#You could say the game is afoot

[mostly-imagines]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed to hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[tgcg]

an open fly walking

i didnt like this one but i thought id finally air it out since its been sat in my folders for months now

TG: hey karkat

CG: YEAH?

===

TG: you ever noticed you like

TG: walk weird

CG: WOW, OKAY.

CG: HAVE *YOU* EVER NOTICED THAT I DON'T GIVE A SHIT?

TG: pff

===

TG: no listen because i got my ears scoping that shit im like a scouter for dude activity

TG: ok maybe me mentioning it to you is gonna fuck up your ecosystem or something but

TG: you have the heaviest feet of the century man

CG: I DO???

TG: just thrust them straight down into the ground like youre trying to homebrew a san andreas fault

TG: viciously tamping on tectonic plates hoping for top score on the richter scale

TG: waging war against solid particles and the basic flow of gravity

TG: i could ID those footfalls out of a million i mean it

CG: SERIOUSLY?

===

TG: i mean theres nothing wrong with it but

TG: yeah

CG: I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU'RE FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW.

TG: im not fucking with you striders honor

TG: when have i ever lied to anybody about anything

CG: NOT UNPACKING THAT QUESTION WITH YOU TODAY.

CG: BUT SHIT, HOLD ON. LET ME SEE.

TG: yeah take the umbrella go over there and just walk to me

CG: ON IT.

===

===

TG: see you just kinda slam em straight down dude

CG: THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY RIOTOUS FUCKING JOKE OF A LIFE.

TG: dont your feet ache

===

CG: MOOT POINT. THIS MIGHT SOUND INSANE BUT I'VE ACTUALLY HAD MY STRUT PODS FOR A WHILE. ANY KIND OF PAIN THIS WOULD'VE BEEN CAUSING WOULD BE TOTALLY FILTERED OUT OF MY SPONGE BY NOW AS BACKGROUND NOISE.

TG: damn i didnt think that through

TG: my shades

CG: ALRIGHT, GET BACK UNDER THE SHITTING UMBRELLA AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME.

TG: look ive fucked myself over here too i dont have shit to clean these with

TG: ugh

===

TG: guess its karma

CG: HOLY FUCK. HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE THIS BEFORE?

TG: i dunno but im gonna assume having a dad thats a literal crab monster is probably a contributing factor

TG: im guessing thats not a great role model for this kinda thing

TG: just conjecture i mean

CG: YOUR ENVY IS OVERWHELMINGLY OBVIOUS DAVE. AS A DISCLAIMER, HE WOULD'VE ABSOLUTELY KICKED YOUR ASS.

TG: yeah probably

CG: THAT'S PRETTY MUCH ALL THERE IS TO SAY ON THE MATTER.

===

TG: but see bro had me stringent on feather feets

TG: i bet i could slip across a bike horn warehouse with nary a fucking toot

CG: HAHA. ASSUMING YOU DON'T MAKE A TOTAL ASS OF YOURSELF, AS PER USUAL.

CG: IF YOU WEREN'T CONSTANTLY RUNNING YOUR GASH ABOUT EVERYTHING AND BEING AN INIMITABLE CLOWN I SERIOUSLY THINK YOU COULD BE ON PAR WITH YOUR CUSTODIAN.

CG: THAT IS A MONUMENTAL "IF".

TG: well look at it this way

TG: im basically doing you all a favor by being a dumbass

TG: never gonna get caught off guard by the bozo patrol

CG: WOW. GOOD POINT.

===

TG: also screw this can i use your shirt

TG: this stupid hoodie is just smudging my lenses up

TG: i cant see dick

CG: UH

CG: SURE, I GUESS.

TG: cool

===

TG: so yeah i could be prowling around like a goddamn verbal assassin sniping convos left and right

TG: but no ive got the decency to go bunp in the night

CG: YEAH.

CG: IT'S DEFINITELY COMPOUNDED BY THE CONSTANT INANE RAMBLINGS.

CG: BUT

CG: IT'S ACTUALLY PRETTY RELAXING, Y'KNOW? IT HAS ITS OWN RHYTHM.

TG: see yeah i sound it off and

===

TG: wait really?

CG: YEAH

CG: I DON'T KNOW

CG: FUCK. HOW DO I EXPLAIN THIS WITHOUT WANTING TO CRAM MY FROND DOWN MY PROTEIN CHUTE.

===

CG: IT'S LIKE

CG: A SALVE FOR MY AGGRAVATION SPONGE.

CG: YOUR VOICE IS THE HUMAN EQUIVALENT OF ASPIRIN.

TG: uh damn karkat hold your hoofbeasts i was talking about the rhythm thing

CG: ALRIGHT, THAT'S IT. I'M TAKING US BOTH THE FUCK OUT RIGHT NOW. YOU HAVE REACHED THE BAD END OF THIS CONVERSATION.

TG: you think thatd be heroic or just

CG: IF I WAS STILL GHOSTING AROUND THE RUINS OF SGRUB'S ARCANE FRIGGIN GAME SYSTEMS, THE COMPLETE LACK OF SHIT AFOOT NOWADAYS WOULD BORE ME TO DEATH.

CG: LIKE. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME OUR THERMAL HULL LEVELLED UP, DAVE?

TG: hah

===

TG: but uh

TG: i mean we had aspirin on earth

CG: NO, NUMBNUBS.

CG: I'M SAYING YOU ARE MY ASPIRIN.

TG: oh

CG: YEAH, TAKE THAT TO THE BANK AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR 20-KARAT ASS.

===

TG: heh

TG: well get this

TG: i will literally talk at you forever for free

TG: you got lifetime priority seating for the davealogues

TG: never gotta go to the drugstore again you can just get doped up on my dulcet tones for the rest of time

TG: take that and some of this

TG: im packin punches

CG: OW, FUCK! NO! MY MIGRAINES!

CG: SWEEPS OF VEINCLOTTING AND NERVEFRAYING DOWN THE FUCKING GAPER. BECAUSE OF YOU.

CG: YOU ASSHOLE, THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

CG: AND YOU'RE LAUGHING.

TG: chuckle up it only gets worse from here

===

CG: BE HONEST WITH ME. DID FONDLING MY SHIRT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET EVEN DO ANYTHING?

TG: barely but yknow sometimes you just gotta deal the cards youre given

TG: ill just be astigmatic for a while its cool

CG: PFF… OKAY MAN.

[pop-philosophy101]

Sprawling Immediate Thoughts on Agatha All Along Episode 5 (spoilers duh)

Well, so like obviously that wasn’t Agatha’s trial, right? Like, so sorry, but the 80’s sleepover goosbumps aesthetic doesn’t exactly scream Agatha Harkness to me. You know who it does scream? Billy Maximoff, a boy born in his mother’s 80’s sitcom creation. Even the decorations on the walls of the cabin say “Westview” and “Eastview.” Agatha sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about Westview. This isn’t the trial adapting for her, it’s adapting for the newest member of the coven. Teen finally got his bonafides as a coven member once he exchanged brooms with Alice. (Put a pin in what Agatha said about the brooms representing selflessness).

Then when solving the trial there is major structural changes. In the first trial the key to the solution was tied to Jenn’s fall from grace. The trial is essentially calling her out for her terrible morals in business because she feels powerless since being bound. She feels like nothing she does matters anymore, so who gives a damn if there’s petroleum in the Goop. Then in Alice’s trial the entire solution was embracing her mother’s love and sacrifice, something she’s been rejecting out of fear and anger. In this trial, there is no solution for Agatha. She can’t go back and change the past, she can’t reason with her mother, she can’t fight back. Agatha has no recourse with a woman who believes she was born evil. Agatha is powerless; she’s a puppet in this game. You know who does have power in the episode titled “Darkest Hour/Wake Thy Power”? TEEN!

Furthermore, I don’t think this trial is over. We know that when Agatha has siphoned power it becomes purple, she even says to Rio “Let me get my purple back.” But we see when she leaves the treehouse, Alice’s power is still orange. This indicates to me that the power isn’t actually Agatha’s, this is all still part of the trial.

Obviously part of the episode is about Agatha confronting her past, because that’s what the whole show has been about. But even more specifically this episode was about Teen/Billy finding his power. Back to that pin about the brooms symbolizing selflessness now. Teen confronts Agatha outside asking her if this is all witchcraft is. The hunt for power and the selfish pursuit of desire at the cost of everyone else. Sure, that could be about Agatha, but you know who it fits better? Wanda. Even without malicious intentions, Wanda did enslave an entire town in a torturous mind prison so she wouldn’t have to confront the reality that Vision was dead. Even after realizing this, she’s tempted to keep Westview this way so she can keep her perfect life. In MoM she is willing to destroy anyone in the hunt for her children. She let’s her rage guide her to cruelty and destruction. Wanda is meant to be the hero, but she knowingly traps Agatha into a mind prison with no escape for over three years. When Agatha goads Teen into finally revealing his true identity we see he gives in to his mother’s own worst instincts. He controls those around him when he feels like he can’t control his own life. He is calmly cruel to enemies and allies alike. I think the end of his trial will be rising above Wanda’s worst impulses and becoming better and more selfless than his mother.

Keep in mind, the trial was ouija. It is all about communing with the dead. And who’s murder trial did we begin the season trying to solve? Not Evanora, Death, or Nicholas’, but Wanda’s.

TLDR: No way in hell Agatha’s trial involves Lycra and ankle warmers, something is afoot here.

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Prince's Release [Asgard!Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki takes a break from a diplomatic feast, and finds he is not alone in the hallways of Asgard. (w/c 1.9k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Oral. Loki POV. Soft dom.

Loki’s footsteps echoed away from the buzz of the feast. And as their raucous mirth grew quieter, so did his mind.

He glanced out the arched window to the side, noting the glitter of Asgard below. He had not been released from his diplomatic obligations entirely. Not officially. Not yet. But he needed this.

He dissolved the ceremonial armour adorning his shoulders, his forearms. It’s gold faded, revealing the simple earthen green of the leathers beneath. Hair that had lain nestled beneath his helmet fell free against his collar. Suddenly, a fist gathered the rear of his tunic. He adopted a battle stance without thinking, spinning with malice in his eyes. His features softened; resolve softening as his dagger hovered beneath the tip of your chin. “My Lady, you should be more careful.” he murmured darkly, running the flat of the thin blade to meet your parted lips. You kissed it.

Several guards lining the open arches sank into shadow.

Loki felt the sharp thud of polished marble flat on his back as you pushed him to the wall, the biting cool it surely held almost chilling through his leathers. You had manoeuvred him to the inside of one of the archway columns. Concealed, almost.

Audacious, this one; he mused. His mind was fire, the heavy dullness chess of diplomatic politics replaced by a haze of lust.

The leather tunic squeaked, sliding against the marble surface as you swept your tongue deeper inside his mouth like a demon. He felt your familiar digits combing through his hair. Pulling. Searching. Claiming, he thought, sliding a moist palm around the nape of your neck.

Loki liked that. He tugged the back of your evening dress sharply, pulling you away. With an inquiring smirk, he tilted his head. “What has gotten into you, little thing? To accost a Prince of Asgard so..." he tutted playfully. Loki gleefully watched as heat rose in your skin. He could feel it; warming the cool night air.

“You, obviously” you huffed, feigned annoyance losing its effect as your grappling fingers tugged at the laces of his trousers. “My prince,” you added as an after-thought.

The palace had ears everywhere. “I think not,” Loki smiled as he let his knuckles trail over your shoulder, down your bare bicep. “It has been ten long days since I’ve gotten into you. My father has seen to that.” The roll of your eyes made his stomach flip. Oh, how he loved this. How he had missed it.

He turned the smile flexing against his lips into a bite. “Loki,” you whimpered petulantly, sliding your hand down the crotch of his leathers as you tried in vain to launch at his mouth. He held you back with ease, your beautiful brow scrunched. “You have not answered my letters, your servants turn me away...they say you are entertaining the diplomats every night,”

The game, Loki smirked with deep satisfaction, is afoot. “Uh-uh-uh,” he tutted, making sure his lips stayed open. He narrowed his eyes, teasing you. His tongue rested on the ridge of his mouth, noting every microscopic shiver of arousal course across your skin.

“Show me how much you missed me during my diplomatic conclave. Missed him.” He nodded down to the weighty arousal hardening in your covert hand. “What?” you gasped, glancing around the empty hallway with a modesty unbecoming of your true nature. Starlight glittered against golden pillars, mounted flames crackling against the shouts from the feast hall beyond.

Loki shrugged innocently, a small smile curling his lip. His stomach was fizzing. He could feel the skin of his balls tightening beneath his ceremonial trappings. The inches of his mighty cock thickening with each roaring second of silence.

While he had been bound to nod and smile during peace talks and the intricacies of trade agreements over an endless ten days, all that had filled his mind was thoughts of your hot mouth wrapping around him. The glide of your tongue, the pressure of your fingertips digging hard into his flesh.

The torchlight made every vein of your irises sparkle as you slowly raised your gaze to meet his own.

There was a mischievous glint in them, an unspoken language honed between you saying all that needed to be said.

You craned upwards, pressing your lips against the shell of his ear with a licentious sigh. “Anyone could walk by,” you breathed, making Loki shudder. His thighs clenched, an unprompted groan rumbling in his throat. “Oh yes,” he gasped as your fingers toyed with the leather straps slung against his hips, “anyone.” The belts and sheath fell to the marble by his ankles with a series of thuds. It’s happening, he thought incredulously as you sank to your knees. The rustle of your skirts pooling on the ground made Loki brace. You never took your eyes off his, tugging the leather trousers down his hips.

Loki rested his head back on the marble pillar, lids fluttering closed as his hand wrapped around his cock. He jolted as the foreskin pulled back, stroking gently as you watched him. She’s actually going to-

His breath hitched, jaw clenching as your palms slid up the solid bulge of his femurs.

You squeezed.

“G-gods” Loki heard himself stammer, cringing.

Hold it together, he chided; letting his hand fall to the side. You are a Prince of Asgard. But knowing your talents, he suddenly wished he had something to hold on to.

The small puff of air that erupted from your lips made him straighten, spine pressing flat to the mirror. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered against his cock. Loki took a deep breath, choking ferociously on the exhale as you swallowed the tip. He clenched and unclenched his fists, resisting the urge to tangle his fingers in your hair like a commoner. The warmth was valhalla. No matter how many times he experienced it, the god found himself eternally unprepared. All of his senses were heightened. The rush of desire and long-held fantasies of this act, in this place, welling in his bloodstream as you swallowed him deeper. Lips made a vacuum on the girth, the feeling of your fingers circled tight around the root. Squeezing. Merciless. They tugged lightly at his public hair with every targeted pump. Wet. Your blowjobs were always so fucking wet.

He suddenly realised he was moaning. Loudly. The gnash of his teeth grinding shocked him back to reality, feeling the straining vein in his neck soften. Loki looked down, hearing the whoreish slurps and groans from your mouth as he thrust gently against your tongue. He juddered, palms slapping against the marble. “F-ffuck, darling...uh, y-yes,” he heard someone whine, “like that - just...like, like that.”

The hand pressed against one quivering thigh suddenly intertwined with his own. Loki watched, entranced as you brought it to the back of your head. “Oh, slut” he murmured in wonder, the feral rumble surprising even himself, “my slut.”

The effort not to slam his cock down your throat was inhuman. Appropriate, Loki grit; as your travelling saliva began to slosh against the crease of his thighs. With every moan-punctuated bob of your head, he guided you. Encouraged you. Yes, darling. Så jævla bra. Goddess, only you. No one fucks me like you. His pants of devotion, carnal and otherwise, filled the open promenade like incense. They wafted into the night air like smoke, each filth-soaked groan from his throat louder than the last. He could hear no buzz from the feasting hall, not anymore. All he could hear was blood thundering in his ears.

Tentatively, he let his gaze fall on the opposing pillar. Its polished surface held a mirage of you both, his towering body with your worshipping form nestled against his thighs.

Beneath the moonlight, cheekbones slashed the angles of his face in the faint reflection. Your eager body knelt between his spread legs was a tableau worthy of the masters of this realm. But not even Kvasir could capture such rapturous eros, he mused fleetingly; before pushing your head deeper against his cock.

You moaned muffled approval, both hands sliding up his obliques beneath the leather tunic. Your fingers curled around his abdomen. Loki felt his thighs begin to shake.

He raised his hands behind his head. Fingers scraped back the hair at his temples, a shuddering sigh racking his chest. Errant tendrils caught between his digits, tugging as another quaking gasp snaked from his throat. He laced the fingers behind his skull, stomach clenching as your sucking intensified. He marvelled at his image, the features blurred but no less impressive. No wonder you were insatiable. Each delve of your mouth, each drag of your hardened lips, each swipe of your talented tongue. Faster. Harder, as he watched himself come undone. He was going to explode. His ass clenched, trying to stop the wave of cum building in his loins. The one that would soon be sloshing down the back of your throat. He couldn’t take his eyes off himself. Off of you. The ceremonial leather tight against his biceps had begun to split under the skill of your mouth, the heat of your tongue and your breath and your fingers. His jaw hung open, chin pressed to his chest. It was wild. He was an animal. A king. He was- F-fuck, In the marble’s reflection, Loki could just see the slick of your drool glinting down to his knees in the lick of firelight, smeared by needy palms. Deviant, he thought as power welled in his deepest core, and she’s all mine. His grip of your ornately designed hair tightened, just for a second. The pants were deafening, broken gasps and moans of your name shaking the very stone beneath his feet as the pillar to his back crunched with each twitch of his shoulders. The responding settle of your fingers around his hips was the signal he needed. The signal he craved. With a barely tempered roar, the god’s ass clenched painfully; bucking forwards. He threw his head back against the pillar with a crack, jaw clenched to the ceiling as the world went black.

Stars burst behind his eyelids, the force of climax tearing through his body like ripping leather. All he could feel was pleasure, warmth from your heavenly mouth caressing him over the edge of sanity as his knees buckled. Your fingers tightened around his hips, rocking him gently through the final, strangled breaths.

In the way you always did in these stolen moments, you tucked his softening cock into his leathers with a kiss; fingers deftly weaving the laces together. You climbed his trunk, tucking damp hair behind his ears.

“I missed you,” he murmured breathlessly, tasting himself in every desperate catch of your lips.

Through the haze, he watched with slanted brows as you ran a thumb from the base of your chin to your mouth before inspecting it. A thick layer of white coated the curve. You sucked slowly. “Ten days, my Prince,” you chided solemnly, before the smile he loved so much began to dance.

Loki winked, his senses returning. And his lust. “I told you I would save it all,” he smouldered, winking as his armour once again materialised around his leather garments. Horns unfurled, reaching forward on either side above your head. The gold seemed brighter somehow.

“I have a mind to return to the feast, wife.” he said quietly, cocking an eyebrow as he extended his hand. You frowned. “Only temporarily,” he added, throwing a glance to the huge doors down the corridor. “We left in such haste…” You took his hand warily. “Not long, my love” you replied. It was a warning. “The feast holds nothing that will sate the hunger I have.” “I know,” Loki smirked. He traced the curve of your earlobe with his tongue, feeling you shiver with desire against him as he flicked it back and forth.

He moaned softly against the shell, your faltering grip on his cape releasing a wolfish smile. “I know.”

Tags (contd in comments) @lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @goddessofwonderland @icytrickster17 @multifandom-worlds @buttercupcookies-blog @alexakeyloveloki @kingtwhiddleston

[llilyrose]

llilyrose spends her time analyzing aroace stuff. yay.

isat spoilers afoot

what i especially like about the way adrienne wrote mira's orientation is the lack of room for interpretation. yes they snuck aroace talk into fantasy france, but just stop and think for a minute. what would happen if mira just said "i'm aroace" or "i don't feel love the same way" instead of all the nuance we got to her character in the friend quest convo?

we know she's sex repulsed, we know she's romance repulsed. we know she loves fiction that has those things in it, loves interpreting fictional characters that way, but can't bare to see herself in that situation. it makes a lot of sense with regards to her location (vaugarde, a very sex-positive and romance-adamant country) and also with regards to herself (the way she feels about her environment). Of course she wouldn't blame other folk around her for engaging with their religion the "correct" way, of course she'd internalize all her feelings of being outcast and turn it back on herself.

The fandom respects this! Nobody ships her romantically, or sexually, because we know she's not into that. We know she would never and i know a bunch of people who would punch you for even thinking it!

Now what if Adrienne hadn't put this in the game? What if they had just said on their tumblr one day, "mira's aroace," or something. where would we be now? aspec shipping discourse would definitely take the reins. we'd have people shipping her in all kinds of different ways, bending the aroace character to the best of their ability because they could still be into sex, or romance, or whatever. this is TRUE, it's POSSIBLE, but there's no nuance. We wouldn't know the way Mira really feels about these things unless Adrienne told us, so a lot of people would either ignore/"work around" her identity or just wouldn't even know about it to begin with!

Introducing mira's orientation in the way adrienne did leaves no room for discourse. we know if she's sex-positive, sex-negative, how she reacted to finding out she was, etc. It provides so much more representation than a simple "I'm aroace" ever could. It's such a wide label, so finally having CONCRETE information about a canonical aroace's experiences with their orientation is so, so freeing and honestly quite refreshing. and it's worked into the story seamlessly!!!

She's not an emotionless carcass with no capacity for love, she's not outwardly detesting sex or romance at every possible moment, she's simply a well-rounded character who happens to be aroace. You have time to warm up to her before ever even finding out about her orientation! Or having any clue at all (barring maybe the suspicious sketches)!!!!! Aroace people are real!!! We're so real!!!!

Speaking of the suspicious sketches! We know siffrin's alloace (from, like, one line of dialogue), but we don't know if he's sex-repulsed. Adrienne's gone on record to say "aces can still have sex" in reference to siffrin, so I'm inclined to believe he has at least some sort of libido.

When looking at the sketches, both him and mira have a repulsed reaction. I think there are three possible reasons for Siffrin here!

Siffrin is sex-repulsed and has a visceral reaction to them because he thinks it's gross.

Siffrin has no libido because the stress overrides everything in his system. That combined with his ace identity would probably lead to a distaste for the papers.

Some people would NOT GET THE MEMO from the act 3 friendquest. Sometimes when you're writing you have to account for the gamers being really really dense. Some people didn't even understand the Isa friendquest was him coming out as trans basically. Since Ace characters are hard to "prove" unless they explicitly state they dislike sex, this line of dialogue might've just been there to drill it in that Siffrin is ace because the only other place we see that implication is one line in the friendquest. It could even have no tie to his relationship with sex, who knows?

one of these options is not like the others! /silly

I couldn't tell you which one of those it is, but i think at least one of them had to have hit the mark. It's a lot harder to decode siffrin's sexuality when we only get like 5 lines of dialogue total that vaguely even reference it

With this we come back to the issue from earlier: He could be demi, he could be ace, he could be sex-repulsed, he could not! Most people write them sex-repulsed and I'm personally on that bandwagon, but interpreting them a different way isn't any less correct unless you completely ignore the fact they're ace in the first place.

Even sex-positive aces have complicated relationships with sex. Some do it for the gratification, some simply have higher libido and can't think of a different way to get it out, and others only do it to please their partner.

I think writing an ace character as sex-positive should be seen as a character study instead of an excuse to ship two characters together. Is this character the type to even enjoy it in the first place? How often? How do they interact with it? Etc. Which I think is what Adrienne was talking about when she said "aces can still have sex." We don't know about siffrin's identity, we don't have a grasp on the nuance, but we do know he's ace and that he experiences love differently from the way mirabelle does, and the way isabeau does, and the way odile does, and what have you.

I love love love the representation we get in isat. An aroace, an alloace, and someone that a lot of fans headcanon as aroallo though it's unconfirmed. Even if Odile's not aro, we still get that line of dialogue about not finding romance suitable for her at the moment, which speaks true to a different experience altogether. No two characters experience love, experience life the same in isat. That's why i get to make a tumblr text post that's a bit too long exploring the different avenues adrienne took when writing the characters lol :')

[asongbirdandanoldhat]

written for the @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘pool’ wc: 442 | rated: G | cw: none

Eddie Munson nearly didn't make 21. But even before becoming a buffet spread for interdimensional hell bats, Eddie never would've imagined spending his 21st birthday at Steve Harrington's. After wide games in the woods with the world's most metal teens, having his pale skin preserved by Nancy's stern gaze and endless sunscreen supply, and somehow surviving the dreamlike vision of Steve, tanned, topless, and happy, Eddie was ready declare his birthday a roaring success. But the glint in Gareth's eye, the way Jeff was watching him while chatting to Buckley, had Eddie on edge. He surveyed the suspiciously quiet yard. Absences noted, Eddie's eyes met Dan's. He tilted his head in question. Dan's hands rose. Eddie honed in. He was great at charades. But before interpretations could begin, Gareth slapped Dan's hands down. His hissed words didn't carry, but the shake of his curly head was unmistakable. Whatever was afoot, the band were in on it. The kids shuffled back outside in an extremely conspicuous formation. Eddie thought they might be smuggling Harrington between them, before he spotted Steve in the doorway, watching them, expression fond. Dustin was vibrating. "Present time." "We already did presents," Eddie said. "Sure. But there's one left." "The big one," Lucas added. "Don't ruin it," Mike muttered. "I didn't say what it was." "Do I get to know what it is?" Eddie derailed, amused. Dustin nodded to Will, who carefully counted down, "Three, two, one." The boys stepped aside, revealing Max, holding his present, and El, holding Max's elbow. Eddie felt tears prickle, as he took in the unnecessarily wrapped gift. There was no mistaking the shape. "You bought me a guitar?" he croaked. El helped Max place the gift in Eddie's lap. His hands slid instinctively around it, the weight felt just right. "Open it," El instructed. Ripping the bright paper revealed a familiar x-shaped body, not the dappled red of his world-saving sweetheart, but a solid black. She was a starless night sky. She was beautiful. "I- How?" "We pooled our allowances." Eddie didn't know how much they got, but he knew how quickly they blew through it. There was no way. Eddie's eyes drifted beyond the kids, finding Steve.

Steve, who'd given Eddie a card, claiming that he didn't have a present yet, hadn't known what to get him. Steve, who'd looked embarrassed when Eddie had called the party a great present and meant it. Steve, whose guilty smile all but confirmed him as majority contributor to the beautiful instrument in Eddie's lap. Steve, who Eddie would have to find a way to thank, to explain what this meant.

For now, Eddie smiled back.

[thatfreshi]

I was wondering if you could write Astarion having to tend to a very cuddly drunk female Tav. Possibly having to defend her from other people trying to take advantage of her.

This took me on a very sad adventure

TW - blood and gore, attempted sexual assault, drinking

Recommended Song: Drew Barrymore - SZA

The nice thing about no longer being on wild adventures full of tadpoles and cultists is that you and Astarion can go out drinking like normal people. While your vampiric lover thoroughly enjoys a good glass of wine, he usually stops himself at one. Perhaps he's a little paranoid about you, your safety, but he insists not to have more than one when the two of you are out together. At the house? Sure, he'll finish two bottles with you, the two of you drunkenly laughing by the fireplace, but not when danger could be afoot. You try to tell him he's just anxious, tense, that you'll be alright.

"I'd rather just make sure my love. You indulge all you want darling, I'll be fine."

In one of the more rowdy taverns, you and Astarion sit at a table off to the side, watching people get drunk and dance, bumping into strangers, sometimes fights ensue. As per usual, he nurses his singular glass. You look at him, a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

"Are you sure you don't mind? I can just skip out tonight, maybe we can just drink later, when we get back."

"Nonsense, have your fun my sweet. I insist."

You squeeze his hand.

"Alright then, I'm off to get my second... you can tell me to stop anytime!"

You tease as you slowly walk away, almost backing up into a nearby half-orc. He simply smiles at you, one of those smiles that says everything he's thinking, how he thinks you're precious, how he'd gladly never get drunk again if it meant keeping you. Years ago, he would've never given up a vice for some person. But you, you make this feeling well up in his chest, like he has to hold you close at all times, worried someone will snatch you when he's not looking. You may make fun of him for simply being a paranoid person, but you made it a million times worse.

"I'm back!"

Your voice draws out, and you return with two mugs of beer instead of just the one.

"Already going for three darling? You do remember you're a lightweight, right?"

"I'll be fine. Besides, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor is here to take me home if I throw up on someone."

You lie against his arm, starting on your second drink.

"You did eat before we left the house, right my sweet?"

You look up at him silently. He just sighs, running his hand through your hair.

"Then why did you need to go to the kitchen before we left?"

You giggle a little.

"To... pre-game!"

The laughter rings out of your throat as Astarion sighs, again, more annoyed this time.

"So you're telling me-"

"Already gettin' drunk Aster, it's a great time."

The more and more you talk, the more he realizes your words are becoming more slurred. Perhaps he should've asked before you left, made sure you at least grabbed a bite.

"Alright, you stay right here, I'm going to get you some water and a little snack."

He gets up, swiftly grabbing the two mugs off the table while you protest.

"Hey, I wasn't done with those!"

As Astarion makes his way to the bar, asking for the classic drunkard's care package, he's suddenly nervous. Had you ever been this drunk in public before? Maybe the two of you should just go home, before you somehow get your hands on any more alcohol. After thanking the barkeep for the water and some bread, he comes back through the crowd, and sure enough you have left the table.

"Gods damn it Tav."

After setting down what was supposed to be your little pick-me-up, Astarion quickly moves through the groups of people, knowing you probably just got up to dance. The bard playing tonight was quite excellent after all. However, after looking through most of the common space, you're nowhere to be found. That feeling of panic starts to well up inside of him, where he's only driven by fear. He knows you can't be far, but he also knows most of the tavern-goers here are slimy, horrific people looking for their next bag of gold. Walking through the crowd again, Astarion comes near the back entrance, and hears a conversation down one of the abandoned hallways.

"A gal like you, surprised you're here alone."

He rounds the corner, seeing you and a bulky half-elf, your arms pinned above your head. You seem nervous, but not conscious enough to realize anything is truly wrong. Astarion stalks up behind the wretched man, wrapping his dagger around the half-elf's throat.

"No so alone anymore, are we?"

Your captor surprisingly doesn't stand down.

"You won't do shit. People know me around here, important people, they'd surely have your head if something happened to me."

"Not if I hide your body well enough. And trust me, I have experience."

The two of them are un-moving for a moment as your wrists start to go numb from the pressure. You groan in pain, only causing the half-elf to grab you tighter. As Astarion goes to press his blade into the man's neck, he whips around, pushing Astarion back. Gods, he's tall. You fall back against the wall, trying to nurse the pain in your hands. As Astarion and the stranger fight, you hear the sounds of blades colliding, but your head is spinning. Perhaps he was right about the whole 'eat before you drink' thing.

You're interrupted from your thoughts when you hear a loud thump on the floor. The half-elf almost knocked Astarion out. leaving him on the ground. The stranger then turns back to you, lifting you back up from the floor, going to open the back door.

"What a find. Can't wait to enjoy you."

In that moment, while trying to get his bearings, Astarion realizes this wasn't just someone threatening you, and that disgusting feeling fills his stomach. He remembers how many times he shared his body against his will, and the adrenaline of that anger is enough to get him back on his feet. As you and the half-elf make it out the door, Astarion rushes him, tripping one foot out from under him. And then he drives his blade into the stranger's back, again, and again, and again, and again, and again. He's covered in the sinner's blood, shaking with both rage and misery. The violent display helped sober you up just a little, enough to make you realize that Astarion has killed someone behind the bar, and that it was clearly deserved. He looks up, locking eyes with you, still holding his blade down, as if the dead man needs yet another plunging strike in his back.

"Astarion?"

You ask, your voice full of uncertainty, the past few minutes still a blur. He begins to cry, putting his dagger in the ground, slowly crawling over to where you've ended up on the ground. He holds you tight, almost to the point of pain. He doesn't say anything, and you simply watch the blood pour out of the man's corpse as he grips you tight. Flooding memories cover every space of his mind, seduction, imprisonment, and most of all, Cazador's death.

"Astarion... you're hurting my arm."

You say softly, not fully aware of just how distraught he is, still far too inebriated. You're sad though, because he's sad, and you can't quite put together why. He lets go, wrapping his arms under his legs, crying into his knees. You try to comfort him, despite your state.

"It's okay, it's over now."

You don't even know what's over, but if someone is dead and Astarion is still alive, he must've ended it.

"I know."

He chokes out those two pathetic words, looking back up at you.

"We need to leave."

The survival instinct kicks in, knowing he can't explain why this man has at least five stab wounds in his back. The second one of the bartenders finds this, it'll be over.

"Come, this way, we're going to take the back alley."

Snatching up your arm, Astarion leads you through the darkness, mumbling things to himself that you can't quite hear. The two of you move quickly through the night as you stumble around behind him. When the two of you get home, he gets you some water, leading you upstairs so you can lie down.

"Are you okay?"

Such an innocent question. He knows you'll remember tomorrow, that it's not like you're blacked out or anything, just confused.

"I'll be fine my dove. Get some rest now, it's alright."

It's as if he's trying to convince himself, but it's enough for you in your drunken stupor. You curl up into the heavy blanket cast across the bed, and he leaves a kiss on your head. Not long after, you're drifting off to sleep, exhausted.

As Astarion makes his way to the bathroom, he thinks of the horrific things that could've happened, of how cruel humanity is. He thinks about how you have to be the only truly good person in all of Faerûn. He'll never get all the blood off his face, not while you're asleep. His mirror, his sun, his everything, and you were almost tainted the very same way he was.

When you wake up the next morning, Astarion isn't in bed. You try to reach out groggily, looking for that embrace, only to be left with cold sheets. Thinking back on the night before, the memories start to filter in. The drinks, the half-elf, the stabbing, and Astarion sobbing. The full picture isn't entirely there, but there's enough pieces for you to realize. That man, he found you drunk in the tavern, and tried to take advantage of you.

You stumble out of bed, walking down the stairs, rubbing your eyes.

Astarion is in the kitchen, drinking some tea, his eyes bloodshot. You don't say anything, slowly walking up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, holding him tight. He puts his tea down and rests his head on yours.

"Are you alright my love?"

"I'm fine. Are you alright?"

You make some space again, looking up at him, holding his hands in yours. They start to shake again, rage and misery. You move a piece of hair out of his face.

"He didn't do anything to me love, I'm okay."

"Just- the thought of- I-"

He tries to hold back the tears again.

"It's okay, you can cry. It's going to be okay."

With that allowance, the permission to let go, he cries again.

"I don't ever want you to feel like that Tav, the way I felt. It's so, disgusting."

"I know, but it's over Aster. It's over now. You're okay, we're okay."

You wrap around him again, and he continues to weep.

"I love you, so much, and they didn't ruin you, I promise."

That worry, that he'll never be the same, that he's forever fractured now, that a piece of him is gone. Innocence, what a loaded word. Those who are guilty make the innocent feel guilty, and those who are guilty feel powerful, and the cycle continues, always continuing. You stand in the kitchen for a long time, letting him get all of the pain out, your shirt sleeve wet with his tears.

"I just wish I didn't have to be scared anymore."

You frown, thinking on his statement, knowing that no one is ever truly safe. You'll both live in fear forever, of those that think cruelty is accomplishment.

"I know."

It's all you can say, because you can't lie and tell him there's a day he won't have to be scared, that one day all the monsters of the world will be gone. There's nothing to learn, no moral, no mistake to fix, just pain. Pain caused by those who greed after anguish.

"Do you think I've changed? Or am I just as I was, a scared, beaten slave?"

"Gods Astarion, of course you've changed. It's the world that hasn't. We're better than them though, even if that's all we have."

Neither of you reach any resolution, nothing that makes you feel better. Instead, you sit on the sofa by the fire, watching the wood go up in flames, softly speaking about the suffering. You lie in each other's arms, sad. Misery loves company, and the two of you sit in that aura of grieving for a long time, grieving his past, grieving what could have been a kinder world. But here, in this sacred space, where feelings are free to run wild, where you can cry as much as you need, that's the only place you're truly safe. And that's alright, as long as it's together.

[kalifornia1025]

The Red Circle Pt. 1 (SPOILERS)

First part is up, let’s see what we’re dealing with!

Oof John’s already voicing his frustration over the tech issues; wonder how bad it could be

I both love and hate the sounds of John cleaning the mic, it sounds like he’s digging deep into my brain

Okay, we’re just at the end of a case?

Oh yeah, the mic is definitely bugging out

“My dear companion Doctor Watson” UGH HOW SWEET

What is happening?? WHAT IS GOING ON??

“This is going to be an 8 or 10 parter” OH REALLY John??

NONE OF THE ‘CASE’ RECORDED, that’s actually hilarious

“But was the best adventure yet” how great was it that it makes SHERLOCK say that??

Not them all reenacting the ‘case’ HAHA

Yeah John, Sherlock needs to get back to hanging upside down-WHAT

Oof Sherlock really said “you waffle so much that sometimes your random words help me solve the case” (he’s not wrong tho)

THEY DO MOVIE NIGHTS!!!

Awww Mariana’s meeting up with a friend from Hudson’s, how nice!

God, the irony of voice actors being bad at acting is incredible

Sherlock WOULD be the person asking questions during movies (and pointing out inconsistencies)

I love how you can still hear the ‘movie’ going on even when Sherlock & John are talking

This little exchange

John: “Door knock”

Sherlock: “Very observant”

John: “Is that sarcasm there?”

Sherlock: “Exceptionally observant”

John: “Well done”

Sherlock: “Thank you”

Ah!! Chipmunk voice jump scare!

Sherlock: “Is that right, John?”, John: “It’s right big guy” JOHN CALLED SHERLOCK BIG GUY

I feel John’s pain, I HATE having to explain movies to people

OH GOD NOT A REAL-HOUSEWIVES-ESQUE REALITY TV SHOW

“Good God, put the gangster film back on” SAME SHERLOCK

Awesome how Mariana and Imani are already fans of the reality show

“Why do women like that kind of stuff? It’s cruel, it’s vicious, destructive-KILL HIM, SHOOT HIM IN THE EYE”—I will never get tired of this ongoing joke with John starting a point and immediately contradicting it at the end

The ‘bullets through the bum and balls’ exchange shouldn’t be as hilarious as it is, yet here we are

Oooooh, so THIS is how we get the Red Circle case (hopefully it’ll make up for the ‘unrecorded case’)

THE MUSIC?! HELLO??

“The game is afoot” YES MARIANA WE GET TO HEAR YOU SAY IT

Oof John that mic is REALLY messed up

And that’s it for part 1! I was NOT expecting a hilarious start for this one. I can only imagine what ‘case’ we missed (lol), but Red Circle sounds interesting enough! Also, it’s cute hearing more domestic moments with the main trio. I mean they have MOVIE NIGHTS!! The fanfics were TRUE! Anyway, this is a fun start and it’s just the beginning of our 4-part adventure, so stay tuned….

[mcntsee]

Tit for tat

Summary: Kaz accidentally walked in on Y/N changing, but as Jesper said to Y/n, “Tit for tat”.

Warnings: Mentions of nudity but not explicit at all. Super short. Ooc Kaz.

Note: I was watching Friends and got an idea. I don’t really know if this is good, just thought it’d be a funny idea.

In the bustling city of Ketterdam, Kaz Brekker and Y/N were the epitome of an unlikely friendship. Their lives revolved around intricate schemes and calculated risks, their bond forged in the crucible of danger. While their connection teetered on the edge of something more, they maintained a silent understanding, their hearts guarded behind walls of steel.

One day, fate played a mischievous hand, setting the stage for a moment neither of them would ever forget. Y/N, in the privacy of her room, was in the midst of changing when Kaz, lost in his thoughts, accidentally strode in, catching a glimpse that would forever burn in his memory. “Y/n, I need you to g-“ His eyes widened in horror, his face turning an intriguing shade of crimson as he hastily retreated from the room, his words of apology stumbling out as he slammed the door of her room shut.

Jesper, ever the keen observer, witnessed the flustered Kaz and raised an amused eyebrow. “You alright, boss?” he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Kaz, attempting to regain his composure, merely nodded curtly before hurriedly making his way down the corridor, his thoughts racing in a jumble of embarrassment and distraction.

Sensing a tale worth hearing, Jesper decided to investigate further. He sought out Y/N, who was now fully dressed, a bemused smile on her face. “So, what happened?” Jesper asked, unable to contain his laughter.

Y/N chuckled, a twinkle of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Kaz walked in on me, accidentally of course, and saw more than he bargained for,” she explained, relishing in the opportunity to tease the usually unflappable Kaz Brekker.

Jesper’s laughter echoed through the room, his voice laced with amusement. “Ah, you know what they say, Y/N. Tit for tat.”

With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, Y/N embarked on a quest to turn the tables on Kaz. She meticulously plotted her revenge, biding her time and awaiting the perfect opportunity to catch him off guard. Every interaction became a chance to inch closer to her ultimate goal.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N’s determination never wavered. She observed Kaz’s habits, noting his routines and patterns, studying the intricate dance of his every move. The game was afoot, and she was determined to emerge victorious.

One fateful evening, as the moon cast its ethereal glow upon Ketterdam, Kaz, clad in his signature black attire, had just returned from a long day of dealing with the city’s underbelly. He had planned to take a much-needed shower to wash away the grime of the streets. Unbeknownst to him, Y/N, bubbling with mischievous excitement, had hatched a plan to exact her revenge.

As Kaz entered his shower, already undressed and ready to step into the steamy embrace of the shower, Y/N burst through the door, laughter bubbling forth uncontrollably. “Tit for tat, Brekker!” she exclaimed, her voice a playful mixture of triumph and amusement.

Caught completely off guard, Kaz’s eyes widened in surprise, and a rare blush crept up his cheeks. Before he could react, Y/N swiftly turned on her heel and darted out of the room, leaving Kaz momentarily stunned.

As the realization of the prank sank in, a smile tugged at the corners of Kaz’s lips. He couldn’t help but chuckle at Y/N’s audacity and the sheer boldness of her act. While caught off guard, he admired her spirit and tenacity, for few had managed to surprise him.

Word of the incident quickly spread throughout the Crow Club, becoming a legendary tale of Y/N’s daring retaliation. The laughter and whispers followed Kaz and Y/N wherever they went, cementing their status as partners-in-crime and confidants.

From that day forward, their friendship bloomed with a newfound sense of camaraderie. The boundaries that had once held them back were shattered, and they reveled in their shared laughter and secret adventures. Their banter was laced with an undercurrent of playful teasing, the memory of the “Tit for Tat” incident forever etched in their minds.

[the-marigold-reception]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do Mordecai writing a love letter confessing his feelings to his love interest. I believe he wouldn’t be as poetic as Rocky, but since he is so into reading and talking with big words I do think it would be a little dramatic letter. Just a paroxysm of everything he may feel.

If you don’t like that idea, how about him as a secret admirer? (As you may have noticed, I am quite a big fan of love letters, lmao). How he would struggle to leave his letters without being seen and the way he would try to get his crush to say anything about it while not looking suspiciously involved.

Thank you very much. Your page is my favourite, so I hope you don’t mind taking one of my ideas.

To Whom It May Concern,

I have admired you for some time now, and I must confess my feelings. Your presence captivates me, and I find myself thinking of you incessantly. I harbor a deep affection for you that cannot remain unspoken any longer.

Yours Truly,

A Secret Admirer

It takes him a while to actually place the letter somewhere you’ll find it

He’s so nervous to be this vulnerable about his emotions

When he finally posts the letter into your letterbox, in the dead of night, fully decked out in black so no one- not even you would be unable to spot him

The next night he’ll come back and see the letter is gone- now he knows the waiting game is afoot

He won’t have to ask you if you’ve received any weird mail because you’ll come straight to him

(He’s very happy that you depend on him for help with simple things)

“Mordecai! I got this letter and I realllllly want to know who it is- can you help me draw up a systematic chart of likely to unlikely?”

The strong urge to tell you it’s him starts there

But he is flattered when you write his name down first out of anyone-

If you don’t figure it out after the first letter, he’ll send you another

To Whom It May Concern

It is with a trembling hand and an eager heart that I pen these words to you. The world around us is a tempest of change and noise, yet in your presence, I find a sanctuary of calm. The bustle of the city, the clamor of the jazz bands, all fade into a distant murmur when I am with you. It is as if time itself pauses, granting us a stolen moment of eternity.

How I wish I could express these feelings openly, but alas, the constraints of our world bind me to the shadows.

Yet, let this letter serve as a beacon of my affection, a silent testimony to the depths of my devotion. Until the day we can walk freely under the sun, I shall remain, faithfully and fervently,

Yours, in silence and in longing.

He’s a bit worried about what your reaction will be when you figure out it’s him

If you figure out it’s him-

You definitely know

You snuck into his office and checked the penmanship, the speech pattern was the same as Mordecai’s and he’d started to get increasingly nervous around you

One day a letter is slid under Mordecai’s office door whilst he’s working

To my Longing Admirer

Your letter found its way to my heart as surely as a sunbeam pierces through the morning mist. Your words, so tender and earnest, have stirred within me a curiosity and a longing I can scarcely describe.

It is with a blend of trepidation and exhilaration that I respond to your heartfelt confession. The sentiments you have shared resonate deeply with my own unspoken dreams and desires. Though the world may impose its boundaries upon us, I find myself yearning to transcend them, if only for a moment.

Might we dare to meet, and allow our hearts the luxury of true connection? If it pleases you, let us rendezvous at the Serendipity Tearoom on the corner of Elm and Rose, this Saturday at three o'clock. There, amidst the soft murmur of whispered secrets and the delicate clink of teacups, we may find solace in each other's company.

I shall be the one with a single gardenia, tucked gently in the folds of my dress. Until then, I remain,

Yours in hopeful anticipation,

An Enchanted Soul

[should I do a Part 2?]

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Two: Spies/Heist @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // AO3 Link

Inspired mostly by Leverage but also White Collar

Will be a mix of being set in the US and with Terrasen being a real place bc I can be more lenient with history and art and such this way.  Just go with it.

Summary: She’s a thief with only one thing on her mind: finish the job and move on.  When she’s asked to break into Terrasen’s Museum of Art, Celaena has her doubts.  Mostly because she’d much rather be grifting her way across Europe.  But when she learns what needs stealing?  Well…her schedule clears right up.  Enter the client, a pain in her ass.

Warnings: None, ~3.6k words

.*.*.*.*.

The Too Far Gone Job (Part One)

There was a subtly to her job that no one quite understood.  It wasn’t surprising this day in age, but Celaena was a bit insulted by it all the same.  Too often people were so precocious and proud in themselves that they failed to recognize that beauty was in the details.  Many things took a great deal of care to be done properly.  A brain surgeon didn’t rush in with a scalpel after hardly reading scans.  A gymnast would spend hours and years perfecting that one little twist to bring the perfect flip.

And a thief?  Well, a thief would take her time with understanding every intimate detail of her target before attempting a break-in.  The Mortimer Wyrdlock for example was the best, most secure safe in the world.  Built with seismic sensors as well as heat sensors, biometric scans, and thick, metal that no mere handheld saw could touch—it was suicide to even try and get close.

Celaena always put her faith in the underdog.

Concerto No. 4 in F Minor played through the grand halls of Terrasen’s Museum of Art.  She’d always preferred this concerto to the others mostly for the violin.  For the feeling it evoked for the way it always felt like there was a game afoot, a secret to be held, all with the slow building crescendo.  It was beautiful.  Once, she’d been able to play it on the piano, rather compellingly if she could say so herself.  That was before she’d been ushered into her current lifestyle.

All of the things she loved about the song were only emphasized by the marble and vaulted ceilings of museum.  And even though the song was still just an afterthought to cover the chatter and scuffing feet of the party, Celaena could appreciate all the subtle nuances of the song.  Glorious and powerful.

She weaved through the many bodies meandering about the hall.  Most, if not all, were too consumed with the expensive champagne and caviar floating around them.  It was far too easy to pick a target in all the men (and women) surrounding her.  Especially the senator that was already drunk with his fancy watch hanging out in the open like that.  Of the string of Eyllweian diamonds that another woman wore.  So easy.

But she had a plan.

And it only seemed right that this plan be executed here.  It had been ages since she’d stolen something from this museum.  Twelve years to be exact.  She’d been twelve and pressed to execute a flawless grift. 

The architecture of the building was flawless, truly.  The vaulted ceilings, the tall windows that stretched along the walls to look over the Oakwald Mountains.  It created an atmosphere of elegance and finesse.  It was one of the oldest buildings in all of Terrasen, one of the last remaining from the war. 

Which made it the perfect target.

Celaena fingered her glass of champagne as she moved through the masses of people.  She could have spoken to a few of them, that was what she loved most about a job.  The grift.  The subtle machinations she made to ease a mark into doing what she wanted.  It wasn’t lying and it wasn’t stealing, it was merely encouragement. It helped that most of her marks were bastards and the very thing that was wrong with society.  Usually.  Most of the time she just wanted the shiny things. (Alright so it was lying and it was stealing, but could you really blame her?).

Truth be told, she was just a little distracted by all the beauty surrounding her.  There were the vases from Mesopotamia, the old book of King Brannon, the Darcus blades.  She really wanted to steal those, but it would almost be too easy.  All she needed to do was flirt with the security guard doing a terrible job to blend in with the party.  The poor thing was in a cheap suit and poorly done tie…how had he gotten approved for this job?  It would almost be mean to target him.

Celaena moved through the party with ease, setting her champagne flute on a passing tray, only acknowledging the server with a small nod, the server barely offered a smile.  A strand of Celaena’s red hair fell over her eyes and she flicked it back casually.  Her dress clung to her frame, thin as she was.  She allowed her own confidence to carry her when she felt weak.  Because she was more than capable of this task.  In all her years of the grift, her appearance and the way she interacted with those around her proved to be the surest way to get a job done properly.

So, Celaena wore her too thin frame to her advantage and became what everyone expected: daddies little girl slumming her way through a party. 

She was invisible when she wanted to be which let her slip down an un-manned hall.

The archived vault of the museum often held the more private items.  Those that were not to be displayed without express permissions of certain clients.  Celaena’s target for tonight actually was one such item.

It was far too easy to slip down a service staircase.  She’d gotten her hands on a universal scanner so she could hack various systems with ease.  Usually if she was doing her job right, the mark was opening doors for her.  Unfortunately for her, tonight she needed more finesse and isolation.

Holding the skirt of her dress in one fist, Celaena moved down the stairs.  Her research on the museum told her that most of the below staff would be dismissed for the Gala above.  There would be one historian finishing up cataloging and a security guard to keep them company.  The security guard would have a simple enough rotation, likely only venturing on rounds once every thirty minutes.  This area was even better secured then upstairs, the guard needn’t worry about a thief like her.

Celaena couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

She wished she could be back upstairs mingling and grifting.  It was what she preferred.  She liked putting on that mask, liked slipping away into another persona, liked pretending she was anything but herself.

As she turned down a one of the halls, she checked the small signal reader she’d stuffed into her bra.  Her comms had remained silent all night, not surprising.  But she’d thought there would have been at least something.

Four steps forward to a small alcove where the old diaries of some old white man were held.  Two breaths.  Duck back out and then left and straight.

The Mortimer Wyrdlock stood before.  The chrome fixtures glinted in the overhead lights leaving the safe looking like something out of any thief’s wet dream.  Elide was going to kill her for this.

“Hello, beautiful,” she murmured.  The safe really was deserving of all sorts of praise.

A soft noise came from the other side of her comms.

“Anything you’d like to add?” she said, keeping her voice low.

Nothing.

Celaena rolled her eyes and approached the safe.  The lovely little beastie practically called her name.

She stayed in her little alcove waiting a beat, two.  Down one of the other halls she heard the subtle conversation of the historian and security guard in one of the labs.  Unsurprising, she’d encouraged a meeting between them last week, prompting a friendship.  A small little hack into their lives revealed them both to be bird enthusiasts.  A little nudge here and there and they were automatic best friends. 

She wished it were that easy for her.  Making friends.  But what could she do?  Tell someone what she really wanted to do was bungee off the Eiffel tower?  Break into the Louvre?  Steal one of Terrasens national treasures?

No one understood her on that level.  Not anymore.

She approached the keypad lock of the safe and set to work. 

Elide had worked a system override into the scanner that Celaena smuggled in with her.  All she needed to do was hook it up to the safe and let the code do the work.  That would take getting a wire into the system.  Something that Celaena wasn’t the most comfortable with.  Maybe she should have tried the flirting and grifting route…but the client had been clear on the way the job should go.  They couldn’t even have a hint of anyone being manipulated and used.  Rude, honestly.  People were used and coerced every day.  Tricking someone into giving her the Ring of Mab didn’t seem so problematic when you really thought about it.

Celaena made contact to the keypad.

Her handheld device ran through a string of numbers and binary as it worked.  Gooseflesh rose on her skin, but that was to be expected.  Before the Gala, Celaena had made sure the heating system when down to alter the heat sensors readings.  It also helped that the sequins of her dress were heat reflective and had been tested to throw off certain sensors.

As she continued to work, Celaena didn’t want to think about how long it had been.  Usually she didn’t have to, but in this case, she was on the clock.

Her fingers flew over the screen as she manipulated the numbers just as Elide had taught her.  It was simple enough, but if she ran into any walls or blocks, Celaena had no idea what she would do.  She knew the basics to get what she needed and wanted on any other job, but the Mortimer?

As her heart pulsed in her throat, Celaena punched in the last sequence she needed.

She couldn’t help but hold her breath as she waited for the system to respond.  She was taking too long.  She knew she was taking too long.  Even with the chill of the room, she could still feel sweat collect along the back of her neck.

And then the cogs began turning.

As the vault swung open on silent hinges, Celaena allowed herself to take a breath.  She certainly didn’t get the same charge out of this as Elide.  Give her a cocktail and a trust fund baby any day.

She didn’t bother worrying about her fingerprints as she pulled the vault door open further.  Those had been burned off as a birthday gift when she was twelve.  And consistently afterwards.  Eventually most of her prints stopped regenerating and only the pinky finger of her left hand and middle finger of her right were legible.  She’d learned to adapt the way she touched and handled things. 

Inside, the vault wasn’t as spacious as the movies made scenes like this appear.  Even though it was nearly seven feet tall and five feet wide, there were still shelves that lined the walls and smaller casements for various items.  Once Celaena entered she felt constricted over the small space.  Pushing those sentiments aside, she went straight to the back of the vault where her target was clearly laid out.

The Eye of Elena, to some, was a simple necklace.  Easy in design without too many adornments and gems.  But the story behind it was what was truly remarkable.  Once, it was said to have belonged to an ancient queen who had worn it as a shield of protection and power.  This queen lived under many names, many faces, and led to the redemption of her kingdom from invaders.  The legends said it was magic and the hand of the gods.  Historians said she was a brilliant tactician with skilled generals (while also indicating that there was no way a woman could have accomplished all that she had done).  Celaena liked believing in the greater legends.

The glass case of the Eye was what made the Mortimer Wyrdlock so special.  It had personalized individual sections for specific items that could be adjusted to various parameters.  The sight of the necklace though, sitting on that satin pillow with a gold light shining down on it—it sparked a bit of rage within her.  The necklace didn’t belong to the museum and it didn’t even belong to her client.

And here she was stealing it.

The card inside the case indicated the donator it was on loan from.  On loan.  More like coerced.  Everyone felt intitled to something just because it glittered in the light. The original owners had indeed donated it to the museum, with the promise of getting it back.  But Celaena had seen the drawn-out documents between lawyers and directors insisting that it belonged to the museum.  That the owners had forfeited their rights to the necklace due to the smallest of red tape, coercion.  Control.  Lies.

The necklace didn’t deserve to be treated this way.  Strange to say about a necklace but true none the less.

This case used biometrics to open which was a little tougher to hack, but they’d been prepared for that.  It only took a few keystrokes to trick the technology to accept Celaena’s eye scan and the case popped open.

In her comm, Celaena heard a small cough.  She rolled her eyes.

“You could have done this yourself, retrieval specialist,” she murmured, knowing the comm could pick up just about any soft-spoken sound she made. “Give me five.”

Nothing on the other line.

Celaena took that as a victory and went to work.  Carefully, she opened a small drawstring bag lined with traces of led and dropped it in the necklace.  And the card.

She tucked the sachet in a secret pocket along the lining of her dress and replaced the lid.  She made her way back out of the vault before pausing at the doorway.  She ran her hand along the edge and allowed a little smirk to play on her lips.  Her work would run for just a moment longer.

.*.*.

The alarm went off just as Celaena left the archival stairwell.  She let the door shut behind her and slipped into the crowd of guests that were being ushered out of the museum.  Protocol stated that all guests were subjected to a search before and after leaving.  The good thing about being a thief and a grifter?  The rules didn’t apply to her.

She ducked into a storage closet just past the Van Goh exhibit to find a duffle bag already waiting for her.  Inside was an extra server uniform, pair of black shoes, and a taser.  She made the change of clothes quick and smooth, just as she’d practiced.  The sachet and necklace went in her bra and the scanner to an ankle holster.  Thankfully the uniform dictated flared pants for women and not a skirt.

From there it was easy to blend in with the catering crew and then disappear into the night.  Truly, some people were really unobservant.

When she ducked into an alley a few blocks away, it was the first time that Celaena took a breath.  A deep breath that filled her lungs.  It wasn’t clean or clear, but she was breathing and she was free.

Just thirty yards away waited a plain white van with the decals of a plumbing company.  She was about to make her way to it when she heard a scrape come behind her.

Spinning, Celaena’s hand went to the taser in her pocket.  She really wanted to tase someone.

“Well done,” a deep voice said from the shadows. “Only took you an hour.”

“You sound surprised,” she replied, fingers still reaching for the taser.  “You should know better than to underestimate me.”

It really was insulting when people doubted her…even if most of what anyone knew about her was based on rumor.

The man only hummed in response.  He came a few steps closer before stopping.  The pale lights of the street lamps barely permeated the night, but it was enough to get a decent look at him.  She’d only met him once before, heart rumors of him aside from that.  Well, their meeting had been less of a meeting and more of a shower of bullets.  She recognized him all the same.

His silver hair, his large build, the sharp angles of his face.  Tonight, he wore dress pants and a black shirt rolled to the elbows, leaving powerful forearms on display.  He was a force to be reckoned with, a fighter, a killer.

Everything about Rowan Whitethorn screamed danger.  Celaena knew better than to trust him.  But for this particular job, she wouldn’t regret being selfish.

“Oh, I’m not a fool, Rowan said.  He held out a hand. “Which is why I’m here.  My necklace?”

Celaena sneered at him. “My payment?”

“Transferred.  Don’t you trust me?”  He smirked at her, coming just a step closer.

Did he have to be so big?  And as much of an asshole as he was?

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“You can check your accounts, it’s all there.”  Rowan didn’t look at all worried or concerned over her lack of faith.  Instead, he merely waited as she pulled out her phone (which was essentially the scanner she’d used for her thievery) and checked her account as prompted.  It was all there.  All hundred thousand.  She was honestly a little surprised he’d kept his word.

Celaena said nothing as she took the necklace from her bra and walked it toward him.

“Can I know what your plans are for it?” she asked, tone neutral and even.

“No,” he said.  He adjusted one of his sleeves, making sure the cuff stayed rolled up properly. “Just know that it’s going to well taken care of.  You don’t need to worry.”

Celaena dropped the sachet into Rowan’s hand and he returned the comm she’d given him for the night. “As long as you know about the curse.”

Rowan raised a brow before he opened the bag to peek inside. “Curse?”

“Sure,” she shrugged and took a slow waltz in a circle around him. “The old queen who slaughtered an army who dared try to steal from her?  She still haunts that necklace, you know.”

Rowan didn’t bother acknowledging her.  He only tucked the necklace in his pocket. “Aren’t you a little old for ghost stories?”

“Nope.”

She stopped in front of him once again and clasped her hands behind her back. “Sleep well, Mr. Whitethorn.  I hope your dreams are nightmarish and bloody.”

“Try not to miss me too much,” he said in reply.

Celaena spun on her heel and headed to the van.  She didn’t look back until she was already pulling the driver’s door open.  When she had settled herself in the driver’s seat and looked through the windshield, the alley was empty.

Scrubbing a hand down her face, certainly smudging any remnants of her make-up, Celaena drew in a deep breath.  It had been a long night and was only going to get longer.  It didn’t help that she had a massive headache brewing behind her eyes.  She waited a few more minutes to make sure the alley was empty before reaching into the other side of her bra, drawing out another black baggie.

Upending the bag, a display card and golden necklace fell into her lap.  The necklace she’d given Whitethorn was an exact replica of the original.  A damn good replica if her supplier knew what they were doing.

Celaena glanced at the card and made a small promise to herself, and her family.  She would get the necklace back to its proper owners.  And then maybe she could finally be herself again.

Donated by the Ashryver-Galathynius Family

She ran her nails along her hairline before she tugged the red wig from her head and tossed it to the back of the van just as the passenger door opened.

“Next time I get to break into the fancy safe and do the stealing,” Elide said as she clambered in.  She still wore her server’s uniform of white and black, her hair pinned in a tight bun. “I hate people.”

“Sure. Next time.”

“How beautiful was the Mortimer?” Elide asked, a small pout forming on her lips. “Did you see how the wiring connected?  How did the scanner do on the hack?  Did I program it right?”

“It was big and black and a safe,” Celaena said.  She yawned and shook out her blonde hair until it fell around her shoulders. “You took a little longer tripping the alarm then I thought you would.”

Elide pulled a face. “Because I don’t set alarms off.  Looks like you tricked the client.”

“For now,” Celaena said.  She passed the necklace and her phone to her friend. “Transfer the payment so he can’t take it back when he notices the switch.”

“You think someone can hack an account I set up in the first place?” Elide let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh sweet honey child.”

Celaena rolled her eyes and started the van. “Just do it.  Let’s get back to base.”

“Home, it’s your home,” Elide insisted.

Except it wasn’t a home.  It hadn’t felt like a home in so long that she wasn’t even sure what the word meant.

“Whatever,” Celaena said. 

She pulled out onto the road and began the trek across the city.  She made sure they weren’t being tracked or followed, that would put a damper on the evening.  She’d rather be across the country before Whitethorn realized she tricked him.

Her plan wasn’t exactly foolproof.  Steal a priceless artifact and what?  Give it back to the rightful owners?  What would they do with it except give it back to the rightful owners who would then be hit with insurance fraud.  She’d been impulsive and reckless.  Moreso than she usually was.

But she would think about that later.  For now, she would just revel in having the necklace in her possession.

*.*.*.*.

Not gonna lie, am really excited about this one! I hope you enjoy it! It'll be three parts total, the other two parts coming on other days during the month. Thanks for reading, reblogs and comments are appreciated!

[wrinkledparchment]

a game of cat and mouse | sebastian sallow

BRIEF DISCLAIMER: THIS AUTHOR DOES NOT SUPPORT OR TOLERATE TRANSPHOBIA OR DISCRIMINATION OF ANY KIND

Summary: Sebastian takes you on the path to Hogsmeade, but you both soon discover a game is afoot. You try your best to compete with Sebastian’s charm and witty remarks, but you learn that Sebastian is always one step ahead of you.

Word Count: 2,709 words

Author’s Note: Okay I originally did not like this but then I edited and accidentally made it 600 words longer and now I actually think it’s really cute. Tried this sort of “game” concept and I think it’s officially cute so this is the catalyst/stepping stone in my very scattered retelling of yours and Sebastian’s relationship over the course of the game. I will eventually put them in the order you should be reading them in my masterlist once it actually begins making sense but also my goal is that every single one can be read as a oneshot too.

Content Warnings: None--plain fluff. I will absolutely be making a fic with absolutely unhinged Sebastian soon though, don’t worry. 

Your footsteps on the cobblestone pathway in the North Exit of Hogwarts were barely audible amongst the chatter of the other students, the chirping of the birds about, and the grasshopper’s song amidst the grass that ruffled in the wind. The water fountain ahead glistened in the mid-afternoon sun, and all the potted plants captured your attention immediately. It smelled so fresh in this area of Hogwarts, whereas most places in the castle smelled like dust and old books. There was something about the sun on your face that already felt so much more inviting than usual, but after looking through the small sea of students, you really perked up when Sebastian’s warm smile stood out amongst the crowd.  

Your pace picked up to a light trot, making your way to him as fast as you could. “Sebastian! Thank you for agreeing to come to Hogsmeade with me!”  

“Ah! My new ‘charge’, I’m glad to accompany you,” he smiled, leaning just slightly forward. “I was told by Professor Weasley that you’re in dire need of supplies and I’m to accompany you into Hogsmeade for them. Is this your first foray into the village?”

You peeked at the exit, watching as a few other students came and went, so excited both to get out of the castle and to go somewhere with the only Hogwarts student to interest you thus far. There was something so dryly sarcastic in his tone, something so charming in his words, and something so enchanting about his smile that you couldn’t help but go along with whatever he says, trying to counter his clever remarks with wits of your own. You finally looked back into his eyes from your focus on the path but could do nothing except nod at his question—when you finally glanced back, his eyes had never left your face.  

“Well then, I’m sure you’ll love it, it’s quite the charming little place. Shall we?” He gestured his arm out to the path, and your smile widened, following him. It was a slow-paced walk, more of a saunter, and all you could do was focus on how your footsteps fell into sync with ease. “You know, I was very glad Professor Weasley asked me to accompany you today.”

“As am I,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough to mask the nervousness in your voice, and immediately after, you closed your eyes and turned your head forward, casting away all the anxieties and butterflies.  

Sebastian was still facing his head to you when you opened your eyes, “I think I’d like to get to know the only person who’s bested me in a duel.”

“Apologies for breaking your streak. Would you have wished I held back and let you win?” You watched the corner of his mouth curve into a sly smile, eyes focused solely on yours, declining to look where he was walking and instead bask in the beauty of you, the new fifth year.

“Never,” there was a slight pause between his words, instead communicating with his eyes this challenge, this tension that grew with every word, every glance, every graze of his knuckles on your hand. “--but the way I see it, I’d be wise to keep an eye on you.” For some reason, that left you breathless for a moment, but you quickly gathered the pieces of you that broke off every time he left you stunned and put yourself back together.  

“I hope you enjoy the view, then,” you spoke, still breathless in the best kind of way.  

He looked forward again, maybe somewhat nervous but more put-together than you ever appeared after one of his flirtatious comments. “I think I would enjoy the view next to you rather than across from you. Maybe we could duel together next time, instead.”

A proposal, the first commitment to him you’d make. A team. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“I can’t give you any other chances to knock me off my feet.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he turned to you again, his eyes so magnetic that you couldn’t turn away--no matter how much you tried to rip your gaze away, you couldn’t, worried that you would give the game away in seconds.  

Maybe, Sebastian was as good at reading people as he was charming, and perhaps he could see right through you. He had known every word to say, had prepared every comment, rehearsed as soon as Weasley had told him to come with you. It felt like everything you threw at him, all of the looks, accidental hand-brushes, every attempt at a flirtatious comment you had, he was able to counter in 2 seconds flat. You may have beaten him at dueling, but this far more dangerous game you’d begun has him besting you at every turn.  

The beauty of Hogwarts Valley was truly nothing to sniff at. Birds flew ahead of you, the green grass and rough face of the rocky hills on the left side of the path were marvelous, and the two waterfalls ahead filled you with tranquility. What had given you peace, however, was being able to walk next to him, sometimes in silence, sometimes coated in laughter. Even when you began to lean into his path, with your shoulders brushing, he held his ground, never giving you an inch. He didn’t flinch his hand away when your pinkies touched. No, the beauty of Hogwarts Valley was stunning, but found its rival in the man next to you.  

You tried to distract yourself from all this jargon in your brain, tried to fill the air of tension with more than silence. “Thank you for agreeing to join with me. I’m surprised Professor Weasley let me choose who to bring rather than sending a random prefect.”

“You asked for me?” He almost seemed flattered, surprised, and heartwarmingly embarrassed all at once. He was finally the person between the two of you to end up breathless, but even with this defeat, he never showed the cards he didn’t want you to see, still could gather himself so quickly. “I suppose it is surprising, given my detention record.”

You giggled under your breath, glancing away. You couldn’t say you were surprised at him being rebellious—among his other dangerous curiosities you’d picked up on. “You spend a lot of time in detention, then?”  

He frowned playfully, eyebrows raised, “Just enough to keep me well-rounded.” He integrated his flirtatious comments, his compliments, his cards into every conversation so skillfully it was starting to make you upset. “I should really be the one thanking you, actually,” he started, “This outing with you saved me from getting detention from the librarian... again. Madam Scribner was on the hunt for me—as is often the case.”

You didn’t bother to hide your amusement this time, and allowed him to bask in your happiness, reveal just a little how terribly hilarious he was. You shared a glance with him this time, still laughing, and there was something about the way his eyes sparkled at the sound. That look, it was like a warning—a premonition—that once your heart had decided it was his, it could never be anything or anyone else’s, that your fates would be permanently intertwined. You turned away before it was too late.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” you mused, still staring at the path ahead instead of him, not out of reverence for the surroundings but because you could not handle looking at him again, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. “How did you manage to get on the librarian’s bad side, anyway?”

“Well, I suspect it’s a matter of differing opinions. She thinks I shouldn’t be allowed in the Restricted Section, and I, on the other hand, am inclined to disagree.”

He enjoys every bit of your laughter all too much, watches your face too closely until you worry you have spinach in your teeth. He’s all too skilled at this game of cat and mouse you’re playing, too good at making you laugh so quickly and he got you becoming interested in everything he has to say with such little effort it was bewildering. The path the two of you were on had long since turned to dirt, and before you knew it, Sebastian’s shoulder rubs against yours again, trying to steer you to the left.  

There is a cacophony of beautiful sounds, chirps and buzzes all coming from a concentrated area of a few bushes, and you recognize the look of them immediately. “This is an excellent spot to gather lacewing flies. They’re pretty to look at, but if you stew them long enough, they make a powerful potion ingredient.”

He crouched near a bush, using pinpoint precision with his fingers to grab one and put it in one of the smallest glass jars you’ve ever seen. He glances back at you, tilting his head to signal you to come closer. Stepping as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the little bugs, you began to crouch closer to Sebastian, knees bumping with his as you try to maintain your balance.  

You just stare at them for a little bit, but suddenly, one flies right at you and lands on your face. You try to hold your breath, going cross-eyed trying to look at the one on your cheek, but soon, you see Sebastian’s fingers coming into your vision, slowly approaching the lacewing fly positioned on your cheek. As his hand gets closer and his robes begin to fall down his arms, you feel the soft cloth brush against your jaw, and you’re so stunned by how close he is that you can’t breathe. You glance at his eyes, so focused and narrowed in on the fly that dare touch you. As far as Sebastian is concerned, every creature should know by watching how you flush every time he’s near you that only he can touch you, caress your cheek, be the reason you’re breathless. 

His fingers finally grasp around the little bug, dropping it quickly into the jar and covering it with his hand. You decide not to think too much about the warmth of his skin or how close his face was to yours, and instead about this rather painstakingly time-consuming method of gathering flies. “Is this really the best method of procuring the lacewing flies?” you questioned, and he seems to have been caught.  

“Most students grab a branch and shake them off into the jar and cover it up as fast as they can, but I find this method much more rewarding,” he responded quickly, always seeming to have an explanation for his quirks.  

“By squishing bugs between your monstrously large fingers?”

“Precisely.”

You both turned your heads quickly as you heard thumps and what sounds like an eagle calling from the Forbidden Forest. You both bolted up to stand, and for the first time, the two of you begun to run to get a better chance at seeing them. “They’re magnificent,” you breathed, smile so wide on your face, stunned by the beauty of this new world you’d been shown. You turned to Sebastian, ready to see his stunned face, but he is already looking at you, smiling just as widely as you were.

You continue past the bridge, trying to brush off the anxiety that being with Sebastian, so close and yet so far, gave you. Sebastian, trying to keep up with your pace, is huffing but still continues to talk. He never seems to be able to shut his mouth around you, or at all, for that matter.  

“It looks like they came from the Forbidden Forest to the left. Out of bounds to all students.” You could hear the annoyance in his voice.  

“Not so ‘out of bounds’ to you, is it?” you quickly remarked, smile evident in the tone of your voice.  

There was even more sarcasm present in his voice, “How did you guess?” There is a small exchange of laughter between the two of you, and this time, neither of you dared to spare a glance at one another, focused on the path ahead. “Hogsmeade is just ahead, past those ruins.”

You come to a skidding stop as soon as you do pass the ruins, and turn yourself right around, climbing around the rubble and barrels, and Sebastian stops and wonders to himself if he’s befriended a maniac. But it’s just then that he hears a small click and then the creaking of wood, and you return to him with a small burlap bag filled with extra galleons. “Looks like I’ll be able to spare some treats at Honeyduke’s, too.”

“Wow, you have a really keen eye.” You smile at him and turn just ever so slightly away from him before booking it down the path. “Hey, wait up!” He’s huffing again, just as he catches up to you. “Have you discovered any of the famed Hogwarts secrets yet?”

You only turn back to him briefly, still focused on your path forward, “The castle is just positively enormous, I haven’t scratched the surface. I’m sure you have, though.”

He laughed, beginning to be just a few paces ahead of you, “I can’t go around telling you all of my secrets, now, can I?” His voice is echoing back at you, and all you can do is laugh, catch your breath, and try to push yourself to run just a little bit faster. Even as you passed a carriage being driven by Thestrals, which you could tell Sebastian could see, you continued running as fast as possible.  

You passed numerous trees, sharp turns--at least for your speeds, and even a very distressed Mr. Moon, who didn’t stop you two to talk. You both slowed your pace as the awfully disorganized and not very helpful signs marked the entrance of Hogsmeade, beautiful trees lining the path to a brilliant bridge into the town.  

The buildings, the people and the sweet smell all overwhelm your senses. Sebastian fell into step beside you, guiding you through the lightly packed streets, past the very quirky and slightly unstable stone buildings. “I’ve got to go look for something for my sister, so you’ll have to do your shopping alone, I’m afraid.”

“How positively terrible,” you sneak in, just before slipping in your curiosity  about everything Sebastian. “Is your sister a Slytherin too?”

There is a change in demeanor when his sister is brought up, and Sebastian stiffens, standing up straighter, eyebrows coming to rest heavily above those eyes you loved so much. “She is—or, she was. She’s not well at the moment,” and he sags in posture, “but she’ll be better soon and back at Hogwarts.”

You smile, and even though you’ve known him for exactly a few passing moments, a few lingering touches, a few flirtatious and tension-filled smiles, you can sense that there is a lie there--a hopeful lie. Finally, after all this time of such a skilled game, he had inadvertently let his poker face slip and showed you his hand. “When she does return, I do hope you’ll introduce me to her,” and you can’t shut your mouth before your thought slips out of your lips, “Anyone dear to you is dear to me too.”

Just like that, with an arguably more innocent and naïve comment than Sebastian had slipped all this time—you won. There was something on his face, the furrow in his brow or the look in his eyes or the way his lips quivered, you couldn’t decide—but his face brought forth only one thought. Adoration.  

“Very well then,” and with that, he stepped closer to you, offering a smile, and leaned in to whisper in your ear with his hand on your shoulder, “I’ll be back for you.” His hand slipped off as he walked past you, and when you turn, you can tell he had just looked back at you a moment before. The warmth of his breath on your ear lingers, and the place on your shoulder where his hand once laid burned when he left, marking you forever, distracting you throughout every store, on every path, until all that was left in your mind was him, him, him.

He had won.

. . .

toeing the line

[applesontheground]

break what i borrow 🧩

hello, everyone.

this one got. long.

all i got to say is that anyone who's been here since *looks at calendar* june knew this was coming. and buckle the fuck up, because my favorite position to write him and the reader in is doing jigsaw goon work together.

just kidding, it's this one.

gif credit: x

NSFW | Word Count: 4,346 | Mark Hoffman x GN Apprentice!Reader contains canon typical/ment of canon character death, post-SAW VI & pre-SAW VII, that fucking facial scar, stalking/B&E themes, biting, light knifeplay, BDSM/gagging, brat taming, begging, that one position that rearranges guts, Jigsaw is used as a bedroom name so turn back now if that's too corny for you (bc it sure isn't for me) [Y/O] = Your Occupation

As all good things did, it had to end sooner or later.

The fact that when you said that you meant your apprenticeship under John Kramer would make most people snap to some disgusted attention. Fine, yes, you could admit the obvious: it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows what with… the opportunity.

Doing the dirty work, staying late fixing things in the wake of your mentor’s sickness, hauling bodies of individuals you were told to view as guilty until proven innocent – or as Kramer would call it, revived. You didn’t have good nights by any perspective that was rooted in a functioning world’s understanding while doing the bidding of a dying man with a new outlook on life – or rather, what to do with it now that his clock was reaching the end of its final wind.

That didn’t mean you didn’t find that sweet silver lining, seclusion in a dark warehouse with nothing but something to do with your hands and like minds, similar broken pieces there to slide together in the best fashion that you all could. You had felt the snug fit at times. Being John’s second trial that had pulled through to the other side, you had arrived with one already praying at the altar, Amanda Young, and then two more to come join in time, contributing to the cause for their own reasons.

Amanda was the one to propose you go into hiding well before this last trap that John was planning while he was alive, a family torn to shreds from the death of their son. Details were spared when he decided to dismiss you. John was growing weaker in his speech with each passing week you would visit, his movements deteriorating until he was bedridden, and more machines were placed into his body to keep some semblance of a consciousness. After those final words between them, you had to run and hide. You, Amanda, and John all agreed it was for the best, at least while the game was going; the other two would be filled in, you supposed in your inability to hesitate with little time between everything afoot.

When John told you to stay, you stayed. When he said to go, you went without a second look back. Jigsaw wasn’t ever going to be done with what you had started; you also knew this despite ignorance on the surface. You didn’t really keep a tab on what that meant as you found a new spot to take your roots.

There came a good crossroad. A relative offered their home to you, needing to travel for their high-end job and not wanting to hire someone to watch the property back in the states, take care of their animals out in the rural patch of land that they owned. You accepted, knowing they wouldn’t mention to anyone that they were asking family to do it. They didn’t need to know that there was a more intense investigation into the Jigsaw murders unfolding in the town miles over, and that if you didn’t take shelter in a place where the authorities wouldn’t think to search, you’d be named one of the notorious pig-faced accomplices.

It was better that questions weren’t asked all around. The setup wasn’t foolproof, but you figured it could be enough severance to keep authorities at bay. Then again, you sometimes mused as you would stare back towards the city, down the dirt road you had come in disheveled and teary-eyed, that it wasn’t airtight.

It was as sealed as you could make it and would take a real coverup to make sure you’d never be heard from again.

Another quiet evening was spent in the desolate living room, far too lavish for your one family member to have to themselves every night. You wondered how they lived in such a way, staring from the large bay window and nonchalantly to your shorts that were barely coming down to cover your thighs, just enough to be presentable enough should there be unwanted knocks on the door. A baggy shirt didn’t make it any better, swallowing everything above your abdomen if you didn’t roll it to sit on your waistband.

The closest neighbor wasn’t for a good few miles, so there was no reason to hide lest the pigs in the nearby field catch a glimpse. You were more fond of them over the horses and the few goats under your watch, and they seemed to like you in place of their owner just the same. There had been times you had ventured out here before unbeknownst to another living soul – including your relative – to bring the pigs a special delicacy. Courtesy of Jigsaw himself, who needed to get some “work” off his hands, and of course he knew the bonus to swine alongside their intelligent minds.

Your ears turned to the deafening weight of the silence, something empty and going down the two corridors that lead to the rest of the house. You had done some exploring, sure, but it would be exhausting to make the rounds every evening like you wanted. You kept all windows locked, curtains drawn everywhere except the four rooms you frequented, and all your possessions were kept in the closet in the guest room you found the most pleasant.

Somewhere deep in one of the suitcases you had hauled with you when leaving town was that mask, the heavy coat, and boots you would wear when you were "on the job". It'd be too incriminating to abandon those crucial pieces of the outfit back in the apartment you had left in the dead of night.

The last you heard, someone had gone and torched the place, expertly keeping it confined to the one unit with a lick of expertise in destroying evidence. A hand went up to your neck, uncomfortable to admit even in the safety of your head that you knew who had done it. It wasn’t Amanda, and it wasn’t Dr. Gordon.

A creak in the foundations from down one hallway, the one you weren’t inhabiting in your stay, made your mind snap back to the task at hand.

You tried to watch TV in the main room, but that bay window felt far too inviting to onlookers now that you were once again stuck in the throes of thinking about the life you were trying to singe your connection to, imagining voyeurs on the back of your shoulders, crawl up your spine until you had to draw the curtains. It was almost like clockwork to be walking to bed with a clouded conscience.

All those nights in windowless spaces made you far more adjusted to concealed areas, so when they were opened up? All of those bodies staring at you in frozen mercy for there was still no salvation after all this time. It was them, or the hypervigilance of keeping an eye on the neighbors, which you considered just as vindictive should they know anything past someone still living in this house, tending the livestock.

 It was only when you stepped into your self-assigned bedroom, eyes darting in the unlit space to see more curtains that you also felt the compulsion to draw, that same feeling was growing, practically on top of you now. It wasn’t anyone of the sort you were suspecting; no ghastly victims coming back for you, no neighbors…and certainly not Jigsaw himself.

At least, not the Jigsaw you recognized.

The figure at the corner of the room had been stock still, but walking a little further in gave enough leverage for them to turn their head slightly, like they couldn’t help themselves. You locked eyes with it, the snout clear as day in the thick darkness, and there was a brief consideration that it was all a hallucination from a sick apprentice, another attempt to stay collected that was snuffed when it wasn’t going away with a double take.

“Guess I’m not hiding as well as I thought.” You breathed, eyes adjusting once more to the dark. It moved immediately, making you shoot to the left, barrel halfway over the bed but to no avail. The fast approaching silhouette was encompassing, following the leap with a yank of your ankle and mob after you, one knee on the bed and pinning you fast.

“Can I ask-“You hiccupped as the forearm braced your windpipe against the mattress, a pressure already answering your question – or rather chasing your suspicions, “Who? Amanda, or…?”

Again, it couldn’t be Lawrence, the agile movement being far too fluid. Despite calling out for her, the stick of the jacket-clad arm was far too powerful. Then again, the woman could throw entire brick houses of people through glass panes, easily getting your many bodies to the floor with a single running start. You refused to put it entirely past her, but before you got too skeptical the mask peeled away in a brash movement, hitting the floor as he leaned in close with an exposed face.

“Who the hell do you think?” A gruff voice asked.

You didn’t look into his eyes. [Y/e/c]s burnt into the fresh, crooked slice in his cheek trailing from one corner of his mouth instead, stitches twitching at both the close contact of your skin, your hair, the gentle breaths between you two of disbelief mixed with terror – but your gaze trained on it was what truly made it burn, and before you could ask another question he pushed you down harder into the bed by your neck; making your eyes squeeze shut in response. You finally turned to look the man in the eye, and he was shaking from a very similar, deep-cut rage. You merely waited, unable to speak for the time as he continued to chastise.

“By the way? This is a terrible place to run to. Found you with one look at your phone records.” His arm left your throat, going to your shirt and pulling with a bend of his elbow, not caring that it exposed your chest slightly, letting cool air sweep over you from sudden movement. You blinked, catching your breath as he straightened his posture. You croaked with a hand trailing to where he had barred you, “Work’s treating you well, I’m guessing?” Your hand brushed back, trailing over your cheek in a halfhearted gesture.

It was only met with a sneer from the unmaimed side of his face. He grabbed your shirt a second time, tugging harder as your stance wasnt fit for him. It was too abrasive, your chest hit his and chin slotted over one shoulder from whiplash. Still, you caught your balance, on your knees and hands gripping his shoulders to push off.

You almost didn’t believe those thoughts had materialized into one of John’s other apprentices chasing after you, one you had tried to burn any remnants of alongside your old life, believing the brief connection between the two of you had to end, too – and more importantly, that he’d know it. Even agree with it.

Amanda told you she was going to make sure both Dr. Gordon and him had known you had gone, alongside telling them to consider doing something similar. John wasn’t done with any of you, as you had reminded yourself with another pained glance to the side of his face; he just needed you to disperse so whatever he had planned in his death could come to a more complete fruition.

“You gonna kiss me, or just keep staring at it?” He asked. You turned your head one way, and he didn’t even get to put his hands on you again before your lips pressed carefully under his jawline, eyelashes brushing the fresh scar and making him mutter under his breath, taking the slightest pressure still with newfound pain. Glove’s leather ghosted over your head and back of your neck, trying to will itself to pull you off, but he was dissuaded as you moved away from the wound, closer to his neck for the time.

“Well, sorry, Hoff.” You murmured into his skin, “When I haven’t seen a face like yours in months, I like to take count of what’s new.” The hand found its purchase against your scalp, scratching gingerly before taking hold and wrenching you away from his neck. Looking you in the face, you fixed your eyes to his and gave a bewildered, half-open mouthed smile.

“I’d say the same to you.” He retorted, taking in your [y/h/c] hair, the new scratches on your arms from all the moving you’d done. You blinked, eyes on it one more time before murmuring with a straight face, even a pensive tone of voice, “If it means anything, I don’t think it takes away from how you look.”

“Sweet talker. How many have you used that on?”

You smiled again, and spat, “Please, I’m about as quick to fill the hole all of this shit left as I was to even think about taking over the fucking family business when John and Amanda told me to get out, or to date? What do you take me for?” You shook your head, “It seems you’ve done fine in the wake of John’s cancer, anyways.”

Part of you wanted to ask about them but feigned when his eye now gained that bothered, uncomfortable twitch at the knowledge. You swallowed, breathing deeply now that there were settled qualms. As quick as the silence came, he let go of your hair. You lost balance this time, falling back down on the bed and propping yourself to one side with an elbow.

He was straddling you without another word, and you felt a prod against your stomach that made you roll your neck, looking up at him as you complained in a gentle voice, “Oh, come on. What, you think we’re just gonna do this right now? That you can just walk in-“

“Walk in? I could’ve walked into your last day job-“ He pushed your shoulder closest to him, once again positioning you completely on your back. One leg hiked up from the bed in a reflex, and he finished the job in another abrasive pull with his hand, settling it over his hip, “Asked everyone there where that little [Y/O] of theirs ran off to, and since you can’t save face worth a rat’s ass they’d say right where you went. Believe me, I followed your tracks, and I’d find you all the same. You would’ve let me do it, too.”

“…But you still took time to burn my apartment down so that no one else could?” He stilled in his adjustments as you prodded, head rolling from one side to the other against the bed, “Did the investigative work just to be sure?” You then gasped in a mockery, laughing before he finally broke, leaning in with a cold glove trailing up your shin, settling on your knee to press your thigh against the outside of his leg, and to snuff your snark by lowering himself.

He couldn’t help groan against your tongue, another noise of a long-awaited need that you returned with keeping yourself from completely falling back just yet. Meeting in the middle, you were still propped on elbows as he adjusted on top of you, a hand on your cheek to steady both of you.

“I know,” You laughed as you broke away, watching him refuse to let up just yet and crane downwards again if you weren’t going to let him at your lips. Your voice grew airy as he was finding your neck, eyes closed as you gave him more leverage with a tip of your head to one side, “I should be flattered.”

He used his teeth at the sound of that, making your words still in place of a yelp. He released you after that warning, and paused to breathe shallowly against the shell of your ear. He spoke in that voice he knew made you squirm, pushing up against where you both needed it.

“I’ll show you how flattered you should be, [Y/N].”

You barely had another second to breathe before he ducked lower, tossing the shirt you wore up to your chest. Unnecessary, he seemed to concur as he found what he wanted underneath: your soft stomach clenching as his lips touched you again, the same awareness forged in working together that you liked the trail down just as much as what was coming. You shuddered against his lips, clenching your legs together with knees going into abdomen in a last-ditch effort to keep him from you, a game too fun not to play with the live wire.

He appreciated the challenge, hands sliding through slick sweat on your thighs and the gloves’ surface catching slightly which made you hum in a pathetic gesture. His hands found a good spot to hold, squeezing a bit before prying them apart. Trying to sound downright angry, he barked, “Don’t stop me,” before sinking down. His shoulders kept your legs pried, and the hands moved to frame your hips.

“Gentle, gent-“ You couldn’t even speak, ravaged as he brandished a blade – You couldn’t tell, pocket knife or something larger that you may see on one of you – it sliced the fabric with a ginger saw that brushed the skin of your crotch but didn’t break skin. It hadn’t even felt like it had left a scratch.

He tore through the cut down the inseam of your shorts, underwear going with it. You adjusted slightly, muttering under your breath about liking those clothes, but was quickly quelled with his gloved digits touching [the soft skin of your cock/the entrance of your cunt]. You strained against clenched teeth, head falling back slightly but quickly picked up so you could look at him again and spat, “Are you going to keep toying with me, or do you want to-“

“That fucking mouth.” Fed up, he suddenly pulled away, glaring at you and his hand now clawing at the tie tucked under his jacket, revealing his shirt and loosening it with his middle and ring finger as he started to pull it all off. You watched cautiously, knowing he was going to use that for something other than keeping the appearance up.

He yanked it from around his neck, then came inches away from your face, using it in a horizontal hold to pin your head back. You gave him a resistant glare as he easily fit the fabric past your teeth. Lingering cologne and sweat on it quelled you without so much as a shiver of your tongue against the gag.

“You gonna bite me, tough [guy/girl]?” He asked, giving a testing look over your face, down to your jaw as his hands lingered by your mouth, almost brushing the edges of your molars. You held the stare in consideration, but simply huffed against the fabric. He let go, and you caught the glimpse of satisfaction in his eyes before he pushed your shirt up again.

“Should’ve done that ten minutes ago.” He commented, and you tried to appear offended, but it was hard when the hand returned to your [cock/cunt], force tenfold and making you inhale audibly. It was a release your body, your restless thoughts had needed. It wasn't exactly an idea of yours to pound it out physically, but then again, the mediation you tried to do hadn't necessarily been working either.

He [released your growing member, watching it twitch from the loss of his hold/ took his fingers from your pussy after a few prods in and out], almost contemplating what to do next with finally pressing that button in you to get you to shut up. You merely responded with shallow breaths, avoiding eye contact and taking the breath to consider you really need to draw those curtains now.

The attention needed to be back on him, it seemed. You flinched at the sound of his zipper, and he warned, "To think I'd be able to wait any longer..." You furrowed your brow at that, but merely stayed still for him, something waiting at your entrance making you huff audibly, a noise of recognition it wasn't going to be a nice one.

He had been smart to gag you, the question of whether it was going to be something worth your frayed nerves, your lonely disposition, or a ‘blow your load then hit the road’ sort of deal was forced back. Still, he seemed a little pressed from your lost attention for another second, yourself not getting too excited now to consider it was just going to be the latter at the end of the night.

Still, it was a sign you were going to need some winning over in his mind. The leg around his hip was yanked up, and your hands went to brace the mattress underneath you as the backs of your shins now rested on his shoulders. One wide-eyed glance told him there wasn’t anything for you to do with a tied mouth.

He pushed in after a few strokes, holding your legs against his flanks to keep you still and to get a perfect view of what happened to your face: eyes crossed, then rolled back as you groaned at the pain. Tensity made you brace, clench around him as you tried to push against the pull, the leather-clad hands on your legs as he merely watched, his own sensations stalled in favor of what it did to you.

"Gee, I appreciate it, detective."

Still, he wasn't exactly known for his restraint. He pushed all the way in just to pull out slightly, and a few dry drags hurt to the point where you were squirming far too much.

"What a baby," He muttered, pulling out just to spit on his hand, but you muttered clear enough through the gag for him to catch it.

The rhythm he immediately formed when he slid back in. A grit of his teeth and a laugh in response from you was enough to finally throw the worries for the future to the floor along with your ripped shorts for the time, lolling your head slightly to spasm at the intrusion once more, loudly whining from behind the tie. It made you fixate on every detail in a frenzy, in and out of your head, in and out and in.

Even if it would end in the blink of an eye, the flash of a camera in your memory, you had to throw it out there. Begging behind the tie, all of your noise caught his hazed attention.

“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking stop. You feel so good, I missed you-“ You were nearly weeping, just saying anything you could think to in the heat of the moment, fitting together in a way you hadn’t in ages, and all that came with the assumption that you won’t get to again. Whatever was going on nearly took his face off, a story reminder it could all end at any day.

John had once mentioned how important it was to focus on the moment at hand, don’t try to guess what could come next. When you did that, just enjoying the throb within your walls and unable to push your legs together, squeezing his hips from where he was fit with no sign of leaving, you suddenly fell from grace.

“Ah, ah- I’m fuckin’ coming, I’m gonna-” Your speech garbled, constricted into a pathetic whine against the fabric, arching your back and barely noticing it had shaken his balance, pulled his steady roots as his hands went from the spot just above your ankles to your hips, grabbing like you were about to slip out from under him and suddenly showing no restraint, no mercy as he hammered into you and you continued shaking. “That’s what I fucking thought, that’s it, [Y/N].” He began to babble himself, “Not such a fucking comedian with Jigsaw’s cock tearing you apart, huh, baby?”

“Jigsaw…” The word barely came out from the gag, going limp as you now knew how to finish him, giving the same care and remembering to what turned him on so much. Clawing at the sheets underneath you and mindlessly whimpering, “Please, I can’t-”

You choked on your own mantras as he pulled the tie out, and your head swiveling back to stare upwards, you nearly mewled at the manic glower on his face: he wanted to hear what you had to say now, and you gave it with another shudder, the fucked out state making your throat dry but words still tumbling out, desperate and cracked with your voice.

“Jigsaw, fuck me.”

His panting stalled like a car, grip uncurling from where they had rubbed their leather-clad fingertips against the skin of your sides to a point of rawness. Sliding to your stomach, his noises were ragged, catching up with his breathing as he started spilling inside of you. Your ankles slid from his shoulders, framing him as he careened down again, still thrusting his cock in and out with each shot.

Your hands found his hair, trying not to pull on it as they traveled to the back of his neck, pulling his entire body into you instead. He slumped into you, cock slipping out as his mind pulled out, too; breathing against the nape of your neck and saying something about how you were still tight after all the time spent apart.

“Why would I fuck anyone else?” You asked, eyes closed as you tried to breathe under the weight of him, but still didn’t let go just yet. Another good thing was going to be gone when you did. There was a strong recognition, your brain reminding you just how much of a death sentence it all was.

You must’ve gotten a tighter hold on the man for a split second at the thought, because he was tucking his mouth in the crook of your neck, already only half awake, but coherent speech made you wonder just which one of you he meant when he said it.

“Not going anywhere.”

[goodnightmemes]

KNIVES OUT (2019) SENTENCE STARTERS

❛ Anything you need. You’re part of this family. ❜

❛ Kids today, with the internet. It’s amazing. ❜

❛ I read a tweet about a New Yorker article about you. ❜

❛ I’m here at the behest of a client. ❜

❛ You will find me a respectful, quiet, passive observer of the truth. ❜

❛ Are you baiting me? ❜

❛ You think I am dumb enough to be baited into talking family business. ❜

❛ This is not how I wanted to have this conversation. ❜

❛ He’s always been the black sheep of the family. ❜

❛ Are you, goddamn, insane? ❜

❛ You tell her or I will! ❜

❛ I know it’ll hurt, but it’s all for the best. ❜

❛ I expect it’s going to be about something, if not extraordinary, then at least interesting. ❜

❛ Does having a kind heart make you a good nurse? ❜

❛ Just the thought of lying, yeah, it makes me puke. ❜

❛ Have you seen her insta? She’s an influencer. ❜

❛ Can I wait inside? I feel like I shouldn’t be here. ❜

❛ So, somebody suspects foul play. ❜

❛ It makes no damn sense. Compels me though. ❜

❛ I don’t know why we keep going over this. ❜

❛ Physical evidence can tell a clear story with a forked tongue. ❜

❛ Can you just take your goddamn medicine and go to bed? ❜

❛ You really love drama, huh? ❜

❛ Why can’t I beat you at this game? ❜

❛ Such a bad loser you are. ❜

❛ There’s so much of me in that kid. ❜

❛ Playing life like a game without consequence, until you can’t tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife. ❜

❛ I don’t fear death. ❜

❛ I don’t fear death. But, oh God, I’d like to fix some of this before I go. ❜

❛ Hey. You had a long day. You wanna do drugs? ❜

❛ I messed up. ❜

❛ You know, this is an interesting and efficient method of murder. I need to write this down. ❜

❛ There is no time, you have to listen! ❜

❛ If what you said is true, I’m gone, there’s no saving me. ❜

❛ But you have to do exactly what I tell you. ❜

❛ Will you do this? This last thing. For me. ❜

❛ What do you want me to do? ❜

❛ It sounds crazy, but it will work. ❜

❛ Don’t lie. Tell fragments of the truth. ❜

❛ I keep waiting for the big reveal, where it all makes sense. Wouldn’t that be nice? ❜

❛ Jesus, I’m gonna disappear until the politics talk is done. ❜

❛ Something is afoot with this whole affair. I know it, and I believe you know it too. ❜

❛ I trust your kind heart. ❜

❛ Be it cruel or comforting, this machine unerringly arrives at the truth. ❜

❛ You do as I say and everything will be just fine. ❜

❛ Best judge of character is a dog. ❜

❛ I don’t feel like talking. I’m distraught. ❜

❛ People grieve in different ways. ❜

❛ I don’t know what any of that means. ❜

❛ Now, you heard something. Spill it. ❜

❛ Maybe this might finally make you grow up. ❜

❛ This might be the best thing that could ever happen to you. ❜

❛ Nothing good is ever easy. ❜

❛ Up your ass. ❜

❛ Matter of fact - eat shit, how’s that? ❜

❛ The game is afoot, eh Watson? ❜

❛ Please accept it with grace and without bitterness. But do accept it. ❜

❛ You little bitch! ❜

❛ Did you know about this? Were you in this from the beginning? ❜

❛ Were you boinking my father? ❜

❛ In the meantime I’d maybe run. ❜

❛ I’m not on Twitter anymore. ❜

❛ You look like you’re gonna pass out. Have you eaten anything today? ❜

❛ I know I shouldn’t say this out loud, but when he told me, I… Jesus, I coulda killed him. ❜

❛ You asshole. ❜

❛ Tell me everything. ❜

❛ There is much that remains unclear. ❜

❛ I suspect foul play. ❜

❛ I have eliminated no suspects. ❜

❛ You’ve come this far. Let me help you go all the way. ❜

❛ What’s going on? This isn’t you. ❜

❛ You should do whatever you think is right. ❜

❛ You have to make things right. ❜

❛ I want you to know I’m gonna take care of you. ❜

❛ You lay low for a couple of days. Wait for this investigation to blow over, and it will. ❜

❛ Are we rich? ❜

❛ Why is grief the providence of youth? ❜

❛ I’d imagine that age deepens all feelings. Including grief. ❜

❛ One thing I assume of age is weariness. Damned if I don’t get more tired every day. ❜

❛ I think you have something you wanna tell me. ❜

❛ I don’t like any of this. ❜

❛ What kind of blackmail scheme is this? ❜

❛ You regret helping me yet? ❜

❛ Oh my God. I’m just pure adrenaline right now, I feel like I swallowed bees. ❜

❛ That was the dumbest car chase of all time. ❜

❛ Strange case from the start. ❜

❛ Listen, I don’t know what you want. Whatever it is, we can work it out. ❜

❛ I don’t want any more surprises. ❜

❛ God, you’re not much of a detective, are you? ❜

❛ You make a pretty lousy murderer. ❜

❛ You’re a pack of vultures at the feast. ❜

❛ Is anybody else confused? ❜

❛ I’m so sorry. I told them everything, I figured it was up. I’m sorry. ❜

❛ You shared a love of twisting the knife into one another. ❜

❛ I’m warning you! ❜

❛ You won’t get away with this. ❜

❛ A twisted web. And we are not finished untangling it. Not yet. ❜

❛ This is stoopid with two o’s. ❜

❛ You don’t have a shred of evidence. You’re just spinning a fairy tale. ❜

❛ In for a penny, in for a pound. ❜

❛ I knew you were a no good son of a bitch! ❜

❛ And then you’ll see just how much hell I can wreak on your life. ❜

❛ You vicious little bitch! ❜

❛ What the shit!? ❜

❛ I want you to remember something that’s very important: you won not by playing the game his way, but yours. ❜

❛ You’re a good person. ❜

❛ I have my own opinion. But I have a feeling you’ll follow your heart. ❜

[lunar-years]

stray thoughts now that i've had twenty minutes to process seeing Jamie's bare ass:

everything that happened with Rebecca tonight was an absolute win. Vigilante Shit with Bex. Her extremely aggressive and definitely disconcerting positivity to Ted at the half. Another incredible outfit. I do love to see it!

Ted's comment that was like "I think you fellas should just calm down and kiss" with the diamond dogs was actually subliminal messaging to help ease the straight audience into Roy/Jamie being canon-ified later in the season (i love being delusional) (but there was nothing straight about what was happening between Jamie and Roy tonight) (but I love being delusional)

Barbara @ Rebecca, Keeley @ Jack, Jack @ Keeley.... something very LGBTQ was afoot ! thank you Brett.

Keeley talking to Shandy about Jamie and how much he's changed and basically trying to convince herself she doesn't feel like that about him anymore while making it incredibly obvious she actually feels very much like that about him and perhaps now more than ever!!! Here's how the ot3 can still win-- (I love being delusional) (but also Jamie going to Keeley's house to hug it out and Roy and Keeley in Jamie's childhood bedroom and--)

I don't have much to say about Nate's storyline, but that's because i think it's being handled very, very well. Him in his tiny flat obsessing over his football-planning-board-thingey and throwing Ted off but then feeling bad about it and setting him back up!!! right from the bat that said everything I needed to hear and then it only got increasingly more loud throughout the episode.

Rupert is genuinely SO sinister. Him literally telling Nate to call him Rupert in episode 1, then Mr. Mannion at the beginning of tonight's episode, then Rupert again after the win...the subtlety of his manipulation is soooo encroaching and so evil I.....

Zava as a parent.......much to consider (negatively). HATED his treatment of Zoreaux. That and also everything he says/does to his teammates is so patronizing and manipulative and the way that he disguises it under his "wisdom" and his talent ew he's grating on me!!

Jamie missing that goal and everyone kind of thinking he shouldn't've taken the shot when he could have passed to Zava, but then Roy claps for him right away because he knows what Jamie was trying to do........ Jamie being so motivated after the loss to get back out there and train with Roy...... Jamie not participating in the violence at the game.... j a mie.....

annnnnd we're back to the bare ass! until next week, folks.

[sandcobangevent]

The Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

by @hihungry-imdad and Gonk

John and Sherlock kneel over the body of Phoebe Saint, a woman in her late 50s. An hour before, she’d been found by her neighbours dangling from her 4th floor balcony with a rope around her neck. The police would have figured it was suicide, but the neighbours swear they saw a figure move away from her window as they looked up. Now, she lay in an open bodybag on the floor. Sherlock breathes in heavily and sighs before turning his gaze to John.  

“Watson,” he says, “tell me how she died.” John gives him a puzzled look, then glances between Sherlock and the body before clearing his throat. 

“Well, strangulation. She would’ve asphyxiated from the pressure on her neck, and the force of her jumping down from the balcony would’ve broken the bones as well. Terribly sad, really, to see someone go like this.” 

“Yes, Watson. I’d agree with you. If she had committed suicide.” “What are you on about, mate? Have you taken too much of your unprescribed medicine?” 

“No, Watson. Look closer at her. See the details hidden below the obvious. Look between the lines.” 

Watson peered closer at the woman, trying to grasp whatever Sherlock was so keen on proving. He could see the bruising on her neck and that scratchy redness of rope burn. Sitting back, he was about to speak when his eyes suddenly darted to the ring finger. Pausing for a moment, he looked closer and saw a very slight indentation on the skin, back by the knuckle in the shape of a band.

“She was married?” He asks, turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at John like a proud parent. 

“Yes Watson! She was in fact married.” 

“Okay, how does that prove she was murdered? Unfortunately, being married doesn’t always stop people from doing this.” 

“The indentation should prove it all, actually. She’d worn a wedding ring for quite some time—a number of years in fact—but due to the fading mark, she has apparently not been wearing it so often. Yet, there are still photos hung around her flat of her and a man in which they are both wearing wedding rings. So why take off your ring?” John paused for a moment to think before chiming in again. 

“She was seeing someone else, wasn’t she?” He finally asked. 

“Precisely Watson. She’d fallen out of love with her husband, sought out another man, and gotten killed for it. She also has small strands of rope below her fingernails, as well as rope burns on her fingertips. 

“She struggled.” John somberly gazes at Mrs. Saint as he says this. Sherlock stands, then walks to one of the framed photos and takes it off the wall. Then, he walks over to one of the police officers at the scene and says, “Your murderer is Mr. Saint. Here's his photo. If the neighbours are correct and he was here as 999 was phoned, then he shouldn’t be too far away. I suspect you’ll find him within the hour.” He turns back around from the now confused-looking officer and walks over to John. 

“Come Watson. We’ve finished here.” 

“There’s really nothing else we can do?”

“We’ve given the police the name and description of the murderer. I’m not going to go running into the dark chasing a dangerous criminal when he’s going to get himself caught. Now, before you bore holes in that poor woman's face with your eyes, let's head home.” 

“Right, yeah mate. Let’s go.”

Back at 221b, John lays in bed staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The night was dreary, as rain hammered down on the city below and wind seemed to rattle every bit of the flat. A thick fog rolled through the streets below, heavy and choking and dark grey. It felt as if the world outside had disappeared into a cloud. 

The soft knocking on his door startled him, and a moment later Sherlock walks in, fully dressed. 

“Come on Watson! Pack a bag; we haven’t got all day. We’ve got to catch the train,” he says excitedly. 

“Uh, why exactly are we doing that mate?”

“Because Watson,” Sherlock pauses for a moment, a grin stretching across his face. “The game is afoot!” He turns and bolts out of John’s room, slamming the door behind him. 

John takes a moment to register what actually just happened, then slides out of bed and stretches. Glancing over at his clock, he actually wasn’t the least bit surprised when the time staring back at him read 5:20 in the morning. 

“Hey Sherlock!” John yells through his door as he dresses, “Do you mind telling me what we’re getting into, mate?” 

“I can tell you on the way, Watson!”

“Yeah, or you could tell me now! Sherlock?”

John finishes getting dressed and throws a pile of clothes into a suitcase, alongside his recording equipment. Swinging his bedroom door open, he sees Sherlock talking on the phone. 

“-yes. Mhm. Of course.” Sherlock slides his phone back in his pocket and slides his suitcase over near the front door. 

“Who was that?” 

“Lestrade.” 

“What did she want?”

“Mr. Smith was arrested. A bank camera caught him sulking about trying to catch a bus, and he was picked up shortly after.” 

“Lestrade called you for that?”

“No, but I thought you might want to know. We’ve already wasted too much time; I’ll fill you in on the way Watson.” 

“What about Archie?” 

“I’ve already asked Ms. Hudson if she’d be able to watch him for us. Now come on.” 

"Yeah, alright I'm coming mate.”

Hurrying out the front door in the middle of the night with two suitcases (one of which may as well have been a hamper), John and Sherlock sped off in the direction of the subway. The rain had stopped by then, though the air still felt moist, and the pavement was still damp. The fog was present, but not nearly as bad, and the two men soon found themselves descending the Baker Street Station and boarding a train. John sat down exhausted and already sweating. 

“You know… mate,” he panted out, “a little… warning… would’ve been nice.” Sherlock took harsh, short breaths, clearly stifling his own exhaustion, but they eventually tapered out to more normal breaths before he released a composed sigh. 

“I did say we were in a hurry, didn’t I Watson? Now settle in; we’ve got a bit of a journey ahead of us.” John coughs a little, then clears his throat and breathes a heavy sigh. 

“It’s on you if I don’t have any proper clothes.” 

"Yes, yes, alright.” The pair sit in silence for a moment as the train rolls into a stop. 

“Where are we getting off Sherlock?”

“Paddington.”

“Paddington?” 

“Yes. We’re catching a train to Ilfracombe. We’re investigating a series of murders. Lestrade called for me specifically, which by proximity means you as well.” 

"Aw, thanks mate, that feels great.”

“You’re welcome, Watson.” 

“That was sarcasm.” The train finally breaks from underground and stops at Paddington station. The pair exit swiftly and make their way over to their next train. London rushes by them as the train exits, the early morning lights blending into a 

sea of bright yellow-tinted eyes. 

John uses the extra time to catch up on his much-needed sleep, while Sherlock examines the landscape as they pass through town after town. After hopping one more train and catching a bus ride, they arrive at their lodging; a house on the beach across from the Chapel of St Nicholas lighthouse. It was bright out now, as it was almost 10 in the morning, and after another short call from Lestrade, Sherlock and John headed to meet with the police and examine the bodies. 

“Ilfracombe,” Sherlock suddenly blurts out, “is a seaside town on the north coast of Devon known for its dramatic cliffs, rugged coastline, and historic charm. And there've been four murders in the span of a week. It doesn’t feel right.” 

“It’s definitely a strange place for a sudden serial killer to prop up. You wouldn’t think anything is up by looking around. It’s so peaceful here.” Walking along the road towards the police station, they pass by a section alongside the beach, and the waves of the Bristol Channel lap gently up and down the soft sand, scaring off seagulls picking for crabs that scurry along the long stretches of beach. The clouds partially block the sun, but in the cool October air, the slight warmth is greatly appreciated. 

“Yes, Watson. I’d have to agree.” 

The bodies were all laid out on tables in a row, their belongings on tables next to them. The room was chilly, and John’s arm hair would be standing up even if it was warmer. The pair walk around the tables, giving the bodies a once-over before Sherlock walks over to the first victim and pulls the cover back all the way, revealing a clean-shaven, pale-faced man in a green sweater, brown pants, and black loafers. The sleeves of the sweater were rolled up to his elbows, and the indentation of a wristwatch could be barely seen on his left wrist. Inspecting the table of belongings, Sherlock locates the watch, its hands not moving and no ticking sound coming from within. Next to the watch is the man's wallet, and flipping it open, Sherlock is presented with the ID as well as a crumpled note that falls to the table.

“Ian Harris. This would be the antiques dealer,” he says to John while picking up the note. 

“What killed him? I can’t see any wounds on his body.”

“Pufferfish poison.”

“Really? How would he have ingested that?”

“It’d have to be slipped into something he had. Here, the police report says he was found dead at 2:00 pm in his store with two cups of tea on his coffee table. Forensic analysis states the time of death was noon. Whoever was there with him poured the poison in. This is unintelligible; can you read these scribbles?” Sherlock hands John the unfurled note to read. The letters are squiggly blobs, as if the ink was smeared and then dunked in water.

"Blimey, this is really poorly written. I think I see a p there at the front. Could it be a shopping list or something? Maybe it says ‘Peanut butter’.”

“Hmm, good point. I’ll have to come back to this.” 

“What about the other victims?” 

“Well, each murder is connected in some way. Mr. Harris was murdered with poison that came from a fish. One of the next victims was a fishmonger, Kelvin Baker, and his wife Nina the other. He was found with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his head. She was strangled with a leather belt. Can you guess what the fourth victim's profession was?”

“A leatherworker?”

“Exactly, and not only that, but look at the belt.” Sherlock walks over to the belt that killed Nina and points to a symbol to the left of the buckle. 

“What is that? A bull under a tree?” John asks. 

“No Watson, well, actually yes, but the important part is that specific symbol. Eric Clarke used this symbol in all of his works.” 

“And now he’s dead.” 

“Precisely.”

“What does this mean, Sherlock?”

“Whoever is behind this, whoever is going around killing and tying all these victims together, they want to be hunted.” 

“They want to? Who would want to be found after doing all this?”

“I suspect it's an art to them. That, or some kind of sick twisted game. Either way, with them still out there, the potential for more murders grows every second.”

“How did Clarke die?”

“A cleaver. Cuts along the throat and knife embedded in the back. The handle had a symbol made of bull horns.” 

“So a butcher is the next victim?” Sherlock pauses for a moment, then pulls out his phone.

"Yes, Watson, he certainly was.”

It takes Sherlock and John around 15 minutes to arrive at the butchery. Police were swarming the place, taking pictures at every angle, and they could see a crowd forming inside the meat cooler. Pushing past a few other cops, they come face to face with a man tied to a chair and blood dripping from his mouth. The butcher was still wearing his apron, as well as a jacket over top jeans and thick work boots. 

“Oh good, you’re here,” the officer standing next to the chair says as Sherlock crouches and tilts his head to see the face of the victim. He’s tall but skinny, and his shoulders seem to bend forward at an odd angle, like he’s hunching over. His eyes are a dark brown, and his hair is tucked under a police cap. 

“Are you Inspector Berkley? I got your text,” he says, still inspecting the mouth of the butcher.

“Yes, that's me. Lestrade’s reached out and told me to allow you to help us catch this nutter. Bloody tragedy this is. I can’t remember anything like this ever happening before. Even in the town's history, it’s just ship disasters. To be honest, this whole week has left me quite knackered. We all feel like we’re chasing some boogeyman. No one’s got a clue who could be behind it; it’s left everyone quite desperate.” 

“Who was he?” Sherlock asks. 

“William Allen. He was the owner of this shop.”

“What have you been doing to try and keep people safe?” John chimes in. 

"Well, we placed a townwide curfew for nine, and we’ve implemented patrols to spread out and report if they see anything suspicious.”

“And they haven't reported anything?” The captain breathes a heavy sigh and turns his attention away from John and back to Sherlock. 

“No, we haven’t seen anything. This whole thing is putting my men severely on edge. I'm honestly worried about them freaking out while on patrol. Lots of them are so jumpy nowadays.” John also turns back to Sherlock, still examining the body. 

“You alright mate?” John asks him. 

“He’s had his teeth pulled out with these forceps.” Sherlock pulls a pair of bloody forceps from an inside pocket of the jacket. “He also has a faint smell of alcohol, the culprit of which could be this small flask.” He sniffs the top a few times before turning back to the captain. “I believe that would be a whisky.” 

The police captain leans over slightly to smell the flask as well before standing back up and nodding his head slowly. “Will was... troubled. Had a drinking issue. It doesn’t surprise me he’d keep that on him.”

“And what’s this engraving on the side of the flask?” Sherlock asks Captain Berkley, pointing to the symbol of a shield with a red cross.

“Oh, that’s from The St. George. I’d seen Will there a few times before. He must’ve frequented it more than I thought he did.” Sherlock places the alcohol on the floor and inspects the forceps. They appear brand new, and aside from the blood, they have no other marks or scratches. However, there’s a fine white powdery substance stuck on one of the tips. 

“Can you see anything mate? Any clues for who the next target is?” Watson chimes in, leaning over Sherlock and trying to follow his gaze. 

“Unfortunately, I believe there may be two,” Sherlock replies, “and if we are wrong, then there will be another body in the morning.”

Sherlock turns and rushes out of the butchery, into the street outside, then down and around the back of the building and stands on the beach, watching the waves and thinking over the details. He pulls out the note that was in Harris’s wallet and stares at the blurred text, trying desperately to find answers in the scrawled note. John follows and slowly walks up next to Sherlock. 

“What is it, mate?” He asks as he approaches. 

“Just, still trying this out,” Sherlock says, flashing the note to John.

“Okay. I still think it’s a shopping list. Anything you can think of about the case though?” Sherlock pauses, then puts the note back in his pocket and looks over to John.

“Harris died at noon,” he says. “He was found at 2:00, but he died at noon.”

“Yeah, that’s what the report said.”

“What time is it right now, Watson?” John pulls out his phone and checks the time. 

“It is... its noon.” 

“The Bakers were found at 12:16 in the morning, after the gunshot was heard by neighbours. Clarke was found at 9:20, after regulars noticed his shop still wasn’t open.”

“He died at midnight, didn’t he mate.”

“Yes Watson. I don’t understand. Why connect all these people? What is the point?”

“Besides the murder weapon tying into the next victims, do we have any other clues? I mean, it feels like this time we’ve got two. But how can there be two clues if there’s only supposed to be one killer?” 

“I can think of two reasons. One, we’re being forced into a blind 50/50 situation. However, we could have cops protect one of the potential victims.”

“Protect one? Wait a moment, you’re not actually suggesting that we guard the other?”

“I’m not suggesting Watson, and we can ask some officers to come with us. Though I doubt they’d be of any use.”

"Mate this isn’t a bloody James Bond movie! Five people are dead, and we’re on the verge of finding another tonight.” 

"Well, would you rather we spread the police to cover both and have one die anyway?”

“I’d rather not be in the path of danger, Sherlock. We already went through that dealing with Abe Slaney. For fucks sake, I got shot in case if you don’t remember! I’d just prefer us to be a bit safer.” 

“We had no other option with Slaney. He was already suspicious about coming to the hotel, and he would’ve sneaked out had we not stopped him. In case you don’t remember, I already apologised for that. I’ve said before that I didn’t think he would actually shoot, and when he did, all I could think of was you.” Sherlock breathes in deeply and then sighs exhaustedly. John looks away, slightly warmer than before. 

“What’s the other reason?” John asks him. 

“What?”

“You said there might be two reasons; there were two clues. What’s the other reason?” Sherlock pauses for a moment, then turns away from John and looks into the sea.

“Misdirection.”

Later that night, the police take Ned Palmer (owner of The St George) and Kristy Palevnos (owner of a private dental clinic) into their custody at the police station for safety. Officers are positioned on surrounding rooftops, some of which have trained sniper rifles. Hidden cameras are placed at the bar and dental practice, as well as the homes of Ned and Kristy. Sherlock and John are once again stuck in the surveillance room, as they have been before. Sherlock bounces his knee excessively, clearly upset at the circumstances. 

“It’s gonna be okay mate,” John says, taking his eyes off one of the camera feeds and looking to Sherlock. “They’ll catch whoever’s behind this and put an end to this mess.”

“It’s not a mess, Watson. Everything in this case has been able to link together. It’s all intentional, like a message. I cannot think why someone would do so, nor why we haven’t been able to find anything regarding identity or locations in advance. I feel like a rat constantly chasing a wafting aroma of cheese, only to meet dead ends inside this maze.” Sherlock leans back in his chair, placing his hands over his face, deep in thought. The two officers sitting in front of John were absentmindedly watching the screens, talking to each other casually about lunches. John wrinkles his nose at them and shakes his head.

“I mean, honestly guys, there's only a serial killer on the loose,” he says under his breath. “Can you believe this? We’re trying to find a serial killer, and these two are talking about, 'Oh, I prefer ranch dressing with my salads!’ yadedadedoo. Rubbish.” Sherlock sits up slowly in his chair and removes his hands from his face, placing them in his pocket. A moment later, he pulls the note out once more and strains his eyes to try and see the letters. There, as he holds the note up to a light, lines poke through, casting a shadow of letters on the table below. 

However, the letters are not the same blotchy mess as the note, but small, neat shapes that form the phrase “Pda cwia eo wbkkp." 

“What the bloody..." John says, trailing off as he continues to examine the note. 

“Knife in the back... Watson grab me a pen and paper. Now!” Sherlock is suddenly energised, and as soon as he is given what he needs, he begins to write down different letters. John peers over his shoulder as he writes T, h, e, and g. 

“Sherlock what's up mate?” He says worriedly. A moment later, Sherlock stands up and starts pacing around the room. John looks at the phrase that has been written down. 

“The game is Afoot? Sherlock, what is going on?” 

“It was a cypher. You’re talk of salad dressings and how Eric Clarke died. A Caesar Cypher, Watson.” Suddenly, Sherlock feels his phone start to buzz, and taking it out of his pocket reveals a phone call from an unknown number. Not wanting to hesitate, he answers. There’s a moment of silence, as both people on either side of the line just breathe. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The voice was deep and rugged, clearly a man’s. “Who is this?” 

“Iknewnpu. E dwra okiapdejc pk owu. Ykia pk pda hecdpdkqoa.” The phone beeps twice, and as Sherlock lowers it from his head, John can see the screen says “call ended.” Sherlock looks visibly shaken and drops his phone as he looks to John. “You okay mate? What’s going on? Sherlock?” John's questions go unanswered. 

As Sherlock stands there, the room slowly becomes static, and black dots float around inside his vision. He knows John is speaking, but everything is muffled, as if he were underwater. His lungs seem to shrink, and every breath draws them tighter, as if he’s suffocating. He looks down at his hands and feels how numb they are. Suddenly, something flashes in his head. Something unimaginable, a feeling so foreign to him that he was now struck with fear. He couldn't believe it. He forgot. He forgot. The man that had nearly ruined his life two years prior. The man that played with him like a toy. His spider, who had cast a web for him to fly into. The one that escaped him. Deep within his mind, he imagines himself suspended in an ocean, thrashing desperately to reach the surface, until a hand plunges into the sea and pulls him upwards. 

Suddenly, the numbness in his hands disappears. The static in his vision vanishes, and he hears John asking him if he’s okay. Sherlock blinks twice, then feels the warmth on his cheeks and realises that John is holding his face, his fingers laced behind Sherlock’s head, keeping him upright as he kneels on the floor of the surveillance room. Sherlock gasps loudly, finally being able to breathe in properly. John moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, bracing him as he catches his breath. Sherlock coughs loudly and spits onto the floor before slowing his breathing and swallowing. 

“Take your time, mate. You’ve just had a bloody panic attack. Breath. You’re okay. You’re safe.” Sherlock nods slowly, closing his eyes for a second before blinking again. John helps him to his feet, and Sherlock tries to wipe some dirt off his jacket. 

“What happened?” John asks again softly.

“I’m afraid this situation just got even worse.

At one in the morning, Sherlock and John run outside the police station. There’s been no movement on any cameras, and none of the lookouts have seen anything suspicious. The pair sprint down the street, towards the harbour and towards the Chapel of St Nicholas.

"Why... are we running to the lighthouse, mate?” John asks as they stop to catch their breaths near a boat.

“The man... over the phone. I’ve heard that voice before. Two years ago, I was in another case with a serial killer, only last time it was in Birmingham. A line of murders, only connected by the murder weapon and next victim. They were carried out by a self-proclaimed rival of mine. His name was James Moriarty. He managed to escape and went completely off the grid until now, when he decided to continue his spree. 

As my ‘rival’, he would leave clues specifically intended for me to find and solve. He wanted me to hunt him, luring me deeper and deeper into his maze. The last time I had seen him, he was standing on the other side of a railway track from me. He told me that I had disappointed him and that he hoped I’d be better in the future. That it was too easy to escape my grip. Not catching him was my biggest failure.”

“So why are we going to the lighthouse?”

“‘Iknewnpu. E dwra okiapdejc pk owu. Ykia pk pda hecdpdkqoa.’ That was what he said to me over the phone. When I asked who was there, he responded. It was a caesar cypher. It translated to ‘Moriarty. I have something to say. Come to the lighthouse.’” 

“So he’s admitting to everything then?”

“I doubt it will be that simple. Moriarty is no fool. This is likely some kind of trap.” “And we’re just going to willingly walk into it?”

“Good job Watson; you’ve caught on.” Sherlock flashes a slight smile at John as he continues up the path. The lighthouse is visible now, just on the other side of the hill. Its stone foundation slightly hangs over one edge of the cliff, and John can see stairs curling up to a door. Wind flows gently up from the beach, though in the given circumstances it lends to a more intimidating atmosphere. Dark clouds loom overhead, threatening to spill the water contained inside at any moment. Over the ocean, lightning flashes; the thunder rolling made John jump slightly. At the top of the hill sits the lone chapel, made of pale brick and covered on one side in a thick layer of bright green vines. It looks more like a house, except for the small white dome sticking up from the back half of the roof. The windows are all dark except for the dome, which periodically flashes a bright green light to the ocean beyond. Yellow lights positioned farther down the hill illuminate the ground around the chapel, and John takes a moment to look out on the sea. He can see the wall of rain slowly moving towards the town, falling onto the waves below. He stands there for another moment , watching the storm, before walking over to Sherlock who stands at the front door, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Ready?” he asks, looking back to John. John nods, not questioning the gun Sherlock holds in his other hand.  

The door creaks open loudly, echoing into the chapel. It’s pitch black inside, and as John turns his phone torch on, the light bounces not against a wooden or stone floor but against a bright pool of red that smears from the entrance further into the chapel. Sherlock and John look at each other for a moment, contemplating, before Sherlock calls out into the darkness. 

“Hello!? Is anyone there? James?” The wind outside presses against the building, air finding small gaps in windows and chilling the inside. The hair on John’s arms and neck rise slowly, and he can feel the bumpiness of his skin under his sweater. It’s small and cramped inside; two spare rooms aside from the main one with only two pews. Sherlock kneels down to look at the red marks. 

“It’s blood. Someone was dragged through here with substantial bleeding. Fairly fresh as well, had to have been in the last hour.” 

“Which would’ve been midnight,” John says, a grim expression on his face. Pointing his torch to the other end of the room, the pair follow the drag marks until the spot on the floor turns into a puddle, and at the center of the puddle sat a large burlap sack. John grabs onto Sherlock's hand and leans into his arm. 

“Sherlock, I really don’t like this mate.” 

“I… feel like I need to open it.”

“Are you serious? We need to leave and call the police!” 

“I already have Watson, before we came in. I saw the blood pooling at the bottom of the doorframe. They’ll be here in a few minutes. We have to find Moriarty before that happens.”

“Okay. Open it.” John releases Sherlocks hand as he approaches the bag. It sags to one side, and the bottom is the same color as the puddle surrounding it. Sherlock takes the string tying the bag together and slowly pulls it apart, like a bow on a christmas present. He reaches his hand out for the torch, and brings it to the opening of the bag. 

“It’s… a sheep's head?” 

“A what?”

“There are slices of meat underneath the head. There’s something else too, near the bottom. It's reflecting the light.”

“Can we hurry just a little, mate? I don’t really like standing here in the dark.” John glances around, trying to focus on adjusting his eyes. I am definitely going to need new shoes, he thinks to himself. 

“One moment.” Sherlock holds his breath, then reaches his hand inside the bag and grasps a hold of something small and cylindrical. Pulling it up from the sack, Sherlock points the torch at the object as John leans over to get a better look. It was a bullet, 9mm and intact. 

“What does it mean mate?” John asks. Sherlock looks intently at the bullet, trying to pry open the wall of the maze and find the exit. Suddenly his eyes shoot to the front door. He quickly puts the torch out.

Through the wind, John can hear the jostle of the door handle, and the creak of the door slowly opening. Every millimeter fills John with more dread, and as a dark shape creeps in, a flash of lightning illuminates the face of the figure. 

“Berkley?!” John asks, “Blimey mate, did you have to freak us out like that?” Inspector Berkley flicks his torch on. 

“Oh, heh, sorry John. Although I think it’s just you that I spooked. Sherlock looks al…right.” Berkley’s voice trails off as he locks eyes with the bag of meat. “What the hell is that?” 

“That,” Sherlock replies, “is a burlap sack with a sheep’s head in it.” 

“Okay. Is that supposed to be a message?” 

“I’m not sure. It just appears to be a bag of meat.” John glances over at Sherlock with a confused expression, which Sherlock responds with a stern look before looking back at Berkley. 

“Well, you called for backup. Was the killer here?” 

“No, he wasn’t,” Sherlock says as he stands and starts walking towards the door. He suddenly spins, wheeling his balled up fist into Berkley’s left cheek and causing the inspector to stumble over, dropping his torch and bouncing his head against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus christ mate!” John yells as he picks up the torch and points it at Berkley. Sherlock is on top of him a moment later, pressing a gun against his forehead. 

“Phone the police Watson! Tell them James Moriarty has been caught!”

The man that had claimed to be Berkley sat outside with his back against the wall of the chapel. The small ledge on the roof protects John and Sherlock from the rain, and they watched as police lights zoomed through the streets of the town, towards the lighthouse. Moriarty was silent, his hands tied behind him with shoestrings that Sherlock stole from John’s shoes. When John looked over at him, he could’ve sworn he saw Moriarty smile. 

When the police arrived and placed Moriarty in the back, he turned to Sherlock with a toothy grin and said “I’ll be seeing you then.” Sherlock stared deeply into his face with deep resentment, then shut the door. It was only after John patted him on the back that he noticed his whole body had tensed up, and he relaxed as he sighed. 

“How did you know Berkley was actually Moriarty?” John asks. 

“It’s annoyingly simple really. The bullet was a 9mm. Cops carry Glock-17s, which fire 9mm. The sheep’s head was the give away.” 

“How so?”

“The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. I’m dumbfounded at how blatant this whole case has been. And yet at every step I tricked myself into thinking it can’t be as simple as it seems to be.”

“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself mate. Didn’t you say Moriarty was some mastermind? Maybe he wanted to mess with your head. Make you doubt the obvious. You’re also overworked, I can tell you that for certain.” 

“It can’t be this easy. I feel so… unfulfilled. He must have something up his sleeve.” 

“What could he do mate? He’s in cuffs in police hands, there’s nowhere he could go.”

“He’s gotten away before.”

“He wasn’t arrested before.” 

The rain has slowed now, resting into a light sprinkle. John watches Sherlock as the cop cars drive away, staring at how the rain drops hang gently over his eyelashes. 

“Well Watson,” Sherlock says turning to John, “how about we get some rest before we leave tomorrow?”

“Are you actually going to sleep or will you find a random beam to hang upside down on?”

“I guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.” Sherlock offers a slight smile, which John reflects and grabs his hand. 

“Yeah. Let's go mate.”