes in time with its bulging vocal sac.

In. Out. Croak. In. Out. Croak.

His claws slowly retract back into his hand. His senses dull to their normal strength, blissfully quieting the cacophony of the insects and birds all around him. Breathe.

In.

Out.

A sigh shudders out of his chest, and his exhausted legs crumple beneath him into the soft dirt. Soft and cool and damp . . . He could very nearly fall asleep right where he is. But where, exactly, is that?

In Ash’s travels, he’d developed a talent for navigating even the densest woods; it was rare he ever got lost somewhere he’d been before. By all rights, he should be able to find his way home, but . . . Nothing looks familiar here.

How long has he been walking? He can’t remember what direction he even started from. It was early when he left, he’s sure of that. Then, how is it nearly nightfall now? Has he lost an entire day? He can’t recall anything after his conversation with Evius that morning.

Evius . . . He’s probably worried, right? Or . . .

Insidious thoughts creep into Ash’s mind. They hadn’t come for him last time. Not for a whole year.

They didn’t know, though, he argues with himself. It was only a few weeks for them.

Even so—they should’ve known. Maybe they didn’t mind you gone . . .

No, that’s not true! Stop it!

They’ll be better off without you. You won’t be a burden on them anymore. Just a worthless source of stress.

Shut up! That’s not—that’s not true . . . Is it?

They’re not coming this time. They learned their lesson. Just make your peace with it.

Maybe . . . Maybe I should . . .

Ash eyes his surroundings. He’s well and truly lost, and it’s rapidly getting dark. He must have wandered for hours—there’s no telling how far away he is. Even if his friends do come looking for him, it’s not likely they’ll find him tonight.

Just stay alive, he bargains. Stay alive till the morning.

His mind finally quiet, he builds a makeshift nest of dry grass beneath the hollow of a tree. If only he had a nice, warm little cave like he used to; dry and brightened by the fire Kane would’ve built outside. Now it’s just him, cold and alone in the dark. No fires to be found.

[perkwunos]

November 10

It’s cool to undergo a journey And end up somewhere else we can’t predict. The waves of the ocean, for a city boy, Are bricks that pile onto too immense A building, one we will not walk inside of. Trace of a beat in silence is the meaning, The giving and the taking of a snare While never hearing it get hit at all. The waterfall of sense gets zeroed out, Thumbtack left on a chair at the café, The empty set, the glistening with peace Of contemplating mind: task is completed, Return to stillness in the shadow’s mould. There’s paradox if we cannot exchange A reason for the seeing you perform For movie-screens, computer-screens, for TVs One hundred thousand small sparks for the teens But it’s time to give up the idol, smash the clay And look up at the stars: who made all these? Who is the hand that grabbed this ecstasy? You will not find a stop to who it is And waves of the ocean, to a city boy, Are threads of flannel left out on the street. Don’t need to be ironic just to say An artist didn’t make your memories Or your nostalgia for the 1990s Sense-organs in themselves don’t have the forms By which to harmonize a trendy haircut Or walk, amidst the gloom of autumn trees In fog appreciating the alone Which funnels down the urging light for form Or recognition, union with the endless. You made your body-world and your ambition, An actor’s speaking to the rotting fungus Of beaten, mortal things, and our pretensions. The upper-middle class embrace of normal, The nice guy in the darkened alleyway. You can’t expect alternatives to happen. I listen to sounds and the echoes of other sounds. The Curry-Howard Correspondence Is illustrated in a crystal vase, Where futuristic warriors have prayed Just to survive one more night on this moon Where human souls are vagrant, tossed in gas, And broken. What a marvelous enchantment, That which appears without appearances And what we cannot speak of, rules for action. You cannot hold the currency of God. Don’t think that thou art undefeatable For thou art but a flimsy place among These things of rocks and burning cardamom. The edges of a map you haven't unlocked.

[amateur-deductions]

The Building Theory

This theory is one of the best ways i've found to understand the different stages of a deduction, it serves as a wonderful way to illustrate how much a deduction is a progressive process, with multiple little steps between observations and conclusions. It's also an amazing tool to analyze other people's deductions and break them down in a way that allows you to map out their trains of thought and learn from them.

/T H E T H E O R Y

The core idea of the theory is to compare a deduction to a simple building. A building has a certain process to being constructed, you can’t start a building by making the roof, or the third floor, nor can you make an efficient one out of cardboard.

Similarly, in Deduction there's a certain order to the process, you can't start a deduction at the conclusion, or the middle of the reasoning stage, neither can you deduce anything without solid observations and data. In other words, "you can't make bricks without clay"

/B E G I N N I N G

A Deduction is built using the same principle, first we gather the materials, we gather data, observations, snippets of information we'll use to build our structure. Then out of these materials we build a foundation or a base for the building, and everything we deduce will ultimately be supported by this foundation, by these observations. Then we build the first floor on top of this base, this floor represents any deductions that rely directly on the observations that serve as a base (eg. phone on right pocket = right handed, as you can see there's no middle conclusion reached between these two points).

/U P P E R F L O O R S

Next we get onto the second floor, this one will be composed of any deductions we make that are based on the observations that make up the foundation, but also based on our previous, straightforward deductions that make up the first floor (eg. phone on right pocket -> right handed = They shoot a gun with their right hand, this conclusion rests on the shoulders of the observation and the very straight forward deduction that comes with it).

And so on and so forth we construct this building, each time getting further and further away from the observations we first made, and each time relying more and more on the stability of the prior deductions. For our building to be stable and not crumble at a slight shake, we need to make sure the materials we use are the best quality, so our observations must be well established, without assumptions or biases, and the deductions we make must be accurate, with sane trains of thought. And of course, the taller we make any building the easier it is for it to fall, so we have to make sure as we go higher, as we add more and more deductions that stray further from the observations, we make our building sturdier, making sure our deductions have less and less flaws in them.

Once we have experience we can start choosing what kind of building we want to make. A tall skyscraper with multiple levels to the deductions that intertwine with each other, or a simple 2 story building that relies on it's horizontal area, consisting of a large base made out of many observations, and only direct deductions from these.

/O F N O T E

It's also important to note that the deductions from the first floor onwards always have to treat any deductions from previous floors as correct, we cannot deduce that someone would shoot a gun with their right hand if we don't treat our deduction that they're right handed as correct. Now this doesn't mean our deduction HAS to be correct, we can still be wrong about it, but in the moment of making deductions we have to assume we're right to push forward onto higher level deductions.

It's worth understanding that this theory serves as a way to visualize how far away a deduction is from the initial observation and how it connects to other deductions around it. This doesn't mean that just because a deduction is higher up in this building it's more complex. While distance from observations and complexity can be related, they're not the same measure, a "tall" building doesn't necessarily mean a more complicated one, and vise versa.

So with this in mind, i'm gonna end the post here, hope you liked it and if you have any questions feel free to drop them in my inbox

Happy Observing!

-DV

[quill-of-thoth]

Letters From Watson, The Noble Bachelor

Part 2: The Fun Stuff - Holmes has managed “several delicate cases” before, and he’s known for it enough, before Watson’s career as his biographer really kicks off, that it has to be spreading via other methods. The only case that was published in 1988 was A Study in Scarlet, which was relatively sensational. - Is it just me, or do I detect St. Simon approving of Hattie’s tomboy, headstrong nature? It would certainly be a change from what was expected of an English noblewoman.  - It’s possible that Alice, the maid, was a friend of Hattie’s before her father’s fortune was realized. She’s certainly been a friend long enough to know the truth of what’s going on and lie about it for Hattie.  - Flora Millar, the former mistress, makes a neat red herring combined with the “jumping a claim” statement, but It’s also amusing to imagine her conversation with Hattie in light of this story’s conclusion. I can only imagine Hattie apologizing frankly and explaining that her own situation meant Flora could have Lord St. Simon back immediately. - Holmes has apparently formed his conclusions ahead of time. The man who cannot make bricks without clay must have come to a conclusion regarding why a woman in Victorian society, where divorce is difficult and highly stigmatized, would voluntarily disappear immediately after marriage, with her worldly fortune in the hands of her new husband. without a word to her family. Or why she would do so immediately before the wedding, or during the honeymoon. There has to be something so immediately wrong with the marriage itself that she can’t honorably stay any longer. 

- Geography note: “The Serpentine” which Lestrade has been dragging is a manmade lake in Hyde Park, where Hattie was last seen. Trafalgar Square fountain is about two miles away from one end. - Lestrade is pricklier to Holmes than the police officer in The Resident Patient, but then again he has been dragging a lake looking for a dead body. The only thing he’s done wrong in the investigation so far after a wedding dress was found is not wonder why it would be intact if it went into the lake enveloping the body of a young woman only a day or so ago, but is floating on its own now. 

[australianklaviergavin]

I'm breaking my silence. I love data.

[minebuild]

What’s up Builders. Sorry I haven’t post for a while but I got some announcements and an Enclosure.

Announcements :

I am officially returning to the Wild Journey Zoo project but why did I said I cancel the Project? It’s because of the issues with my world. I did remove a few files that were too big and clean it with Google One. It went well and I continue the build of the Zoo. But then, one day I played the world and it ejected me out of the game. I checked every file that wasn’t big enough and no files were harmful in Google One. But the problem is Experimental Features. I love them, it’s just I don’t know why Mojang had a warning on it. They could just changed some things but could decrease the official release of 1.21 which makes a few people angry. So I went to a new world without the Features

Enclosure :

So after that long announcement, I decided to build the 1st enclosure which is the Bengal Tiger. I use the YCreatures 2.2 version which upgrades the model of the Big Cats. Apparently they changed the Lion, Puma, Clouded Leopard, Tiger, White Tiger, Liger, Jaguar, and Black Panther. Which was all pretty good. Btw here are the descriptions of the Enclosure:

I use Cobblestone as the idk what it is called. I use Wall Stone Bricks for the edges, Glass and Iron Bars for the wall so people could see, and a smooth stone slab as the top of the fencing area. Idk but this angle look half better cuz you can’t see the Iron Fence but yeah

I use a texture pack called Rivers Plus, which adds the texture of the Sugar Canes, Weeds, and Lily Pads. I use Sand, Clay, Moss, Podzol, and Coarse Dirt as the detail of the Enclosure to become a somewhat tropical but I only add 1 Azalea Tree. I add Jungle Logs and Stone Buttons to make it like a stone rock and a tree log fall off behind. To be honest, I’m giving this enclosure a mid. It’s because I use this inspiration from VintageBeef’s Bengal Tiger enclosure from Building A Zoo series

Here are the Tigers. I don’t own any of these mobs. They belong to YBrothers as they’re the original creators of YCreatures. But I have no idea if they took this inspiration from ZAWA or not

I got this inspiration from Sharky’s as he put the animal’s name and put the status of the species. So I did the same but with Dye and Ink.

That’s basically it. Please follow me and I’ll share more on animal enclosures. Cheers!!

[hello-delicious-tea]

Well, 18 inches is more ergonomic than none, that’s for sure. There’s a number of functions! In no particular order:

1. Keeps the fucking Bermuda grass out of my garden beds, god

2. Reduces problems with pests and weeds

3. Allows for easier protection from large pests like bunnies and deer

4. Can control soil composition!

5. Can improve drainage without lots of amending (our clay down here can be like a bathtub for plants)

6. Your soil amendments stay where you put them

7. More ergonomic

8. Easy to make cool trellises and whatnot

9. FETCHING

10. Cement base heats up faster in spring, allowing for earlier growth of plants, in my particular case

Problems:

Drainage can be an issue, leading to root rot. They also dry out faster. Overall, water needs are funkier, especially on an impervious surface like mine because the plants can’t get their roots any deeper. I may add another two or three layers of bricks on at some point if this is much of an issue. You also keep having to refresh the soil, which you also have to do in your normal garden beds, so that’s not much difference. Might be too small, plants might not get their roots down deep enough. Uhhh crop rotation is kind of a bear because I only have two beds? Still need to figure that out, I do want MORE vegetable garden, but this is a good start.

You have failed to scandalize me! Try again!

THE SHED!!! LOOK AT MY BRICK RAISED BEDS. THEYRE ALMOST DONE!! I CAN PUT FALL VEGETABLES IN THEM THIS YEAR!!!!

The plan is to use the mysterious metal structure as a pergola for a shading vine. Here’s the plan I drew up fall 2020.

A dream! Being realized! Mind, I may rethink the composition of the beds, since I learned that gravel creates a water table in containers and might lead to root rot. A conundrum. Welcoming feedback on raised beds on impervious surfaces.

[apocalypticgargoyle]

Gene... My baby mama... I need... More alt!dream... Whatever you got fr. I just need more I'm.. I love him (probs not as much as you) but I love him

You're in luck bc I'm running on rip fuel for him. [ALSO I WROTE THIS BEFORE EVERYONE DID THE TECHWEAR STUFF FOR HIM I'M SORRY. I'LL GET IT IN NEXT TIME. I PINKY SWEAR.]

𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐃. ♘ 𝐚𝐥𝐭!𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (𝟏𝟖+)

pairing: alt!Dreamwastaken x fm!reader

warnings: smut (18+), language, semi-public sex, light mentions of needles, domination

previous part ♘ fanart that i can't stop crying over

recommended listening: Hi Frequency by Vague002

The bus swayed slightly, your grip on the cool bar tightening to keep you from knocking into Clay as it turned. The dark city outside the windows bustled with sparkling lights, catching your eye every few seconds. As more people filed into the cramped space, Clay grabbed your hand, looping your arms around his waist and smugly grinning as you fought not to blush. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Will this be your first time in a parlor?” He asked, voice low and raspy as he whispered to you, not wanting to disturb the other members of society who just wanted to get home after a long day of work.

You nodded your head, making him chuckle. You knew it would be a different experience, mainly because it was taking place during the tattoo shops “after hours,” which Clay had only briefly explained the benefits of attending. “What are you getting done again?” You asked, moving so your hands were holding onto his arm instead, fingers brushing against the exposed skin peeking from beneath the cut-up shirt under his dark jacket.

He shrugged. “I couldn’t decide. Why don’t you pick?” He joshed, smirking at the way your eyebrows raised.

“I don’t want to be responsible for a mark on you,” you murmured, making him snort.

He hooked his fingers into the neckline of his shirt, stretching it down enough to reveal the litter of hickeys peppering his skin that you had left the night before. Your eyes widened as you swatted away his hand, looking around carefully in hopes that no one had seen them. He looped an arm around your shoulders, loving the fact that you were so worried about the crowd when all he wanted to do was fluster you.

He pressed his lips to your cheek, the warmth of his body encompassing you. “I love it when you get all blushy,” he teased. “Seriously though, you should pick. I won’t look at it if I don’t like it,” he snarked.

You groaned lightly. “Clay, come on.” He brushed his lips against yours.

“I trust you, sweetheart,” he cooed almost mockingly, his nose moving to press into your hair.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to remember what was already on his body. You thought about the impending reality that whenever he saw the new tattoo, his mind would linger on you, and for some reason, heat traveled to your ears at that thought. “Um… what about a bird?” You asked, voice uneasy as if on eggshells.

His face twisted into a pleased smile. “A bird?” He repeated. You shrugged beneath his arm, making him chuckle. “I like that. George likes doing bird tattoos too, so you might just make his night,” he added, his praise and approval making your stomach fill with confidence. He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your shoulder. Your mind began to forget what the two of you probably looked like to the other people as his scent invaded your senses. “Will you hold my hand while I’m in the chair?” He joked.

You scoffed. “Are you gonna cry?” You teased, making him chuckle.

“No, I’m just clingy,” he answered without skipping a beat. Your grin was hidden in the soft corduroy of his jacket.

The tattoo parlor was nothing like you had expected. The door was locked behind you after a bouncer let the two of you in, the man leading you two up a staircase and into a dimly lit room. The sound of heavy metal music and the buzz of tattoo guns swirled together, echoing off the dark brick walls. You slipped your hand into Clay’s as he talked to the receptionist, your eyes attempting to focus on one detail instead of letting the atmosphere overwhelm you.

The thick layer of smoke above your heads made you scoff, realizing it was coming from the opposite corner of the shop, a hookah lamp sitting on a coffee table like an outstretched octopus. The people around it seemed to be discussing something rather intense, their haircuts sharp and defining almost as if they stepped out of some kind of alternative fashion magazine. There were three tattoo artists, each with a white lamp focusing on their work as they carried on to the beat of the music.

Clay’s description of the place flashed into your mind, making you realize just how off the cards the parlor actually was. Clay took a toothpick from the receptionist’s desk, taking it between his white teeth before being waved down by a shorter man with dark hair across the floor. You followed closely behind him as Clay greeted the man; you quickly realizing that this was the famous George.

As Clay shrugged out of his jacket, George pulled out a binder, standing beside you as he flipped to a page with scattered drawings of different flight poses of birds. Your eyes drifted away from the page as Clay’s arms came into view. His old t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off was doing wonders for his biceps. Before you knew it, the two of you agreed on a mix of a few designs resembling a crow and Clay was laying on his back with his hand tucked behind his head. The spot he was filling was in the dead center of the flesh of his upper arm; a spot that George had grumbled about being awkward to reach, especially on someone as large as Clay.

You watched closely with curious eyes as George began to tattoo the design on Clay’s arm. Clay’s other hand was wrapped around the back of your elbow as you leaned on the chair at Clay’s side. His finger pads drew circles into your skin as you asked George about how he got into tattooing, making small talk here and there.

You liked George, mainly because he was quiet until he conjured up some kind of relentless backhanded comment. His tattoos revolved around a giant tree stretching from his back and down his arms. You wondered how long he had to sit for it and what the healing process was like. As he worked, his teeth played at his snake bite piercings, his dark eyes focused intently on the work in front of him.

Clay switched his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, his hand tightening around your arm with a small groan as George reached a sensitive spot. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he grumbled, continuing his work. He stopped, cleaning off some of the sprayed ink and filling a new cap with grey. “You have any work, pretty girl?” He asked you, voice low and charming.

You shook your head, earning a small tsk from him. “This is the closest she’s been to a tattoo gun,” Clay prided, making George sarcastically raise his eyes.

“A total virgin, huh?” He joked, winking at you. “Dream’s not corrupting you, is he?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek trying not to blush. “I’m trying,” Clay leered, smirking at you with his smug ego hinting at his lips.

George bit back a laugh. “Don’t get horny in my chair,” he muttered, eyes trained on the lines he was scaring into Clay. “Speaking of, I heard you got busted up by Punz, and by the looks of it… seems right,” he commented, gesturing to Clay’s eye that seemed to have started fading finally.

Clay let out a dry laugh. “His ribs are still healing,” you added, making George smirk with a shake of his head.

“You know what all that’s about right?” George asked you, taking his foot off the pedal to grab more paper towels from his desk. You looked up at Clay whose jaw tense as he chewed on the toothpick. After you shook your head, George continued. “Punz’s sister is stupidly in love with Dream,” he plopped back in his seat, swiveling his chair, and drawing a hand through his locks, revealing the bleached undersection. You had the fleeting mental image of him tying his hair back to reveal it.

He pulled on a new glove. “Madly in love, huh?” You pried, twisting your chair closer to Clay’s shoulder. Clay rolled his eyes at the fact as if he had been bugged about it for years. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend, Clay,” you teased, and he looked up at you with a tired expression, making you bite back a giggle.

After George finished, you followed Clay through the door, breathing in the fresh air; or as fresh as it could be in the midst of the city’s industrial square. Clay’s fingers knitted together with yours as he led you down an alleyway, flicking aside the toothpick. You chewed on your lip in anticipation before he pinned you against one of the walls. His devious grin sent shivers down your spine as you looked up at him.

You swallowed. “Shouldn’t you take it easy? Let your arm heal a bit?” You asked, voice coming out in a soft whisper as his lips pressed against your neck. “Won’t it hurt a bit with your ribs, too?” Your heart hammered in your chest at the fact that someone could turn the corner and catch the two of you.

He chuckled against your skin, slipping his hands beneath your skirt to grip your ass. “I like the pain,” he mused, tongue grazing against your skin as he pulled your hips against his. He kissed you hungrily as if not being able to press his body against yours for that hour was too much for him. His hand dropped to wrap around the back of your knee, moving his own leg to prop your thigh up against his hip as your hands dug into his hair.

The friction from his jeans made you moan into his mouth as his hand moved beneath your shirt, fingers fitting beneath your bra to palm your breast. He mumbled praises against your lips at how good you made him feel and how beautiful you were.

He turned you, your hands planting against the coarse brick as he ground his hips against you. You bit your lip, trying not to be loud enough to draw attention to the two of you, which seemed to be the last thing on Clay’s mind as you heard him unbuckle his belt behind you. You could practically picture his cocky grin, controlling eyes set as his hand gripped onto your hips, shoving your underwear to the side. “You were so much fun to show off tonight,” he chided darkly, lips brushing against your shoulder. “Such a good girl.”

As he pushed into you, one of his hands moved to knot into your hair. He moaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, tugging on your hair as he pulled your hips back against his. A low grunt tumbled from his lips as he set his rhythm, basking in the fact that you were secretly ready for him to ruin you as soon as you stepped into the parlor.

His fingers moved to wrap around your neck, the thought of his tattooed hand tightening around your pristine skin sent shivers through your body and heat flushing your cheeks, the tension in your body tightening. As he pressed you closer against the wall, you thought about the power he had over you; his height and build would make it easy for him to break you if he wanted, yet even as he pounded into you like he wanted you to forget your own name, the restraint he showed was enough to send you over the edge if you let yourself divulge in the thought.

Clay pulled out of you, only to turn you, your shoulders hitting the wall again with a soft thump as he hoisted you up ever so slightly, thrusting up into you as his hand dig into your thigh, the other resting against the brick beside your head. Your arms looped beneath his jacket, raking down his skin as you held onto him.

He groaned as your thighs tightened around him, making his hips stutter as if he were trying not to let himself finish too early. He dug is face into the crook of your neck, burying his teeth in your neck to stifle his grunts of your name. Your head tilted back against the brick, hand moving to tighten around the wrist that was beside your head for some kind of anchor.

His hand wrapped around your waist, driving himself deeper into you, brushing the part of you that needed him the most. You moaned, carding your fingers into his hair as he pressed his lips to yours roughly, wanting to taste your pleasure as it washed over you from his movements.

You tugged on his hair, making his cock throb inside of you, him finishing inside you with a low groan, his hips snapping against yours to stimulate a reaction from you. The feeling of his sloppy pleasure as his movements lost their rhythm sent your hips grinding against his, his teeth marking your shoulders as a reminder of his work on you.

Your toes curled, finally reaching your orgasm as he murmured dirty expressions of him ruining your pretty clothes against the wall. As he pulled out of you, your knees felt weak, threatening to buckle beneath you. You tried not to give off how much he had trashed you, but the warmth snaking down your thighs and your bliss-ridden mind proved otherwise.

Long story short, the bus ride home was rather interesting.

Dream Taglist: (follow this link to be added :))

@karlkitten @pluto-dizzz @more-like-reyna @honk-izzie-was-taken @marrymetheonott @froggyy06 @ghoulandghost @savingpluto @marshmallow-babe @drunkpumpkincake @unstableye @tinyegg @behzzyboo @darphobic @twist3dtinkerbell @sparkletash @lindsayhunz @shroomieissmall @mintmochiii @clubfairy @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @victory-is-here @rat-poisin

[rcksmith]

Be good — Five Hargreeves.

Requests: “can i get car sex w/five and lots of praise kink tyyyy 💖💖”

“Hi! Could I request smut prompts 11, 22, and 29 as well as fluff 40 for five hargreeves? Ty!”

Smut prompts:

11. “She may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips.”

22. “I’m not going to touch you unless you beg.”

29. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Fluff prompts:

40. “Come cuddle.”

A/N: We not tolerate any pedophilia here !!

I write about Five with their 20s. I write the same about the characters of Harry Potter.

I hope you guys like💖I decided to compile these two requests, since they were the same energy and they prompts connect to a central plot. I added all the elements that were asked for individually, and made sure that all ideas were respected and written down. Good reading.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

Couple: Five Hargreeves / Fem! Reader.

Warnings: explicit smut, degradation, dirty talk, bad words, fluff.

— — — — —

Part of Five thought it was absurd to feel this way, so wrong. You were young, so young, with an adventurous face in your 20s and bright eyes. Full of life and with such a loose spirit. You had that cool breeze with a free soul, a bright smile and, holy mother of God, you had a body that would be the reason why he would be banished from paradise.

There was something about your youthful innocence that clenched Five's teeth, that made him clench fists to control the urges to touch you at any time. This irritated him deeply.

You were so... so... sweet.

So fucking sweet. From your summer dresses, your delicate mouth, doe eyes and silky hair. You looked like a fucking princess and Five wanted to destroy you for that. You didn't look real. It looked like it came out of a fairy tale and it hit something very deep in Five. Oh, he was burning in a very dangerous fire.

Worst of all, you always knew what you were doing with him. And the way you pretend you don't make him even more angry.

Five remembers the exact moment when he threw in the towel, stopped fighting that insane desire and kissed you as if you were the last glass of water in the desert. And all of this was caused by a trigger so simple, ridiculous to be honest.

He gave up control one afternoon, when you were playing cards with Klaus in the living room, you had just won and got up, saying that you were going to get your phone that you were carrying in another room.

“It's hard to try to be mad at her, she's so cute.” Klaus said to Five, making a gesture in the air that represented pinching your cheeks.

If Five's mood hadn't been bad before, it was bad now. He rolled his eyes, hiding the expression on lips when he took a sip of coffee.

“You should learn from her, who knows" Klaus shrugged “She is so nice and you are... well, you are you.” Klaus pointed to Five's entire body, in a teasing of brother.

The deadly look that Five gave his brother made Klaus laugh even more. God, he was an idiot!

“Doesn't she look like those little movie fairies?”

“Is annoying.” Five rolled his eyes.

“It’s cute.” Klaus defended you “But you know, I think it's just superficial.”

That caught Five's attention, and Klaus realized and started to explain.

“She told me that she likes some more ... crude things, if you know what I mean.” Oh, Five understood “She may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips.”

So Five was shipwrecked by Images of you. Tied to the bed, in white lingerie, your lips swollen from using that princess mouth of for something else. The giant wave invaded he mind like a ball of destruction, demolishing the entire barrier of self-control he had struggled to build. Brick by brick.

Five wanted to erase those images from his head, to exclude any universe in which you were on all fours for him, begging for more, with that fucking cute voice of yours.

But no matter how hard he tried, Klaus' words brought endless malicious situations that did not come out of Five’s mind.

So that's when he gave up. It was ridiculous to be controlling yourself like a puritan, like a stupid little boy who didn't know what to do.

And Five knew exactly what wanted to do to you.

Then, that afternoon, he disappeared in front of Klaus in the blue flash and reappeared in the room you were in. You must have said something, but Five didn't hear it, or didn't want to hear it. He just walked up to you, put his hands on your waist and kissed you with all the desire that the world had.

He barely touched you and you were already a modeling clay in he hands, sighing with strong touches, with raw kisses, purring like a kitten.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive." Five whispered against your mouth before he kissed you again.

Five Hargreeves thought that fucking you once would placate that sickly fire that was inside him. But it didn't placate, in fact, it was like pouring gasoline on the fire.

Everything inside him became wilder, more hungry, needy. And that was why he was there, fucking you hard in the car, on an abandoned street.

You moaned loudly, the top of your little red summer dress lowered, exposing your breasts that bounced as you slipped on Five's lap. The air was caustic and pungent, the two of you gasped, sighed, let out toxic and broken moans.

Their bodies clashed as if the world was going to end in that second, and Five did not have the strength to squeeze your hips, pulling you down and up with brutality, pushing him dick deeper into you with every bounce you gave.

“So fucking tight!” He snarled, lowering his left hand to your ass, lifting the fabric of the dress and slapping you.

You contained the cry, pressing your lips against him neck, the tears already burning in your eyes. Five don't slow down the ruthless pace, fucking you with the fury of an animal, as if I've never fucked you before.

“Such a good pussy!” He hand let go of your skin to wrap his fingers in your hair on the back of neck, pulling your face into his, making you receive the moans against your mouth. “I can't get enough of eating you! Good fucking slut!”

You could see the anger, desire, lust and wildness in he eyes. Five wanted to destroy you and, god, you loved it. You let go of that innocent and mysterious smile that left him even more out of control, and Five slapped you down again, but now on your left cheek.

“Don't look like that to me!” He pulled your chin up at him "Otherwise, you're going to get out of here without being able to walk right!"

But it was logical that you did not hear. Truth be told, you were a fucking tease. You liked the game, the hunt, the adrenaline. You liked to play with fire, and Five Hargreeves was not just a flame, but the entire fire.

“Do... do what D-daddy?” You used your best voice, seeing he anger and lust spilling out of he green eyes.

Then you gave that smile again, more neat, more painful and more innocent, and Five snarled like a wild animal that has just come out of captivity. He immediately took you off his lap, taking he dick out of you.

“Go to the fucking backseat. Now!”

You obeyed, going to the backseat and placing yourself on all fours, resting your chest on the seat while lifting your hips.

“You already know how to stand. You are is a little slut, really!” Then a loud slap came on your ass, and you bit your palm to keep from screaming.

“D...Daddy!” You whined.

Five pinned your hair up in a ponytail with he hand, pulling your body back until it was glued and glued to his.

"I'm not going to touch you unless you beg." He snarled in your ear, the hot temperature of he dick an inch from your needy center.

“Please!” You cried “I'm go to be b-good! I promise, daddy!”

“Beg!” One more slap.

“Please!” You rummaged your hips, trying to make any contact. “Please!”

Then Five entered you. Strong, rough, badly and aggressive. He barely gave you time to moan before he started hitting your fragile walls, flooding your eyes with tears that flowed. It was too much stimulation, too much strength, too much desire that made your body want to scream. You and Five had a security password, but you were too horny to want to use it because of the pain.

“So fucking good tis pussy!” Five kept his hand firmly in your hair and the other on your hips, pulling you to his dick. “You have to be a desperate slut to give it to me in the car, don't you?” another slap “Such a needy little slut.”

“Yes, d-daddy!”

Then he continued, relentless. You turned your face to see him, and that was even more of a discharge of electricity between your legs.

Five's coal-black hair was sweaty, clinging to his forehead, with a few droplets running down his firm face. He was without a suit, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his vein-streaked arms, marking the white skin that was covered with a layer of sweat mist.

His green eyes contained all the wildness, fury and lust in the world. He looked like an angry young god. And that took you to the apex.

Five let out a short, husky, sneering laugh at how fast you always came for him, and he increased his movements until he poured the hot liquid as deep as possible into you.

“Your pussy is so good.” He whispered in your ear, slowing you two heartbeat with a few kisses on your shoulder.

Five pulled the suit that was lying on the floor of the car, placing it under you and turning you on top of the cloth, so that the cum dripped on the suit instead of the seat. He watched in lust as the cum poured out of you.

Five pulled the air against his teeth, not controlling himself and leaning towards you, sticking your lips together in an angry kiss.

“You are so hot." You smirked at his comment.

“Where were we even going?” You laughed.

"Home."

You loved how he used the word "home" with you. As if it were the home of the two of you.

“Take a shower and have dinner?” Five nodded, removing a lock of his hair from his face. "And after... we are come cuddle?”

He laughed, shrugging and sticking his lips to yours again.

“If that is going to make you stop talking. Of course, dear.” He grunted playfully on your lips, and you laughed.

God, you loved that man.

[rphelperblog]

BBC Sherlock Rp Meme

Inspired by @desideriusspeaker​

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!"

"Why are you always so suspicious?"

"Should I answer chronologically or alphabetically?"

“You look sad when you think he can’t see you”

"Get out. I need to go to my mind palace."

“Once you open your heart, you can not control it.”

“Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain”

“Brainy is the new sexy.”

“Love is a much more vicious motivator.”

“It’s not the fall that kills you. Of all people, you should know that, it’s not the fall, it’s never the fall. It’s the landing!”

“People leave their bodies to science though I think that cannibals would enjoy it better.”

“Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity.”

“Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama. Your life in a nutshell.”

‘What one man can invent another can discover.’

“Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?”

"What's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

"Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful."

“You, being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”

“There is no ghost in the world save those we make for ourselves.”

“The game is on.”

“We all have a past. Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day.”

“We solve crimes. I blog about it, he forgets his pants. I wouldn’t hold out to much hope.”

“Once the idea is created,  it can be killed.”

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"Oh, I'm sure something will turn up. A nice murder. That'll cheer you up."

“All lives end; all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.”

"In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown."

“Sometimes, to solve a case, you have to solve another.”

“Don’t Talk Out Loud. You Lower The IQ Of The Whole Street."

“If you want to be snarky, at least do the research!”

“Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen. The roads we walk have demons beneath. And yours have been waiting for a very long time.”

"Don't be alarmed. It is to do with sex."

“Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

"Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing."

"I hope you'll be very happy You deserve it. After all, not all men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

‘It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.’

“I’m an army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them.”

‘I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection.’

“No no no no no, if you don’t stop prying… I’ll burn you. I will burn.. the heart out of you.”-

“Stress can ruin every day of your life. Dying can only ruin one.”

“The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege.”

‘I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.’

“Just tea, for me. Thanks.”

- ‘I think that there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge.

“I can’t make bricks without clay.”

"I don't have friends, I've just got one."

"Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do."

“You can’t set a trap without bait.”

“Work is the best antidote to sorrow.”

‘Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.’

"I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket!"

It is my business to know what other people don’t know.’

“Did you miss me?”

I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."

‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’

"It's the frailty of genius. it needs an audience."

The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”

‘I never make exceptions.  An exception disproves the rule.’

‘There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.’ 

‘When a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals.  He has the nerve and he has the knowledge.’ 

"...Murder. Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage. But, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other and it's over when one of them's dead."

"Oh, hell! What does that matter? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference."