#The inspector wears skirts

[movies-tv-more]

Movie Releases for July 9, 2024

[khuantru]

I remember this, this is such a good fun watch 🍿📼

movie: The Inspector Wears Skirts (1988), Part 3 (1990)

Sibelle Hu & Cynthia Rothrock

[omercifulheaves]

The Inspector Wears Skirts (1988)

[oneofusnet]

Digital Noise Episode 337: Digital Warriors Have Come Out To Play DIGITAL NOISE EPISODE 337: DIGITAL WARRIORS HAVE COME OUT TO PLAY John and Chris take on their stack with aplomb and yet don’t see eye to eye on everything this week. From a stack of very different Hong Kong films that range from Police Academy variants to the HK version of Dead Heat, to a gathering of British horror legends that doesn’t quite work out. From a French take on the failures of the Warren Report, to an upgrade to a legendary Warrior cult classic. We got a lot to tell you about this week. All titles were sent to… Read More »Digital Noise Episode 337: Digital Warriors Have Come Out To Play read more on One of Us

[boardsdonthitback]

Cynthia Rothrock, Jeff Falcon - The Inspector Wears Skirts (1988)

[madamshogunassassin]

The Inspector Wears Skirts IV 92霸王花與霸王花 [1992] Directed By: Wellson Chin

[baddawg94]

[cultfaction]

Preview: The Inspector Wears Skirts 2 (Bluray)

Hong Kong’s toughest team of fearless lady cops are back on the beat! These female furies are forced to take on both their male counterparts in a battle of the sexes and a team of foreign mercenaries. Action legend Jackie Chan’s lethal ladies include Shaw Brothers icon Wai Yin-hung (‘My Young Auntie’), Sibelle Hu (‘Fong Sai Yuk’) and the bodacious Amy Yip (‘Robotrix’). The film’s stunning action…

[shotmrmiller]

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

[bonbonly]

need a continuation of college au Charles actually taking away your panties because you’re so wet all the time fully knowing it’s because of him. Maybe he’ll plug your pussy up instead telling you that it’s just a treatment but the entire day (or days he plugs you) you’re squirming with every step not able to think about anything else. When you’re back with him for a check he plays with the plug a little making you so wet that he decides he needs to ‘drain’ you making you squirt

i actually started crying out loud reading this, anon, im actually so down bad now for college au charles leclerc and im not even a leclerc girlie pLEASE bon thoughts (18+)

poor you. you listened to collegeau!charles leclerc during the inspection and told yourself to not get wet. it was wrong! but every night when you went back to your dorm, all you could do was think about his fingers inside you, or his big cock bullying your cunt. he told you it was part of the procedure, but why did you want more?

charles is extremely cocky now that he knows he's the reason you keep drenching your panties, and he decides to tease you further. he knows you'll come back for him, so he doesn't have to worry too much about being safe with the boundaries and whatnot. besides, you promised to keep your pretty mouth shut and never tell a soul about what happens in the exam room. after all, both of you had a reptutation to maintain!

he takes your panties, telling you to never wear one from now on and to only ever wear skirts so that if you ever bend over in the library, everyone should see how your cunt is crying to be filled up, but no one would be allowed to touch. only he had that privilege. you nod your head at whatever he says, trusting him completely. he was the inspector, of course he knew better than you! he pulls out a small plug from his bag, and brings up to your mouth asking you to suck on it like you would to a lollipop. you nervously do so, looking at him to make sure you were doing it properly and once its wet enough he shoves it inside you, loving the way your back was arching already.

"whats this for?" you ask, furrowing your brows.

"just a check, really. you'll have to wear it until i see you next time, though. don't take it off at all, mon ange," charles instructs you.

the next time that you see him, you're whining and fussing. you're being a bit of a brat, squirming in your seat and begging him to take the plug out of you,

"i hate it! i hate it! it just feels so.... ugh," you whine out loud, bucking your hips in the air. you were chasing after something but you didn't know what. charles takes his gloves off, chucking them in a trash can nearby and rolls his chair over to where you're sitting. he taps your thighs, signaling for you to spread your legs under that miniskirt you were wearing and he's delighted to see that a) you weren't wearing panties and b) your cunt was squeezing that plug, your juices dripping down like a thunderstorm. he pulls the plug out just a few millimeters before shoving it back in you, and you're actually sobbing now,

"charles, no, no, no, please! please!"

"please what?" charles asks, and you shake your head,

"i... i dunno," you reply, your head falling back onto the bed with a thud as tears flow down your cheeks. he glances at the door behind him, making sure the room was locked before unbuttoning his shirt and taking it off of him.

"there's just too much, chérie, you're just too wet," he whispers against your cunt, toying more with the plug. your cunt keeps clenching around the toy, begging to have some relief because the torture you went through in a week was just too much for your poor little brain. charles takes the plug out for good, listening to your whimpers. he watch your hole pucker up at the cold air and he smiles, draping your legs over his shoulders. just the touch of his warm skin against yours makes you moan, wishing he'd do something about your aching pussy, that couldn't be normal right? he had to have some procedure for this!

"i might have to drain you out," charles looks up slightly to meet your eyes, and you're nodding your head,

"yes, yes, anything, charles, just do something!"

he's smirking at your reaction, mumbling to himself how desperate you were but it doesn't reach your ears because his tongue is licking long stripes against your folds. you moan out loud, bucking your hips up but charles holds you down against the table as his licks grow deeper, deeper into your hole. his nose rubs against your clit, and the small stubble he has on his chin prickles the inside of your thighs, making you jolt at each move of his head.

"i should've done the taste test weeks ago," he grunts, sucking your clit before flicking it with his tongue, "oh you taste divine, you taste amazing."

his tongue dances down to your entrance, and he bobs his head as he does so, watching you writhe above him as he adds two fingers. he's hell bent on seeing you come undone for good. he's picking up his pace, adding a third finger and pumping them faster inside you. he moves his head away to get a good look at your reactions, mouth wide open as your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. he has a thumb rubbing hard circles on your clit as he's curling his fingers right where you need him the most.

"c-charles! w-wait, oh my!" you're shrieking, feeling something grow inside of you that you didn't even think was possible. it was different than the feeling like last time, but this felt more intense. charles didn't stop his relentless assault and instead went right back to harshly sucking your clit as his fingers danced inside you.

and with a large scream, you're squirting all over his fingers, watching his mouth chase after your liquids, lapping at whatever he could taste as his fingers kept going. you look down to see his face covered in your juices, some of them dribbling down his bare chest. his lips are parted ever so slightly and he's licking them and biting the inside of his cheek, "I think we can do one more, right chérie?"

[handeaux]

They Built This City: Some Early Women Contractors Made Their Mark In Cincinnati

On Marburg Avenue in Oakley today there stands a house built in 1907. The house, like others in that neighborhood, appears to be well kept and still in very good condition after more than a century. There is nothing obvious to distinguish the house from any other along that stretch of Marburg Avenue. There is no clue that this house was built entirely by a woman.

Her name was Sarah Pollock and she was around 40 when she single-handedly built the house on what was then called McCormick Road. She was inspired to build her own house by herself because she had survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Sarah told the Cincinnati Post [10 January 1907]:

“Since passing through that terrible ordeal you could never get me to live in a house that I did not know was properly built. My house is put up to stay. I wouldn’t be afraid to live in it during the heaviest earthquake.”

Sarah was married to Hiram Pollock, who was an engineer at a company that manufactured industrial scales. He helped out somewhat during construction, but readily conceded to the Post that Sarah was the boss.

“Mrs. Pollock . . . managed the purchase of the half-acre lot where their home will stand; she drew the plans for the house, and submitted them to the Building Inspector for his approval; she purchased the cement for the concrete foundation and helped to lay the foundation; she selected the lumber, and is now putting it into place, and she is going to put the paint on the house, too. The only things she will not do will be to put on the plastering and to fit the plumbing.”

And, Sarah built this house while wearing an ankle-length skirt. The Post reporter suggested that perhaps bloomers might have been more appropriate attire for a construction site, but Sarah would have none of it:

“A good old skirt and waist are good enough for me.”

Although the Post called Sarah “the only woman carpenter and house builder in Ohio,” that was certainly not the case. Just a few months after checking in with Sarah Pollock, the Post profiled Carrie Wiley. Although not as hands-on as Mrs. Pollock, Mrs. Wiley managed the construction company she inherited when her husband died in the spring of 1907. At Joseph R. Wiley’s demise, he was under contract to build seven houses in the Hyde Park vicinity and those houses were in various stages of completion. His widow had to go to probate court to get permission to allow her to finish the jobs. She told the Post that she had completed those projects and now had ten buildings under construction, including a couple of apartment units.

Carolyn Levina McGowen Wiley, known as Carrie, was described by the Post as:

“ . . . a little woman, who fairly bristles with business-like activity. She talks rapidly, but only when necessary. Apparently she is one of the very few persons who actually think twice before they speak.”

Throughout her husband’s illness, Carrie Wiley oversaw some of the construction projects he had started. Consequently, she had some experience managing gangs of workmen. She was on-site frequently and did not have to remind her workers that she was the boss.

“She not only manages the business affairs of her calling, but goes out on the job and personally inspects the work. If a workman is doing a bad job, she tells him so. If things are not running smoothly, she finds out why. If she thinks it advisable she adds a word of praise and cheer now and then, for she believes it pays to show appreciation of loyalty and honest service.”

Carrie found nothing at all unusual about a woman managing a construction company. She described her role as a necessary occupation to provide for her four children.

“Why shouldn’t there be woman contractors? Women have entered many other fields of industry. There are even women engineers. In the professions, women are quite numerous. So when it fell to my lot to take up the work my dead husband left off, I resolved not only to do it as best I could, but to learn a little more each day. I have got to the point now where I have actually been turning down work.”

Another Cincinnati woman who took on the job of general contractor after her husband’s funeral was Elizabeth Moser. Born in Germany, Mrs. Moser emigrated to the United States and married Joseph Moser in 1880. With him, she had seven children. When Joseph died in 1910, Mrs. Moser inherited his construction company and ran it until her death in 1928. It appears that business was good. Mrs. Moser and her daughter indulged in an extensive tour of Germany in 1923.

When Berl R. Davis celebrated a successful first year in business as a building contractor in 1930, the Cincinnati Post declared her to be “Cincinnati’s only woman building contractor.” By then Sarah Pollock, Carrie Wiley and Elizabeth Moser were either retired or dead, so the field was open for Mrs. Davis.

The 33-year-old contractor had quite a career before opening her own business in 1929. Born in Kentucky, she was widowed at 23 with an infant son. She made headlines in 1923 when she became the first woman to apply for a Cincinnati taxicab license.

When Mary Emery decided to create the brand-new town of Mariemont, Mrs. Davis opened a field kitchen for the construction crews engaged in building the city. One of her customers was the project manager, Colonel Leo Townsend. He taught Mrs. Davis to read blueprints and discussed the details of the project with her. Once the new city was built and inhabited, Mrs. Davis opened a tearoom that quickly failed, so she decided to go into housebuilding.

She formed a partnership with an existing contractor and the company successfully built and sold 40 homes. Dissolving the partnership and striking out on her own, Mrs. Davis constructed a dozen homes during her first year in business and had three more in progress when she celebrated her first anniversary.

By the 1960s, houses designed or built by woman contractors boasted a strong selling point, and that fact was trumpeted in the real estate advertisements.

[ceilingfan5]

"Yeah I’m fully understanding the murder part, just not why you’re the one who needs to solve it??"

“So you’re not like, a cop? You gotta tell me, you know, legally you gotta tell me, if you’re a fuckin’ cop, my man.” Taako folds his arms, his shirt with the piñata fringe making this look a lot less serious than he intended. 

“I swear to you, I am not a cop,” Detective Kravitz says. “See, it says so, on my business card.” He hands Taako a business card with shiny red lettering on matte black, KRAVITZ. Private Detective for Hire. Not a cop. 

Taako flips it over. On the back is a glossy magnifying glass, highlighting his phone number. Taako snickers and pockets it. He tugs his holographic cargo skirt back up and squints at Kravitz. Kravitz poses awkwardly, trying to look serious, but not too serious, but not too unprofessional. Dork. Taako wants to eat him.

“Yeah, okay. You’re too stylish to be a cop.”

Kravitz beams, which makes Taako feel really warm suddenly. He shouldn’t be blushing. He kind of forgot he still could. 

“Anyway, I was wondering if you had any-”

“Hot clues, Scooby-doo?” Taako teases. He hops up to sit on the counter and surveys his thrift store kingdom. He crosses his legs, and watches Kravitz catch an enticing flash as he kicks his legs up. That’s right, dork, look. Look allll you want. 

“Ah, I was going to say insight, any insight into the murders committed outside your loading dock last night?”

“Aw shit, there were murders? I’m gonna barf.” Taako tries really hard to look distressed. This is sort of difficult, because he was the one who sort of exsanguinated those assholes. And they didn’t even taste that good. 

“I,” Kravitz blinks, taking out a notebook, and pulling a sleek black pen from behind his ear. God, this idiot is cute. It isn’t fair. “I was under the impression you were the one who called it in?”

“Um, nah,” Was he? Fuck. No, no, uh, he made someone else do it. Who was working this morning. “I think Magnus found ‘em, he was pretty shocked.” 

“Oh, sorry, I thought-” Kravitz scrawls something on his dumb little notebook. “Remind me your name, then, if you don’t mind?”

“Taako,” Taako says, instantly regretting not choosing an alias. He is sort of wearing a nametag, though. Not that he has to cooperate with this investigation. “Do we really have to talk about this? I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Taako, but I’m trying to solve this murder.” 

"Yeah I’m fully understanding the murder part, just not why you’re the one who needs to solve it?" 

“Well,” Kravitz puts down his notebook, pausing. He chews something over in his head. “I don’t want to say anything untoward about the police, but,” and then he looks at Taako pointedly, and Taako snorts. 

“Yeah, I mean, you’re right, but weren’t they like. Trying to break into the place? They-” Whoops, don’t incriminate your own dumb vampire ass! “Magnus said they had guns?” 

“Good to know,” Kravitz says, pointedly writing something else down. Taako sweats. He smells really good. Like, really good. Why the fuck does he have to be playing Inspector Gadget? Can’t he come keep Taako warm at night instead? 

“Anyway, I gotta put out some more inventory. Treasure Adventure isn’t gonna thrift itself.” And he hops off the counter. Kravitz looks at him, mouth a funny line. 

“Taako, are board games with missing pieces and bead purses from 2005 more important than lives, snuffed out, by some kind of murderer?” 

“Lot of other kinds of people snuffing out lives these days?” Taako snaps. “You wanna say monsters or dickheads next?” 

“Taako, is there anything you want to elaborate on?”

“No, I don’t think there is,” Taako says firmly. “Maybe I’m just feeling unsafe in my workplace, asshole, you ever think of that? It’s terrifying to- be- here! I gotta keep selling garbage? For minimum wage? Where something like that happened! What if those guys were coming to stick the place up and I was the one that got murdered, would you be as persistent about that case, Columbo?” 

“Yes,” Kravitz says, eyes wide. His heart is pounding more about the awkward situation than it was about the dead bodies. He has a little arrhythmia. It’s kind of cute. “Of course I would.”

Taako throws his hands in the air and exclaims wordlessly, and marches off, which is the only way he saw out of the conversation. Kravitz, to his credit, stands there looking sweaty, and then goes to bother another employee instead. 

Taako hides in the breakroom and pretends he doesn’t feel weird about it. He pretends he doesn’t care about it at all. 

Funny, how things might have been different if someone had cared to look into what happened when he died. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that. He wants to think about seducing that trenchcoat-wearing loser away from the lawful side. Yeah, that’s it. For sure.

[misssharrington]

— ✧ ˚ · girl of steel !!

. . . ࿐ྂ ❝ one | the morning after ❞

wattpad | playlist

The creaking of the train echoed through the emptied carriage of the early morning. Passing lights of tunnels and the sunrise shone through the windows, softly coating my face in faint warmth. I sat in the seat closest to the door, resting my aching head against the glass as I took in my reflection.

My black bra was perfectly visible through my barely-there top. The mini-skirt I wore had ridden up more than you could possibly imagine, lace stockings unclipped and hanging around my shins. I held my black heeled pumps in my hands. Any makeup I had worn the night before was rubbed off, the only remaining remnants being the black eyeliner smeared over my eyes, and glitter along my cheekbones and all in my hair. I couldn't tell if it was the train glass making my reflection all distorted or what was leftover in my system.

I sat with my legs tucked into myself, fading in and out of sleep. I rubbed my eyes with my hands groggily, debating whether I should stay on this train instead of going home.

There were a handful of people in the same carriage as me. A middle aged man seemed to wear a perverted smirk as he ogled me. I stuck my middle finger up at him, and his expression turned sour. I laughed at his reaction. Across from me, a concerned mother was trying to keep her son as away from me as possible.

The carriage doors opened and a ticket inspector came walking through. I cursed under my breath and went to get up, but there were too few people around to distract him from my movement. 

"Ticket?" He asked me. 

"Um, yeah." I replied hesitantly, feeling around my non-existent pockets for a ticket.

The inspector stood impatiently in front of me, tapping his foot on the metal floor. The pervert smirked at my obvious trouble. 

"Miss, if you don't have a ticket, I'm going to have to fine you." He told me. 

"Please don't do that." I asked tiredly, my voice hoarse from last night. 

He sighed. "If you pay for a ticket now, I won't fine you."

I groaned. 

"What's the problem?" He asked. 

"I don't have any money." I told him, cringing my face at his reaction.

"I'm going to have to fine you." He told me sternly. 

"Listen, man-" I began, before I was interrupted. 

"I can pay!" A boy not so far from me intruded on the situation. 

"Young man, this is her problem, not yours." The ticket inspector told him. 

"No, really, it's okay. I can pay for her ticket." The boy insisted. 

The inspector looked between him and I suspiciously. I shrugged at him, just as confused as he was. 

He sighed. "Alright." 

The boy paid for the ticket, and the inspector begrudgingly left. The boy handed the ticket to me with an awkward smile. 

He looked about my age, with dark hair and a dorky lopsided smile. 

"Thanks..." I trailed off, waiting for his name. 

"Tim." He told me sweetly. 

"Tim. Thanks, again." I said. 

"No problem..." He waited for me to do the same. 

"Bianca." I told him. 

"Bianca." He repeated, the name sounding melodic on his lips. 

"That was really nice of you." I said to him truthfully.

"It was really no problem. Don't worry about it." He told me. 

We well into a silence next to each other. The only noise between us was the train bumping on the old tracks. 

"So," I began, "where are you headed?"

"School." Tim told me. 

"Cool." I nodded my head. "Me too."

He tilted his head in slight confusion. "Does your school not have a dress code?"

"Watch." I told him, standing up. I put on the jumper I was carrying with me, which covered my whole chest. I pulled my skirt down so it wasn't so short, clipped my stockings back, and put my shoes on. 

"Ta da!" I said in a sing songy voice, my appearance now more presentable. 

"Cool party trick." He said, grinning. 

"Thanks!" I smiled back. 

The train pulled into my station. I felt a pang of annoyance that my conversation with Tim had to be cut short. 

"This is me." I said. 

"Oh." He hummed lowly. "Well, have fun at school."

"See you round Tim. I owe you. For the ticket, I mean." I told him, smirking. 

"Yeah, you do." He retorted, a glint in his eyes. 

I chucked to myself, stepping off of the train and into the dingy station. As it began to leave, I looked back to the carriage. He was looking back at me. I sucked in my cheeks, watching the train leave, butterflies in my stomach. I shook my head at myself, snapping out of my own silly thoughts.

As I entered the school's office, the lady who worked there didn't lift her head to acknowledge me. She continued to tap her long-nailed fingers on her keyboard in front of her. I cleared my throat, and she looked up. 

"Hi." I waved at her innocently. 

"You're late." She told me blankly. 

"I know, I'm here to sign in." I told her.

"You can only sign in if you have a reason to be late." She said. 

"I had a doctors appointment." I said, lying through my teeth.

"Did you now?" She replied sarcastically. 

"Yeah?" I said, unsure of how well this was going. 

She said nothing, and handed me a plastic ziplock bag. 

"Aw, why?" I moaned at her.

"You're late. Again." She ground through her teeth, tapping her pen on her desk in annoyance.

I huffed as I emptied out my pockets. I put my phone and lipgloss into the bag, and handed it back to the lady. She raised her eyebrow at me, and crossed her arms. 

"Fine." I sighed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter I had hidden in my bra. I put them in the bag and sealed it up. The lady snatched it out of my hands. 

"Collect it at the end of the day." She told me, before turning her back on me, and continuing to do her work. 

I rolled my eyes at her, and walked to class. 

The hallways were empty and dim. Lifeless is the word I would use. This was Bakerline Prep, a reform school for troubled teens. I had been expelled from school a couple of months ago, and admitted into this institution not long after. It was a prison for sixteen year olds - literally. Everything was clinical. All the rooms were white. All the desks were metal. Any sharp edges were harm proofed. There weren't even locks on bathroom doors. 

I came up to the classroom, and peeked through the glass of the door. I debated running away and hiding in a closet somewhere. Sighing, I opened the door with a creak. 

"Bianca, you're late." The teacher told me. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I grumbled, and made my way to my seat through a maze of sullen faces. 

The teacher continued to speak, and I sunk down in my seat, overcome with boredom. I hung my head backwards, looking at the boy behind me. 

"Hi." I whispered to Luke. 

He leaned forward, smirking at me. 

"You should be paying attention." Luke teased. "You've already missed the first half of the lesson."

"You should be paying attention." I said. "Otherwise you'll get held back another year."

He kicked my chair and I giggled. 

"Pass these around the classroom." The teacher began. "Please write your name and age. Read through and tick the boxes of what sounds interesting to you. We will do our hardest to get you placements according to your preferences." He droned on, reading the lesson plan from a sheet of paper through his thickly rimmed glasses. 

The sheet of paper was passed back to me. I wasn't paying enough attention to know what was happening. I looked back to Luke for help. 

"Placement year forms." He told me. I continued to stare at him, not knowing what that was. 

"Work experience." He simplified it. I made an 'o' shape with my mouth, understanding. 

I read the form in front of me, tapping my pen on the metal desk. The chairs and desks were firmly screwed into the ground, so no one can try and throw them. I learned the hard way. 

I began to fill in all the forms. Name: Bianca Romano. Age: 16.

I put my hand up, and the teacher came over. 

"Can I have a pen reader?" I asked him. 

"Yeah, sure." He told me, and handed me one from his desk drawer, with some headphones.

I plugged them in and dragged the reader over each word. It repeated them into the headphones, reading the words out to me, rather than me trying to struggle through my dyslexia. 

Write reports. No.

Work in an office. No. 

Work with animals. I ticked that box.

Take care of children. Hell no.

Act in a TV show or movie. I didn't tick it. I wouldn't like those many cameras on me all at once. 

Write for a newspaper. Newspaper? I stared at that option, hesitantly ticking the box. I didn't even think people read newspapers anymore. Maybe the workload would be minimal. 

I made my way through the rest of the list, leaving the remaining boxes blank. These were all terrible, but I didn't expect any respectively good companies to want troubled children with criminal records working for them. 

I looked around once I was done, realising I was the last one in the empty classroom. I stood up and handed the paper to the teacher, and left. 

"Hey." I heard someone call me. I turned around, to see Luke following me into the school garden. 

"Hey yourself." I said, sitting on one of the tables outside, resting my feet on the seat attached to it. 

He came to stand in front of me, and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. Luke offered me one, and I accepted. He lit it for me with a grin. I eyed him cautiously. He was tall, and handsome, and he had a sharp smile that cut like a knife. 

"What did you do to your hair?" Luke asked, brushing his fingers through my blue streaked blonde locks. 

"I dyed it." I told him, bored. 

"It looks... distinctive." He struggled to find the words. 

"Thanks." I said dismissively, having no care for his opinion. 

"What did you pick for your placement?" He asked me, switching the conversation.

"Animals and newspaper." I told him. 

"Newspaper?" Luke laughed at me. 

"What?" I asked.

"Why would you pick newspaper?" He asked, confused.

"Like Sex In The City!" I defended myself.

"You know that involves, like, actually doing something." Luke teased me.

"No, really? I thought I would tick the box and suddenly the newspaper fairies would appear and carry me to an office far far away." I replied sarcastically. He rolled his eyes at me. 

"I didn't realise I don't meet your standards for work placements." I told him, feigning innocence. "God forbid I'm even seen with you in public." I said, getting up to leave. 

"C'mon, I was only messing around." He said, moving in front of me so I don't leave. I tilted my head at him, annoyed. He brushed his hands over my shoulders, down to my waist. 

"I'm only playing, don't be mad." Luke said charmingly. His cropped brown hair glinted more auburn in the midday sunlight. 

I gathered the material of his shirt in my hands and pulled him forward, so his face was close to mine. 

"Don't be fucking rude." I told him sweetly.

I put out my cigarette on the sleeve of his jacket, and went to leave for the cafeteria. I felt my stomach begin to rumble in hunger. Luke stayed where he was, but gave me some money for food. 

"Drop me home later?" I asked, fluttering my eyelashes. 

"Always." He told me. 

I smiled, pleased with his answer. I wasn't exactly asking. 

I thanked Luke with a kiss for driving me all the way home. He had asked to come up to my room, but I hadn't let him. It wasn't that I didn't like him - I was just embarrassed of what my life would look like compared to his. Luke was from the Luthor family - his father was the CEO of LexCorp. They shit gold. 

And me? They wouldn't touch my gold with a ten foot pole. 

It was something I didn't want to think about. Luke lived with his father in a penthouse apartment that had more bathrooms than I could count on one hand. And I lived in one small flat with my family of eight, with three bedrooms between us. 

I made my way up the stairs to our apartment, and bumped into Camilla, my younger sister. 

"Where are you going?" I asked her, eyeing her blue and yellow cheer uniform.

"I have a pep rally." She said, brushing her curly brown hair out of her face, barely looking at me. 

The sound of Luke's expensive car leaving the street echoed through the tattered building doors.  We watched the car drive away through the glass. Camilla scoffed at his obnoxiousness.

"Why do you even hang out with him?" She scoffed. "Oh, that's right. He's rich, and single, and male. Of course you'd throw yourself at him." My sister smirked at me viciously. 

I held back my anger at her comment. "Good luck at your pep rally, Cami. And good luck on the top of the pyramid. Hopefully you don't slip, fall and break your neck." I told her sweetly, venom lacing my tone. 

"Whatever." She said, storming off down the stairs. 

I arrived at our door, and knocked, not having my keys. No one answered. I tried the door handle, and it was unlocked. If we ever get robbed, we'd probably deserve it. But I pity the robber that comes into our apartment looking for anything nice at all. 

I walked into the kitchen, sighing when I saw Tina, my older sister. 

"You look like shit." She told me, eyeing my appearance like a vulture. 

"Not all of us can be perfect like you." I told her, looking her up and down. Her hair was straightened, dark silky waves falling down her back. Her makeup was perfectly done, and her workwear was pristine. 

"Where were you last night?" She asked me. 

I got a bowl out of a cupboard and poured myself some cereal. I huffed when there was only scraps left in the bag for me to have. 

"I was at church." I told her sarcastically.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at my lack of an answer.

"I ran into Cami in the hallway." I mentioned, pouring some milk into the bowl. Tina nodded uninterested. "She still hates me." I continued. 

"You did have sex with her boyfriend." She bit back. 

I slammed the milk down on the counter angrily, splitting the bottom of the plastic bottle. 

"He is not her boyfriend!" I shouted. "He never was!"

"Jesus, Bianca-" Tina began.

"I had sex with someone she wanted to and she's still sore I got there first, and now she's a massive bitch to me every second of my life and everyone defends her!" I continued to shout. 

Tina stared at me, quiet. "Having tantrums about your mistakes won't fix things." She told me lowly. 

I sucked my cheeks in with anger, pursing my lips and sticking my middle finger up at her. She rolled her eyes at my behaviour, ignoring me. I turned to storm out of the room. 

"Your cereal?" Tina reminded me. 

"Why the fuck would I want the scraps left for the least favourite child?" I retorted, hurt lacing my words. 

I got to my room and slammed the door shut, loudly. 

I was so overcome with anger, I grabbed a pillow from my bed and screamed into it. I smashed it with my fists until I became tired, and lay on my bed in defeat. Everything was so shit. The world was tinted in a permanent grey. I didn't know how much longer I could take it.

remember to like and reblog !!

[theriverspath]

Ineffable May 2024, Day 17: Inspector Constable

Rated General Audience

Muriel gently closed the book they'd been balancing on their lap, and ran their hand over the cover.  The distressed human faces printed in shades of gray were such a contrast to the bright rainbow lettering used for the title. The angel noticed how stark the white of their trousers looked behind it, and their gaze wandered over to their equally colorless helmet hanging from the hat rack. From this angle, they could just make out the large badge affixed to the front.

There had been little to do once Mr. Fell had left with the Metatron. Even though they'd so desperately wanted to explore this little piece of Earth, Muriel had been reluctant to leave the shop unattended until they received further instructions as to their new role here. So, they set to learning about this world through what was readily available around them: books. This particular one had shed light on a specific interaction they'd had with the coffee shop human just after their arrival.

Get out. Now.

No wonder Nina had been angry when they'd asked her about her love life. Muriel had been so excited to try out their human disguise in service to Heaven. But after reading about the complicated relationship some humans had with the ones they'd been ordered to emulate, they weren't so sure they wanted to continue wearing it.

Muriel thought hard about what to do. They'd been told to adopt the Inspector Constable persona to observe Mr. Fell and his demon friend, but that didn't seem applicable anymore. Maybe they should miracle their Heavenly uniform? That didn't feel quite right, either. They weren't in Heaven anymore.

Instead, they thought about the way the humans of Whickber Street dressed: a riot of textures and patterns and colors. Muriel didn't know how the humans even managed to create all the different combinations, but they wanted to give it a try.

The book made a thunk as the angel hastily deposited it on Mr. Fell's desk. Their shoes clomped up the stairs, and across the upper landing until they reached a door tucked between two bookcases. They'd discovered Mr. Fell's Room for Human Clothes not long after he'd left, but hadn't explored it. Afterall, they wore the same miracled outfit every day. They'd had no need for that sort of thing ... until now.

The door swung inward at their touch, and a pleasantly sharp, floral scent wafted over them. Muriel took a step forward, not even noticing the way their feet sunk into a luxuriously deep carpet. The twinkling crystal chandelier above them was also ignored. Their entire attention was on the seemingly endless collection of artfully organized and displayed garments.

Wooden shelves and cabinets glowed under tastefully hidden lights. Within them were neatly stacked or hung all manner of shirts, trousers, skirts, dresses, jackets, coats, robes, shoes, boots, sandals, and hats. The styles and shapes ranged from simple to extravagant, but the colors all fell within muted creams, grays, or blues.

A few were displayed on life-sized mannequins inside glass-fronted cases. Muriel walked past one with puffed-out short trousers and a white frill around the neck. Another featured a jacket with a line of buttons down the front and lace spilling out from underneath huge cuffs. These looked special somehow, and they thought it best to leave them alone.

Muriel trailed their fingers along the clothing as they walked, admiring how the different fabrics felt to the touch. They wondered if Mr. Fell would mind if they miracled some to look more like the outfits worn by the humans who walked by the bookshop every day. They were considering what they could try in the color orange when they caught movement in the edge of their vision. They spun around, ready to apologize to Mr. Fell for even thinking about making changes to his...

Muriel stopped short when they realized the person they saw was moving along with them. It took a moment to register that they were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Is this what my corporation looks like? There were no mirrors in Heaven, and they hadn't really paid attention to the transparent reflections they'd made in the various store front windows they'd encountered outside. Muriel twisted around, trying to see their current body from every angle. They decided they liked the look of it, and really wanted to decorate it with something other than white. Muriel turned their back to the mirror, scanning the clothes in their immediate vicinity for something to modify.

Right, they thought to themself. Time to stop being Inspector Constable. Time to start being ... me.

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prompt list

[starkraivennemad]

Just a Little Push

Universe looked upon the two men and as they pretended not to stare at each other and shook its proverbial head.

*[Yes, I’ve been busy, but it has been eons. Have they not progressed further yet? Oh, we have made him cold – perhaps too cold? Time for a gentle push – thirsty much?]*

“You, Detective Inspector, are quite a different officer of the law than most.” Mycroft Holmes declared as he took a sip of water.

Mycroft had made his deductions about the man upon first sight: an honest cop who believes in the law, no nonsense, patient, hard worker, loyal, an everyday man – all of which were correct. Then made further presumptions from there: easily manipulated, unintelligent, lacking in guile, just another goldfish - all of which were wrong. Still, after years of knowing the man, Mycroft realized he really did not know him at all.

Could he be a friend? He had not truly tried, until now.

*[And as for you, little one… He may not quite see you – yet, but I know you are starting to see him. Stop eating and see him some more.]*

D.I. Greg Lestrade, about to take a bite of food, placed his fork down at the tone. “Oh?”

Their random, short terse meetings in darkened carparks or walks from coffee carts had over the years morphed to sit down dinners in restaurants. That was good. And while Greg no longer felt animosity towards the man, he would not delude himself into thinking the jaded, uber erudite, ridiculously posh man considered him anything other than a cog in the wheel among the many gears in that brain of his. Holmes had far too much class than to say the words, but a lot I am right and better was heavily implied. Greg sat back and waited for what he sure was too be another the veiled insult.

*[Now. Rewind and fix that.]*

“Apologies. It was not meant as censure or detraction, Lestrade.” Mycroft how his words were taken. “I find myself-curious. It is my experience many officers of the law fall into categories: the hard core, black/white, everyone is guilty, self-appointed judge, jury and sentencing. Or the jaded, lackadaisical pencil pusher, just enough pride left to not embarrass the wearing of the badge, but no longer care. Then there is you: you obey the law and protect it but, as working with my brother 0who shall we say regularly skirts that fine line with legalities- proves, you are not enslaved by it. And you care. Not just for your fellow officers, but for the people as well. Inspector Lestrade, you care.”

There was something in Mr. Holmes’ tone. There was no sarcasm in it. No imminent caring is not an advantage malarkey to be said. If anything, there was a note of admiration in his voice. That was something Greg could not recall ever sensing from the man before. Still, so years of being wary around the man was not something easily relinquished.

Could he be a friend? He had not truly tried, until now.

“I do. I cannot and will not speak for my fellow officers, each travel their own paths, but on mine I have not forgotten that I serve the people, not the other way around.” Lestrade half ducked his head as he smiled. “Yes, I am stickler for the law, but I am not arresting a desperate mother for stealing a few eggs to feed her babies until her benefits kick in the next day or because the nearest food bank is too far away. Sometimes we shouldn't apply the law but must apply humanity.” Greg shrugged. “I had, and continue to have, one of the top conviction rates for a D.I. even without your brother’s help. I get there, just not as fast as you two super brainiacs. Still, I’m smart enough to know when lives and time are of essence, to use the tools available to get the job done – even if the tools is often – a tool.” He and Mycroft exchanged small smiles at that. “C’est la vie. As long as we have the right person in jail, with a conviction that sticks, I am not vain enough to care about that, Mr. Holmes. When it comes Sherlock and getting the job done, I overlook a lot.” Greg gave Mycroft pointed look.

“Ah, you know about that case then. I’d wondered.” Mycroft nodded to himself.

“If I knew, what I think you think I knew, which I don’t – I also didn’t knew by the time I may have come to knew it on my own, remember: slow brain, but gets there – I also knew I would not be able to prove what I didn’t knew I didn’t knew and to what point to knew it then? Therefore You. Sherlock. Sally. And especially I. Knew. Nothing, Mr. Holmes.”

*[Oh enough of that – don’t you think?]*

Mycroft gave a short huff at wording. Everything in the man’s tone told Mycroft the officer knew everything.

“Mr. Holmes. Sounds so formal, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Mycroft raised his wine glass, “You may call me Mycroft.”

*[Your turn.]*

Greg smiled at the genuineness in the offer and raise his wine glass. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sounds so formal. I have a first name; I know you know it - use it.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

Clinking glasses, both men felt the change in tone between them as each wondered if they might be friends someday after all.

*[Oh, MUCH better! Now what ‘coincidences’ were we having near Brisbane again…?.]*

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