#acme writes

[acmelxvr]

Take A Seat, Inquisitor

Pairing: Female Lavellan x Solas

Summary: Solas finds the Inquisitor in desperate need of some relaxation in the Winter Palace. And, well, he can provide.

Genre/Tags: Explicit, Canon Compliant, POV Third Person, Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition, Drunk Sex, No Penetration Though, Thigh Riding, Praise, Dirty Talk, Ear Licking, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Biting, Premature Ejaculation, Mentions of Oral Sex

Word Count: 3,900

Notes: This is my first Solas fic so be gentle pls...I also posted it on AO3, you can read it there by clicking this link if you want :3

“And that’s how I ended up hunting wyverns in the Frostbacks with only two pairs of breeches!” All the nobles and Inquisition personnel in the small circle laugh at the lord’s story, some more forced than others. The ball at the Winter Palace wanes into the early hours of the morning now with no end in sight. Although drinks and food are still being served, the massive crowd has thinned into small packs of chattering lords and ladies who would dare not make the faux pas of leaving too early.

“I think I’m going to explore the library.” Lavellan murmurs to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. The excuse is enough to dissuade the rest of the crowd from protesting the Inquisitor’s departure from the group, but her three advisors are unconvinced.

“Take me with you.” Cullen pleads through gritted teeth, smiling a bit too wide as he barely follows along to the conversation taking place. Josephine tuts at the Commander but simply nods at Lavellan. 

“Good idea. You might find some of the more intellectual attendees who would be interested in learning more about the Inquisition.” Josephine’s eyes twinkle at the possibilities, and the Inquisitor nods politely.

“Yes, I will most definitely be doing that.” She says flatly, causing Cullen to snort and this time earn a light kick from Leliana that could easily be passed as a stretch of the knee. As Lavellan begins to take her leave, the Spymaster grabs her arm and turns to speak over her shoulder to avoid any eavesdroppers.

“You did well tonight.” She starts. “You are a complete natural at The Game, despite the many forces working against you.” Lavellan smirks at the praise, knowing Leliana probably thought she would trip over her own two feet. “You’ve earned a respite, even just for a few hours before our work starts up again.” The last part she fully whispers, leaning in conspicuously. “For once, I will advise you to not listen to Josephine.” She smiles knowingly before dropping the Inquisitor’s arm. 

Lavellan chuckles. “You read my mind.” She takes small steps through the ballroom towards the vestibule, occasionally saying hello to people she passes. Her mind spins with the possibilities of her alliance with Empress Celene; what it means for the Inquisition, for the Dalish, for herself. The Inquisitor is still deep in thought when she looks up and realizes that her body seemed to auto-pilot her straight into the Grand Library. The guards that used to be stationed near the entrance have disappeared, gone hours ago once the threat against the Empress’s life was neutralized. She worries over this for a moment, before dropping her shoulders and taking a deep breath as she remembers Leliana’s words.

Her fingers trace over the many titles packed into the various shelves, some in languages Lavellan doesn’t even recognize. She smiles softly as she picks up a book by a professor in the Free Marches collecting Dalish songs and tales. She leans against a desk, facing away from the Grand Library entrance, while she flips through the pages and remembers a much simpler time. 

“I figured you’d be hiding in here.” The voice makes her jump, yelp, and drop the book at the same time. She quickly turns with her hand over her hidden dagger strapped to her thigh, only to sigh when Solas snorts with laughter. “The Inquisitor should not be so easily caught off guard.” He exclaims, the two flutes of champagne in each hand shaking as he chuckles to himself.

“Yes, well, forgive me if it pleases you.” She snips, then grimaces when Solas raises his eyebrows slightly at her short tone. “I’m sorry. I had finally escaped from all those people out there…I guess I got a bit caught up in what I was reading.” Her explanation is jumbled, but Solas places the two drinks on the desk before waving her off.

“Do not apologize. I’m certain you’ve had a much busier night than I. I can leave, if you wish.” He points towards one glass as an offering. Lavellan nods gratefully before grabbing the thin spine of the delicate piece and holding it close to her chest.

“Please, stay.” She says. “You’re good company.” Solas smiles and shakes his head as another laugh escapes him. He heads towards the shelf Lavellan previously occupied, now examining the tomes himself.  With his back towards Lavellan, she can’t help but take in Solas’ form. He towers over her a bit and his broad shoulders also help distinguish Solas from the Dalish elves she’s used to. Even in the alienages, Solas stands out as…bigger.

Lavellan coughs, a flush climbing her cheeks as her mind wanders to more depraved thoughts about Solas’ body. Solas was certainly free with his verbal affections, but they had only just started engaging in physical affections recently. Even then, they had only kissed. Lavellan didn’t mind waiting, of course, but it felt as though every time it developed into something more that Solas pulled away. 

Solas clears his throat, bringing the Inquisitor out of her thoughts as though he has eyes on the back of his head and can see how she’s examining him. Or maybe being a mage with a speciality in the Fade lets him read minds. Lavellan’s eyes widen as the drink begins to take hold. Can Solas read minds? She thinks, half seriously. “Inquisitor?” Solas asks.

“Yes!” He turns to fully face her as he holds a book in his hand. “Yes, sorry. Long night.” She mutters, taking another sip. She can feel Solas’s gaze on her as she redirects her vision to a different corner of the room. The shadows dance along the wall as the various candles around the room burn low. There’s a moment of silence, as though Solas is deciding to address the tension in the room. 

“I asked whether you enjoyed your time in the Winter Palace tonight.” Solas leans against the bookshelf, a sly smile gracing his face. “The way you managed to navigate the nobility, the ballroom floor, and an assassination attempt was particularly stunning.” He swirls his beverage in one hand as he flips through his chosen book. Solas’ choice of words cause Lavellan to finally bring her attention back to him. She scrutinizes him for a moment, furrowing her brow as her eyes rake over his stature from head to toe. Finally, she smiles too.

“Solas, are you drunk?” She asks. She giggles as Solas opens his mouth to give a quick retort, but closes it when he realizes he doesn’t have one. He shakes his head in slight embarrassment and drops his eyes as the Inquisitor continues to quietly laugh. “I guess I need to catch up.” Lavellan murmurs as Solas regains his footing in the conversation.

“I will admit to partaking in more drinking than I usually allow myself. All the power, intrigue, danger, sex…” He notices how Lavellan crosses her legs when he pauses. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to go unnoticed for an evening. To engage in behavior that is unbecoming of me.” Lavellan shakes her head, alleviating his fears that she thinks less of him now. “You haven’t answered my original question.” He states, placing his book back on the shelf.

“Enjoyed is not the word I would use.” She pauses, thinking deeply on her answer. “I’m glad I was able to play The Game well enough. It was almost satisfying being able to talk circles around humans.” Solas nods ruefully, staying silent. “But I was on edge the entire time. Constantly waiting for something to go wrong. And when the Grand Duchess was dragged away…” She trails off. 

“Power can be suffocating, sometimes.” Solas finishes Lavellan’s thought. They’ve both finished their drinks at this point, the flush on Lavellan’s face indicating that she’s just as tipsy as Solas is. “There are times when a decision needs to be made. Even the correct choice is never an easy one.” Solas’s expression turns serious, and Lavellan cocks her head.

“So you think I made the right choice? Going with Empress Celene?” She asks. The candles in the Library have dimmed even further as the moon creeps higher above Halamshiral. Solas tilts his head back against the fine wooden shelf, crossing his arms and looking down at the Inquisitor.

“Is my praise necessary for you to feel at ease?” His question makes Lavellan laugh, a true laugh that comes from her stomach. It’s infectious to Solas, a smile creeping onto his face replacing the scowl he had moments before. “Briala and Celene could never have ruled together, and Gaspard is a disaster when it comes to court. In the Fade I’ve seen whole nations crumble because someone would rather force a compromise than make a real decision.” He moves towards Lavellan, all social grace completely lost, and places a hand on her shoulder. “You made a real decision, ma vhenan. They are never easy.” 

Lavellan looks up at Solas, who is only now an arm’s length away. “Ma vhenan?” She restates, teasing Solas now. “That is an odd way to pronounce ‘Inquisitor’, Solas.” Her hand creeps up to rest on top of Solas, the space between the two elves shrinking as he moves to grip her waist.

He rests his forehead against Lavellan’s, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb adoringly. “You looked breathtaking tonight. You were magnificent, awe-inspiring. You’ll forgive me if I drop your title. I couldn’t bear to hide how I feel for you any longer.” He pulls back momentarily to kiss the top of her head, one hand moving to the small of her back. She leans into his touch, and for some minutes the pair is silent, their embrace only betrayed by the soft skitters of someone passing through the hallway.

The trance is broken as Lavellan gives a soft push to Solas. “I should head back now. There are people probably looking for me.” She groans and rolls her shoulders, her muscles tensing back as she recalls what it feels like to have a dozen pairs of eyes on you at all times. She turns to leave, but Solas captures her arm.

“You’ve played your part for the night, vhenan.” Solas pulls Lavellan flush against him, her backside against his groin. Solas forgets his inhibitions as he pulls her collar back to plant a kiss on her neck, making Lavellan gasp. Another kiss and a roll of Solas’s hips makes her groan louder, planting her hands on the desk. “Relax with me. Forget your duty, even for a moment.” Solas’ words cause a small pit of guilt to form in his heart, but it retreats when Lavellan moans again. 

“Josephine would personally see to our executions if we were caught having sex in the Winter Palace.” Lavellan’s skin is practically lit on fire with every single one of Solas’s touches, his fingertips dancing down her waist. “And I think the Orlesian nobility would die from heart attacks if they found two naked elves here.” She turns to face Solas, who stops momentarily to grin wildly, showing his sharp canines.

“I haven’t said anything about being naked.” Their faces are inches apart, both of them breathing heavily as arousal sits heavy in their stomachs. “There are many things one can do to relax without being naked, if their imagination allows it.” Solas whispers in Lavellan’s ear. He pulls away and guides Lavellan to a plush couch in a dark corner, far from any immediate entrance into the library. Solas lets go of her hand and sits on the couch, spreading his legs wide. He leans back on the couch, throwing one arm over the velveteen, and pats his thigh, beckoning Lavellan to sit.

To sit on him.

Lavellan swallows as she takes the sight in. She’s imagined, dreamed of sex with Solas dozens of times, but this was something entirely new. Something she hadn’t even begun to consider, but was still enticing nonetheless. “Is this something you want?” She asks him.

“Yes.” Solas answers so quickly that Lavellan is taken aback. “Nothing would bring me more pleasure right now than to give you pleasure.” He holds out a hand for Lavellan to grab, and tugs her on top of him. “It is selfish of me to admit, but I do not kiss you the way I do solely for your benefit.” He rolls his thigh up causing Lavellan to cover her mouth as she moans. “I do it because I also enjoy it. No, enjoy is too simple of a word.” He turns his head to think while Lavellan grips his shoulders with both hands. “I relish it. Feeling you against me, with only some layers of clothing to separate us…Fenedhis, ma vhenan. You’ve undone me. I haven’t been this overcome with desire in a long time…You make it difficult to control myself.” He plants his hands on her hips. “Let me guide you. Let me show you what I mean. We can reckon with our indulgences in the morning.” 

Solas’ words have Lavellan dripping. she nods, and plants herself fully onto Solas’ thigh, moving her hands to Solas’ neck and jaw. He starts pushing her back and forth against his leg, adjusting the pressure by examining the way her face contorts just so. She moves to cover her eyes but Solas stops her. “You are so beautiful right now, vhenan. Do not think about how you might look, but focus on how you feel.” She obliges Solas and slowly drops her fingers back to his jaw. Solas notices how his words make her quicken the pace, if for a moment. “Ah, so you do need my praise to feel at ease. Very well.” 

Solas keeps one hand on Lavellan’s hips, and moves one to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her down so he can whisper to her. She gasps as he presses up into her, causing her to roll her hips on her own. Although she can’t see it, she knows Solas is smiling with pride right now. “Just like that, perfect. You are a natural at this, vhenan.” His lips move against her ear as she forms a rhythm, her moans forming a perfect harmony with Solas as he groans from the pressure building in his own sex. The slight push and pull causes him to rub against the smooth fabric, making him knit his brow in concentration to ensure he somehow doesn’t cum before she does. He can’t remember the last time he did something like this with someone else; and while he’s relieved himself plenty of times since meeting the Inquisitor, he didn’t allow himself to think their relationship would get this far.

Lavellan whines loudly when Solas grinds up against her clit, the wet patch on his thigh exciting him more than before. He pulls Lavellan so that way they’re face to face, and kisses her like it’s the first time. She heaves against him, pressing her chest against his to get a better angle. Solas groans, louder this time as Lavellan’s knee presses up against his erection. Like everything else about Solas, it’s somehow bigger than she expected. “If you keep stopping, Inquisitor, you will inflate my ego. And getting you into this position has made me prideful enough already.”

 He kisses her again, sloppily this time, the alcohol ignoring any expectations of how their first time together would go. Solas presses his tongue against Lavellan’s, his eyes rolling back at the vibration of her moans. He finds her chest with one of his palms, kneading her and finding a nipple with ease. She yelps when he pinches and rolls, her thighs beginning to shake. Lavellan’s pace has quickened to a point where her thighs burn, the strain of muscle mixing with her pleasure. She begins to chant his name, panting and whining when Solas lets go of her nipples and moves his hands to her backside, massaging Lavellan and gripping her with a strength she didn’t know he had. “Do you know how many times I’ve finished thinking of this exact situation? How I’ve dreamed of having you completely?” Lavellan shakes her head. “Thirty four times I’ve spilled myself over my own hand thinking of how beautiful you’d look like this. For the first time in my life, my dreams cannot compare to the real thing.”

Lavellan gains confidence through Solas’s words and leans forward, almost coming in for a kiss but at the last second, she moves past Solas’s lips. Instead, she focuses on his ears; she licks a long strip from his jawline to the tip of his ears, noticing how Solas shivers and making him wonder how the hell she figured that out. She laughs while still moaning and gasping for more. “I knew you were sensitive here. Had to be, because I noticed how you pulled away the first time we kissed when I went to grab you,” She moves her thumb just underneath the other ear, making Solas jump in shock and pleasure. “Here.” She finishes, returning her mouth to latch onto Solas’s helix. She licks a circle around the apex of his damned ears, running her tongue up and down the ridge before returning to his lips. “Imagine what else my mouth can do.” Her breath mixes with his as both of them pant, although Solas does close his eyes momentarily to see the picture she’s painted. 

Solas bites his lip, almost drawing blood by how close he’s come to cumming over himself. Both of them are sweating now, Lavellan’s pristine hair stuck to her forehead. “Fenedhis–” She presses her knee against Solas’ cock again as she moves her clit down onto him, “–Fuck–”, he groans loudly as her pace quickens and she begins to babble quietly in his ear. If someone had walked in on them, Solas was too preoccupied to notice.

“I’m going to–I think I’m gonna–” Solas nods approvingly while Lavellan’s release reaches its peak. Solas closes his eyes, tears forming in the corners as he pleads with himself to hold off for just a bit longer. In a final move of complete desperation and arousal, Solas latches onto Lavellan’s neck.

And bites.

Lavellan yelps and it’s what finally sends her over the edge. She cums on Solas’s thigh, stuttering and gripping onto him while he licks at the marks his teeth had left. Both of them are moaning, although Lavellan has the sense to cover her mouth. When she finally comes down from her orgasm, Solas leans back to examine his work. Lavellan looks down and breathlessly laughs. “I made a bit of a mess.” Is all she says, and Solas lifts her momentarily to examine her handiwork.

Solas’s thigh is so soaked that Lavellan’s juices had even begun to pool next to Solas in those final moments. He smiles softly and pats Lavellan approvingly. “It is an easy enough task to warm my hands and dry my clothes, as I have done before. Do not worry.” Lavellan moves to get up off of Solas and onto her knees in front of him, but he stops her. “As much as the thought entices me, and believe me when I say it does, I’ve stolen enough of your time tonight.” She crinkles her brow in confusion, and gestures towards Solas’s groin where his erection is clearly visible, and pre-cum has even started leaking through his trousers. 

“Ah.” He says, and while he does entertain the thought longer than he should have, he still shakes his head. “This was for you, not for me. And besides,” He stands up and kisses Lavellan. “I can’t imagine there won’t be more opportunities for me to catch up.” Lavellan snorts, giving another kiss to Solas before smoothing down her attire and hair. 

“How do I look?” She asked sarcastically.

“Magnificent.” Solas responds, moving closer to brush her hair with his fingertips. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. She seems to be remembering something and laughs; Solas tilts his head in a silent question.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse like that. I didn’t think ‘fuck’ was even in your vocabulary.” Solas’s cheeks flush red and he coughs in surprise.

“Yes, well…” He stammers underneath Lavellan’s stare. “You bring out a part in me I thought I put away long ago.” Solas smiles lightly. “And that part is inclined to curse, occasionally, when underneath a fascinating woman such as yourself.” This time, Solas is the one to let go. He nods towards the Library entrance, and Lavellan sighs before squeezing his hand and stepping quietly into the hallway. He waits until he can no longer hear her footsteps before sitting down and throwing his head back against the couch. The late hour and sudden physical activity has him utterly spent.

The elf looks down, his cock practically bursting against his leg and begging to be taken care of. “I’m not that depraved.” He murmurs. Solas’s eyes close, and while he tries to think of more important matters, he can’t remove the image of Lavellan on top of him from his mind. The way she bounced on his lap, how her mouth felt against him, makes Solas bite his knuckles to hold back a moan. How she jittered when he marked her, claiming the Inquisitor all for himself as her neck bloomed with purple splotches from his sharp teeth and how quickly her release came from an action that felt as natural to Solas as blinking. Solas breathes in, then out through his nose, attempting to bring himself back to reality, but he can’t help but recall the offer she left on the table before Lavellan took her leave. Her lips would look so pretty wrapped around him, gagging and moaning as she would try to take him all the way, his tip hitting the back of her throat—

Solas jolts suddenly as his orgasm hits him like a slap against the face, the dark stain of cum now spreading down his thigh. Solas bites down hard on his palm, unable to fully hold his voice back as the smallest movement against his trousers prolongs his release even further. When the immense pleasure finally subsides, Solas opens one eye hesitantly to assess the damage. He groans into his hands, a conjured flame able to dry his clothes but not the Orlesian, and definitely expensive, couch.

It’s hours later when the morning sun rises over Halamshiral that the Inquisition takes their leave. Solas blearily rubs his eyes and yawns, although when he catches Lavellan’s smile he can’t help but reciprocate despite his weariness. The Iron Bull looks between the pair before laughing and slapping Solas on the shoulder. “Sleep well?” He asks simply, although Solas knows the Bull well enough to know that his questions are never simple.

“No, I had a long night.” Solas quips, eager to head back to Skyhold and be as far away from the Winter Palace as possible. The unspoken part being that he is more eager to finish what he started mere hours before.

“Yeah? Spend some time cleaning in the library?” The Iron Bull asks, looking at the way Solas and the Inquisitor blanche before guffawing loudly. As he walks away he shakes his head. “You guys are not fucking subtle.” 

[kylekozmikdeluxo]

Let's hope they all break out!

[silverskye13]

hope its okay to share this here! but the hels!joel ficlet has been written. i would have @ you with it but i wasn't sure how you felt about that <3

I'm. Love him. Oh my gosh. Poor poor Joel [Hypatia].

[mattpresents]

[youraveragecatastrophe]

[Image description : the "who would win" meme. The left side says "a high tech supersecret detective agency with hundreds of agents" on top of a screenshot of ACME's headquarters. The right side says "one teenager with a computer" on top of a screenshot of Player with sunglasses on and a soundboard. /End description]

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Fic: "Paths" (Part 3)

Previous instalments here

Perhaps a single sleep-in morning couldn’t fix everything.

In the three days after coronation, Graham racked up an impressive record as king. First, he managed to shatter an oil lantern in the oldest, yellowest, crispiest part of the castle archive, bursting with looseleaf waiting to be bound. They’d saved most of the stacks. 

He’d written greeting letters to his fellow monarchs, including  the queen of gigantic Serenia, the cloutiest player on the political stage. By some oblivious genius,  he accidentally filled the whole thing with scathing double meanings about their countries’ future relationship, with a postscript that amounted to a casual declaration of war. The uncomfortable scribe had said nothing to Graham, but rushed off to check the letter with Royal Guard Number One. You could have knocked the new king over with a feather when the guard scornfully read the worst passages back to him. 

Twice he groggily (and purely automatically) showed up for his old night shifts, embarrassing everyone. He was late for half the meetings on his agenda. One evening he signed nearly two hundred documents he was supposed to void, before someone stopped him.

But nothing compared with what came to be known in Mannerly Stove in years following as “The King Graham incident.” 

Graham’s century old carriage rolled up the switchbacks. He drummed his listless fingers on the window. He knew at least two shortcuts he could have taken, if only they had let him ride his surefooted Triumph. But his old buddy was not a suitable steed for a king, or so they said. 

He tugged at this collar. The carriage might have been spacious, if his honour guard hadn’t stuffed in with him. Did they think they had to form a defensive perimeter even inside the coach? The air outside was damply hot enough, more like the stillness before the summer storms than a September day. And inside with the five guards? Every inch of armour fogged up like a mirror after a bath. 

“I’m not quite sure what the point of this is - ouch!” His temple struck the window as the carriage lurched wildly onto its two right wheels. The brow of his crown dug bluntly into the same place it dug every time. 

“A little more caution on those sharp turns, Number Two?” the captain called, banging a fist on the ceiling.

“Righty-oh,” came their driver’s muffled voice.

The king groaned. He shoved aside his seatmate, who had toppled right over him. His sharp armour bits were all caught on Graham’s formal black and red outfit. “I mean,” he grunted, righting his crown, “I have been to Mannerly Stove. Every time I’ve been sent on a quest outside the kingdom, in fact. I get my lunch at the Olde Yarblesnoof. I know half the people by sight. Is this visit really necessary?”

Number One fanned himself with his notecards. His voice was flat and already tired. “Sir Graham visited. Sir Graham is not here today. You are Daventry.”

 “Yeah, but, to an ordinary villager -”

The guard’s tone grew sharper. “Ever have the landlord knock on your door up in Llewdor?”

Graham swallowed. It had been a long time. Yet he was astonished how clearly he remembered his mother panicking, plastering on a smile for him and his sisters, rushing them out the backdoor, and telling them to play by the brook or in the woods. Just not near the house. She’d pat her hair and set  her jaw, walking determinedly to the front door. He could not remember what the landlord looked like, except that he was really big. He had to stoop to get in the door. Graham frowned. “Yeah, occasionally.”

“It means a lot to an ordinary villager, wouldn’t you say?”

Graham didn’t answer.

Number One went on, a little less sharp, a little more didactic. “You are about a hundred times all that the landlord is, and more. So today you are going to calm their worries. You’ll smile and mingle, and let them show you whatever they’re proudest of - probably the Tickle Rock. You’ll declare three months’ tax forgiveness, and call for a cask of ale to be opened for the people. And all this will be code for, ‘You’re just as much a part of Daventry as the people down in the valley, Mannerly Stove. I’ll show you I’ll be good to you. You show me you’ll keep my mountain pass open, my only real road in and out clear of snow, catch my brigands, warn me of invaders, ensure food and tools and supplies flow into into my country without trouble, and keep me connected to the outside world.’ So yes, unless you fancy dining only on lavender for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of your reign, we could call it necessary. ”

“But does that also mean - agh!” 

The carriage slammed to an abrupt halt.  Graham and all the guards on his side were thrown into the laps of the guards across the way.  The coach became a writhing tangle of arms, legs, and everyone’s favourite curses. Graham’s boot toe somehow caught on the overhead luggage rack, while his nose wedged in the crook of Number One’s elbow. He thought he heard the captain mutter under his breath, “Really?”Then at the top of his lungs, “Open the door, for pity’s sake!”

Someone found the latch. Half the guards tumbled out in a dust cloud.. Graham could not look anyone in the face as Numbers Three and Five extricated him, and lifted him out of the carriage like a child - into the midst of a throng of chuckling onlookers.

Get it together. Think of lavender for every meal!

Graham stepped away from the guards.  He reached desperately for his dignity, or even just his coaching. Something came to hand. He lifted his chin, clenched his teeth into the most carefree smile in his repertoire, and waved a great big wave at the crowd of a hundred or so. “What’s shakin’, Mannerly Stove?” he shouted cheerily. 

Number One slumped, but the crowd whooped and applauded. Some were still laughing, but that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Imagine if everyone had fallen silent.

A man of great girth, with a pentagonal hat and chain of office round his neck, strode forward importantly. As he stepped closer, Graham recognized him as Hector. He was more or less mayor, but spent most of his time selling artisanal cheeses over the border. Graham had stayed overnight at his house and beat him at hangman, back when King Edward had sent him to defeat a banshee.

Hector’s grin was enormous, but his eyes were humbly downcast as he swept off his hat with a flourish, and sank to one knee. “Majesty,” he boomed. “Here is a day that will not soon be forgotten in our lowly township.”

Graham sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff, and pulled out formality. “The pleasure’s all mine, Lord Mayor. And thank you all,” he said, raising his voice, “for the warm welcome. It’s my honour to continue the strong relationship between the throne and this good village.”

More cheers. Well, that wasn’t too bad. Graham  tried to resist, but he could not help sneaking a peek to see if Number One approved. But by this time, the captain was standing to inscrutable attention in a row with the other guards. 

So they began. Speechlets, bouquets, a whirlwind tour of the town which Graham honestly could have led himself. A headache began as he boiled alive in his expensive outfit, but he soldiered on, oohing and ahhing dutifully.

At last they took him over the crest of the road and down into the mountain pass itself. In the distance, Graham could make out a colourful blur (zards, was his eyesight worse compared to his last visit? No, no, surely not,) which  he knew to be the Serenian flag hanging over a small border fortification on the other side. Halfway between them, close to the mountainside waterfall, stood the first thing Graham did not recognize from before. Something glinting here and there with metal, and painted in red and blue.

“Er, what’s that?” he asked, as Hector led the way, walking backward.

“That,” said Hector with relish, raising his voice to be heard above the crash of the waterfall, “is the  reason we insisted your people schedule your visit for today. We only finished putting it together last night. The pride of Mannerly Stove. This way, sire. Only, keep to the middle of the road. Safer.”

“Safer?” asked Graham, but the crowd was already bustling him down the slope toward the object. As it came into focus, he could make out sandbags, gears, a series of weigh scale bowls suspended from chains, and a long winding slide, about the right size for a marble. But none of the bells and whistles disguised the thing completely.

 “A… tollbooth?”

Number One somehow shot him a pointed look, despite his eyes being disguised beneath his helmet. “A very fine tollbooth, I’m sure.”

“A groundbreaking tollbooth,” said Hector. “Like no one has ever seen before, my king. Let us demonstrate.” 

To Graham’s annoyance, the excited mayor yanked him toward the window by the wrist, where a giggling assistant demanded five shiny gold coins. A scowl escaped him at the price, but Number Three leant over his shoulder and murmured something about how after all, he was really just dropping the money back into his own pocket. She asked whether he were smuggling anything, checked something off a list, and  turned a crank. 

The striped barrier began to rise. There was a  shifting and creaking that didn’t seem to come from the mechanism, but out of the earth itself. Graham could have sworn he saw the pebbles on the road rolling slightly. For a moment, an unnaturally straight crack formed in a portion of the road, swallowing dust. Almost as suddenly it disappeared, and all went still. The barrier stopped, at full height.

“Have a nice trip!” the assistant rattled off. “Just have a word with the Serenians at the checkstop on your way through.”

Graham took a few wary steps over the invisible border, but it all seemed solid enough.  He threw an uncertain glance back at the beaming group. “But I don’t actually, right?”

Hector chuckled. “Better not. We’d give the Serenians a good gossip if we sent the king himself through. On foot. All by himself and unprotected.”

Indignation flared in Graham's chest unexpectedly. He was seized by an impulse to power-walk over the frontier and give the people of Daventry something to gossip about.  All by himself and unprotected, indeed. But he slapped that thought away, and ducked to slip under the re-lowered barrier.

The entire crowd gasped as one. The assistant’s mouth went round as an O, and the mayor waved his hands wildly. “No, no, no!” he cried. “Back up! Back up!”

Graham scooted backward, his black satin cloak billowing round. He instinctively checked the ground, but nothing seemed to be moving.

Hector placed a hand over his heart and  heaved a sigh of relief. “Never,” he said, articulating every syllable, “ever try to pass while the gate is still shut. Or go around it. Or climb over it. There are weight sensitive plates everywhere, and if you did -"

“Raise that gate again,” commanded Number One with a firm nod at the assistant. She hurried to obey. The road began groaning again.

“- if you did,” Hector went on, “the entire border defense system would be triggered. Walls, saws, spikes, you name it. And if something of sufficient weight passes over one of those plates, like a cart, it can even set off two small landslides to block the pass on either side.” 

“Retrieve the king,” said Number One hurriedly.

As the barrier locked into its highest position, Graham’s six guards charged forward. They seized him by the shoulders, and  precisely maneuvered him to the very center of the road. They all but shoved him back to the Daventry side, even as they tiptoed, lightly as possible, on their curly boots. “Excuse me,” Graham growled so the crowd wouldn’t hear. “I am perfectly able to walk.” He dug in his heels before he could collide with Hector.

“Landslides?” Graham said aloud, righting himself and shaking off the guards. “That seems like a lot.”

Hector shook his head and waggled a sensible finger. “Nature’s trap for intruders. You see,  a few months back, we had some trouble with bootleggers sneaking past this stretch of road. The late King Edward gave us a grant to tighten security. This Domino Effect Tollbooth was our most brilliant minds’ answer.”

Graham rubbed his chin stubble. “But I mean, smugglers aren’t limited to this route. You could actually sneak into the valley from any direction, right?”

“But NOT through Mannerly Stove,” proclaimed Hector, thrusting out his chest pompously, as though that settled the question. “But you haven’t seen the really droll part of it yet, sire. You might be thinking that an offender might get through the defenses anyhow. That’s why we installed these.” Hector indicated a row of thin, brass pipes protruding from the underside of the toll booth. “These swing out, and blast the scoundrel with sixteen bright colours of paint! Good luck blending in after that!”

“Wow.” Graham scratched his temple under his crown. “You figure it needs sixteen?”

“Naturally! Two or three colours could just mean housepainting, or an artist having a clumsy day. But the odds of sixteen? I think not. In fact, our designer’s original plan was for two-hundred-and-fifty-six colours, but there wasn’t room in the budget. But,” (his smile broadened again - how was that physically possible?) “if I may make so bold, things have been looking up since you got those treasures back. And we, we have full confidence you’ll make the very best use of them. You see, sire, the taxes your officials have us down for are shockingly heavy for such a small town. It's something I’d hoped we could chat about before you leave - possibly expanding the grant.”

“I see.” Graham couldn’t quite stop a smirk from creeping over his face. “So you can have the two-hundred-and-fifty-six colours.”

Hector bobbed the slightest of bows. “That would be a start.”

The smirk spread as he mirrored the mayor’s bow. “Of course. It’s so… great to know the kingdom’s money would be put to such excellent -”

A  gauntleted hand clapped over the king’s mouth. “Bless you,” said Number One brusquely from behind him. “Just as you say, sire. Great to know security is being taken so seriously.”

Really? In what world did Number One imagine that was subtle? 

Graham spluttered as the guard released him, but before he stepped away Number One poked him sharply between the shoulder blades. Muscle memory kicked in. Graham found himself straightening up and putting his shoulders back, as he always did on the training ground when Number One corrected his posture. Then he turned and glared, meeting the guard’s gaze. He deliberately slumped his shoulders and let himself fall into the easy bow-legged stance Number One was always giving him grief for. Zards; what was even the point of dragging him out here if they were just going to be embarrassed of his existence? Maybe they should just put the crown on Number One’s head and send him round to smile and wave at smug villagers. Stars knew he wouldn’t mind taking it off for a while. The headache was morphing from a gnaw to an ache.

Number One held his gaze. And Graham noticed suddenly that everyone had gone quiet.

Hector laughed nervously. “Perhaps your majesty is tired. The heat of the day, naturally. Maybe…” He glanced at the brook rushing by the wayside, and upward at the roiling foam of the falls. “I know just the thing to cool us all down. There’s a staircase carved into the rock that starts just over there. It leads up to a little cliff about halfway up the waterfall. The view is really spectacular.”

“Great idea!” Graham cut in. Anything to shift focus.

The slate-blue steps cut from the side of the mountain were puddle slick most of the way up, pooling mist into water.. More than once Graham nearly lost his footing and had to grab at the fiery-orange foliage of the bushes that lined the way. The second time, Number Two had to give him a shove to get his center of gravity back. 

“You all right?” he whispered in Graham’s ear.

“I’m managing,” he said, trying to put some pep into it.

But Number Two didn’t pull back just yet. “Don’t think about who’s watching,” he murmured. “Not us, not them. Just think about one day when you’ll be old and stuck in bed all day, and can't climb mountains no more -and have fun with it now. That’s how it’s done.”  He patted Graham lightly on the shoulder. “Sire.”

At length they reached the narrow shelf - Graham, the guards, and Hector, who immediately pointed out that you could see his house from there. In fact, Graham could see all of Mannerly Stove from there, and a good stretch of the kingdom below, decked out in autumn glory. He was fairly sure the shimmering bit of white light was the castle pinnacle. But it was the falls that really stole the show, rushing down in magnificent sheets, and casting up snowy white froth. Graham gratefully stepped into the spray and let it play over his face and hands. He rubbed the cool water into the corners of his eyes. Who cared that his good clothes got a trifle wet? Anyone with an ounce of compassion would give him this. He wondered what temperature the guards had reached in their armour, and whether they were envious.

Hector swept another needless bow. “I thought your majesty might find it refreshing. Now, while we’re up here, it would be a crime not to show you the Tickle Rock. How do you like that?” He pointed a brawny finger toward the cliff’s edge.

Perched near the brink sat the most top-heavy rock Graham had ever seen. As tall as he was, and rather wider than his arm span at the top, it dwindled to a narrow point at its base. He could have wrapped his fingers round the bottom. This, at last,  was something to see.

“Perfectly balanced, as you see,” said Hector, taking a moment to hold his handkerchief under the waterfall and dab at his forehead. “It was the pride of our village long before the tollbooth. So, you see, it can never fall down. It’s been here as long as anyone knows. When the winds blow, it rocks a little, but it goes on standing.”

“And it can never fall down?” Graham asked, genuinely enchanted for the first time since his coronation.

“Never.”

“That’s incredible!”

“Miraculous,” the mayor agreed. He considered a moment, then seized off his hat and held it under the water  to fill it up. “Stars bless us, but it is a hot day,” he muttered. “Yes, miraculous. It can never fall down, because if it did, we’d lose half our fame. Although if you come to think of it, the really miraculous thing, even more so than the Tickle Rock’s perfect balance, is that no idiot has ever climbed up here and given it a good…” He looked up from his hat, and froze. “Sir Graham! No!”

A shining-eyed Graham had closed the gap between himself and the rock. To Hector’s horror, even as the words formed on his lips, Graham raised his hand. Pointed a finger. And poked the stone. 

It wobbled.

“What?” said Graham, glancing back over his shoulder in honest bewilderment. “Didn’t you say it can never fall?”

The rock lurched toward the precipice’s edge.

Hector screamed. The crowd below screamed. Nearly every guard screamed.

Graham’s blood froze, and his stomach turned a cat’s cradle. “No, no, no no no no no!” Without a thought in his head, except that the Tickle Rock must not fall, he clambered to get a hold of it, catching frantically at the air. His arms closed round its sides. He heaved backward, realizing just a moment later that if the stone came with him, it would land on top of him. But it didn’t. It wedged itself on the end of his boot, just a fraction away from his toes.  It tottered - tottered further - and righted itself in his arms.

Oh, gods. Oh, merciful gods. That had been unthinkably close. He heaved a sigh of relief, and could have sworn that sigh echoed through the whole mountain pass.

Then something shifted, and Graham and the rock hurtled over the edge.

He cried out. For a moment someone seemed to be tugging at his cloak, but they must have let go. He pulled his arms free of the rock, and found himself spinning somersaults and cartwheels in freefall. The crown flew off his head.  He reached, reached for something to grab hold of, but nothing met his grip.

Then he thudded into the earth.

The wind was knocked out of him, but his arm raised itself on reflex. With perfect timing, he snatched the crown out of the air. Well, at least he had that.

Five spinning skies resolved into one as he gasped breath back into his lungs. Dizzily, he raised himself on one elbow. He was laid out on his back, mere inches from the shattered chunks of the Tickle Rock. And on the other side of him, the tollbooth.

The ground began to creak and rumble under him.

Graham closed his eyes. “No…”

He launched himself into a roll just as the ground beneath where had been lying fell away. From the breach burst a circular saw, spinning so fast it  screeched. He broke his roll just in time, for an identical saw split the ground and rose from the other side. Earsplitting bells and horns rang out. He staggered to his feet, only for something - a spinning jousting target? - to swing at his head. Throwing himself into the arms of instinct, he ducked and weaved as more and more threats appeared, some from the ground, some on metal fixtures that came out of the tollbooth, some from who could say where. He swerved to avoid a procession of five tremendous wooden mallets, any of which could have sent his head flying like a croquet ball. Finally, a great wall of black iron, lined at the top with vicious spikes, leapt out of the ground, cutting off his escape toward the Serenian side. Graham dashed wildly toward Daventry, even though the spikes of the second wall had already climbed a good three feet. Throwing all his momentum into it, he leapt wildly to clear the wall. But the spinning jousting target snagged his cloak, and threw him back into the middle of the fray. 

He flattened himself against the ground, covering his head with his arms, and waited for something to squish or slice or stretch him. Somewhere, the rumbling grew even louder, until it roared.

Everything stopped.

He waited, then waited longer. But nothing more came. Slow as molasses in winter, he got to his feet and looked around. The saws were still, the mallets had fallen to the ground, inert, and the walls, while very much standing, seemed to have reached their full height.

He tilted his head back to look up at the cliff. Only Hector remained by the waterfall. His eyes goggled out of his  head, but he said nothing. The guards were nowhere in sight, though he thought maybe he could just make out Number One’s voice raised above the crash of the water. “Pockets!” 

“I’m -” His voice sounded weak and hoarse, and not nearly loud enough to carry. He tried again, a bit louder.  “I’m here, Number One! I -  think it’s all over.”

A blast of neon yellow splashed violently into his face.

He shut his eyes just in time. The paints soaked him with such force it was hard to keep his balance. He gritted his teeth, folded his arms, and leaned against the metal wall for support. Just stand and take it, and think what on earth you’re going to say to them all.

When at last the paint melee stopped, he cracked an eyelid and looked down at himself. If he hadn’t needed glasses before, he certainly would after an eyeful like that. Lime green, sherbet pink, tropical orange. This outfit was single handedly going to set the royal laundry on strike.

A helmeted head popped over  the wall. “Sire!” cried Number One anxiously, already grabbing onto a spike to vault over. “Are you hurt?” 

The ground had already spat so many things out; if only it could swallow him. He forced a limp, rainbow-coloured thumbs up. 

Number One was there in a moment, seizing him by the elbows. “Are you hurt at all?” He sounded beside himself.

Graham shook his head, grateful that his sopping blue and white hair hung down over his face, so that his eyes were hidden too.

“Can you speak?”

“Uh huh.”

Number One’s grip relaxed, and if it was a wave of relief that washed over the guard, Graham could feel it roll over him too. Just for a moment. Because the next moment the grip turned severe. If Number One had been any stronger he would have crushed Graham's elbows as he leaned in and whispered furiously, “What in bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” Then he stepped back, and shouted clearly, “His majesty is not seriously harmed. Numbers Two and Three, prepare the carriage to take him home at once. My lord mayor, on behalf of the royal guard, we are deeply, deeply sorry for this unfortunate accident. Numbers Four, Five, and Six, we’ll be here overnight to… deal with all this.” 

Up on the clifftop, Hector shook himself from his stupor. “Uh - uh - uh, well,” he stammered, “well, I don’t think anyone’s heading home tonight. The, uh, the rock was, um, heavy. The landslides, they worked perfectly, on both sides. So you’re probably stuck here until, um, we can get the rubble crew in.”

Number One twitched, almost imperceptibly. “How long will that take?”

Hector began twisting his hat into a helix. “I don’t think the team has been, um, precisely organized yet. We - we only finished the tollbooth last night. Um, there’s a signup sheet on the town board. Can someone run and check on that?”

The last time Graham had stayed overnight at the mayor’s house, he’d slept on the sofa. This evening the two housemaids rushed about in a frenzy to get the master bedroom ready. They changed out the bedding, set up a side table with a pitcher of water, mints, and a bell, and covered the floor and armchair with towels and tarps, so the splattered king could drip as much as he liked.

Exhausted, he eased into the chair sorely. If his muscles were feeling that fall now, what would they be tomorrow? As for the headache, it had apparently decided to split expenses and housemate with a few other headaches. But a splitting head and aching muscles were things he could get over. He wasn’t sure about the rest.

The wash stand was just within reach. A linen towel hung over the edge. Improper it might be, but his handkerchief was a sodden mess of paint. Graham grabbed the towel and blew his nose hard. Even the mucus seemed to have all sixteen colours in it.

Number One marched into the room with the most precisely by-the-book march Graham had ever seen from him, but he only stopped the door from slamming at the last second. He stepped carefully around the colourful footprints, placed his helmet on the dresser, and stared at Graham. He didn’t exactly look angry. Graham didn’t quite know what that look was, except that it was intense. “What are you?” asked the guard slowly.

Graham shrugged.  “An artistic masterpiece,” he said dryly.

“No. What are you?”

“I know. I know. I’m an idiot.” He dragged a weary hand across his face, and it came away purple and brown.

Number One took a step forward. “No!” He emphasized every word. “You are Daventry. Daventry! You cannot be Sir Graham any longer. You cannot be an island, or a maverick, or whatever you think you are. And you cannot be a rebellious schoolboy.” 

Couldn’t he give it five minutes? “It’s just when he said it couldn’t fall, I took it in the sense that -”

“Daventry tumbled and scraped its way down a mountainside today. Daventry fell on its face in the dust.”

“I was actually on my back…”

“Daventry walked away wet, unsteady, and foolish, gagging up paint in front of the whole town, who will spread it round on our side of the border and over it. And the fault is completely mine.”

That got Graham’s attention. He looked up. “What?”

“You are as far from ready as you could be. And you nearly got yourself killed today.” Number One looked as though he might go on, but he abruptly stopped himself. He seized his helmet up, replaced it, and muttered, “I should be publicly flogged."

This time, he let the door slam.

[ashleyishere24]

Best joke of the year right here

[rata-novus]

okay now that the coyote vs acme plot has leaked (~~allegedly~~) i'm even more adamant in my wish for someone to leak the damn movie already. it sounds genuinely good?????? recognizable characters, a believable (in-universe) plot, and a heartwarming wrap up. im so mad lmao

[kairithemang0]

I’m in physical pain save me

[teamr3dofficial]

Just a drabble at the top of my mind

“Red, are you there?” A voice chimed in the earpiece she wore. Connection was finally back as she sighed in relief, herself being separated from her team for far too long, as while she was fleeing, Zack and Ivy were still waiting for her, which was the plan, until VILE decided they had no more patience for her little cat-and-mouse game they were always playing.

Heels clacking against the rooftops of households, her breathing got heavier steadily, she’s been running for a very long time, with Tigress still hot on her tail, and two more operatives she hadn’t bothered introducing herself to, though they already knew who she was. How could they not? Brunt’s “mama bear” rants were infamously known throughout the island, as well as Maelstrom’s schemes and Cleo’s complaints about her. Only Bellum had seemed to be silent about her, though she still despised the scarlet thief.

“Player, good that you’re here. I have three operatives chasing me. What’s the best rout-” She started, only to be cut off.

“Sharp right, now.” Player instructed, and she followed without a second thought.

The quick and unexpected turn left the two newbies skidding to a halt, before colliding into each other, leaving Tigress to be the only chaser. What can I say? Tigress is good at her job, VILE made a good choice in accepting her.

“Carmen Sandiego.” The tiger lady growled, in a dangerously low voice.

“That’s my name,” The woman in red shot back, more smugly than she should have been.

Whatever it took to get on the tiger’s nerves, am I right?

Wrong. Karma for Carmen, ACME had also decided to join in on the fun. Just wonderful, no, no. Really lovely. Maybe it did serve her right.

As of right now, she may or may not have been running out of roof to run, with ACME aware of her location, and VILE on her tail, this was a little risky, but she still trusted Player.

“Where now?” She quickly asked.

“See that gap between the rooftops? Jump over it.” Player responded.

Gradually, she gained speed, as well as momentum, as she did a jump dive to the other side, it being incredibly risky and with just a mere split second, she dodged the smoke guns that ACME fired at her from the gap, it being too close a call.

The dangers of being “La Femme Rouge”, I guess.

But they were going to need way more than just that to catch her, or they may as well give up.

[the-thought-emporium-imperial]

Really should be a legal caveat that if you want to write a movie off as a tax break you should have to release it to the public for free. Getting to hold onto it makes it an asset, right? You still have the footage somewhere, I mean, you can't just SAY you made a movie and not have proof of its existence, that's fraud. Could they dispose of it afterwards? Probably. I don't know if you need to hold onto it for future legal disputes or not, but fuck does this shit sound like the biggest of scams.

[catfoxposts-blog]

In the wake of COYOTE VS ACME I'm reminded of how much news of Warner doing this is drowning out info of other films written off for Taxes. I wanted to know to see how it compared to how Warner's doing it know but there isn't much I could find that gives an direct answer. The only 2 other's I could really find were Corpse eaters (1974) and A woman of the Sea (1926). There pretty much the only non Warner bros films I can find reliable info to back them up. I'm sure it happened & it wasn't as public as today but I'm shocked how little info I could find before 2022.

[constellies]

more writing, but no title for this one ! same vibe as winnower/gardener, sometime after the events of tarot's plotline

Acme's steps leave flowers in her wake, they burst through the hard earth in the underbelly of the Garden. She intrudes upon Stigma's grounds (although this too would count as hers.) She treads on ice and memory, her breath freezes in the air, the flora growing on her shivers and shrinks back.

"Stigma," the Gardener greets her sister, "What has kept you down here for so long? (Are you at least having fun?)"

Stigma does not answer, she is studying Kismet’s Secret. Picking apart their will the countless times she already has to make it into something she can wield. A spear of judgment, glorious and shining and raising a temple for itself. It is far more than the fragments Acme had glimpsed them as at first.

"Will you [please] take a break with me? (You need one. We all do.)" Stigma can hear the many smiles in her voice, trapped behind her words.

"...I will. Give me some time."

"As always."

Acme rolls a flower stem between two fingers. They are sheltered under the shade of trees and sat in the grass. It's begun to overrun her when she sits still for too long.

"Do you think you'll ever be friends? (I hope so...)" She asks.

Stigma knows who she's talking about. She stares at the flower, it's a red spider lilly.

"No. We're too different." Stigma's hands crawl with scales of ice and stolen memories and forbidden knowledge. It spreads down her arms under her sleeves, a pattern of self destruction. Acme has seen it too, and sees it again as Stigma takes the flower from her hands. The flowers wilts in her grasp.

They are watching a dead god swallow her whole.

"Why?" Acme tilts her head, a flower blooms on her cheek and she wipes away the blood. The green streaking through her hair is full of life.

Stigma frowns. "I don't know. Just a feeling I have."

"And you think it's right?"

"I've been right about a lot of things "

"As if that means you're right about everything,/It can be wrong, you know," Acme picks out the forget me nots from her palms. "Why don't you try? Talk to her more. (It never hurts to try.)"

Stigma pins her down in her gaze. The air grows cold. Acme stares back, the flowers are never-ending, blooming and growing and reaching out from each other like fractals.

"You really just don't like her, do you? (I can tell.)"

"Do you think we'd ever be friends?" Achmalier sits on one of the many walls in the Garden. She is untouched, not a single mark of the throne world on her. The scar on her neck is old and faint now.

"I don't know," Acme sits next to her and shrugs, the cloak of life clinging to her shoulders sheds an uncountable amount of flowers, "like us? We were never friends. (Never will be.)"

"Aren't you?" Achmalier questions.

"No, never were. …More like sisters (I think.)" Acme absent-mindedly answers her.

"I feel always a little distant."

She laughs. "That's because you hid from us/me for an eternity. Just spend time with her/us and wait. If you want to be friends, you'll have to go and find her first. (Because she won't. She's too busy.)"

Achmalier notes how ivy has begun to inch her way over to her, eager and reaching. She doesn't want to be part of this place, Acme already knows it.

"Is this what's left of Kismet?"

Achmalier stares up at Stigma's work, it's an alien thing down here, glowing and bright and full of the same cold that pushes away all else. It lights up the entire underground space in the Garden.

"It's all that I could find." Stigma's voice sounds distant despite standing next to her, like as if it was reaching Lier from across a hall (and that hall is across time, stretched and then pressed together.)

"And it's... safe?" She watches as Stigma strides across the threshold before following her.

"Safe as any artifact from a dead god can be. Now let me show you..."

Stigma stands before a decorated spear impaled into a pillar of ice, the final weapon of the god of fate. It is like both an anchor and beacon for unmoored time, and she spreads her arms wide. She opens the floodgates and reaches to a different time to tear it into theirs. A wound in reality is created before her eyes.

Achmalier is witnessing time bleed, and she does not like it.

Stigma turns on a heel and sees her fear.

She clasps her hands together. "This leads to one of Kismet’s dead timelines. Nothing will change with no one to hold their will. It's... something for us to study."

"For you to study," Achmalier rubs the sheath of her knife with a thumb, "don't you think we should leave a god dead? Leave their work lost to time, because their turn is up? We killed Kismet for a reason. I don't want any of them coming back."

"Apocryphal/heretic work in my garden... (Why don't you lay that thing to rest already?)"

Acme is a growing forest personified.

"We are not gods, Acme."

Stigma is like an ax.

"Then what are we, if we aren't born in a lord or mortal shape? Are we caught between like the Lord of Secrets from a roll of the dice? (Are we a chimera? Our own new shape?)"

Her sister grins. She grows faster, more prosperous, more resistant each time.

"What of Achmalier? (She's more human than either of us.)"

Stigma can't keep up, she never will. She feels roots dig into her. Around the verglas inscribed on her skin.

"I don't know."

[beatskylar]

A broken memory, is a knife to the heart. Part 3

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Who are you?” “And what are you doing here?”

Taking a deep breath in, Carmen slowly exhales as her eyes flutter open revealing that she is in a different room. The stiff bed she’s gotten used to is now gone, and as she begins to feel the tension in her back muscles, the awful bed is deeply missed. Both of her forearms, palms, and left cheek are pressed against cold metal, and as she slowly rises from her bent position, she begins to feel her muscles relax. “Never thought I would miss my bed back at the academy,” Carmen whispers as she rotates her shoulders and neck, but the crick in her neck refuses to leave, the pain and soreness a familiar sensation to her.

“Shadowsan! Shadowsan!” The young girl yells as she skips behind the master of stealth, who continues his walk to his classroom. Without verbally acknowledging her presents, the girl knows that he’s waiting and listing. His strides have become slower, a change was barely noticeable to passing by students but a clear sign for her. “Can you teach me that neck knockout thing?” Once she is close enough, she jumps to reach his neck, unable to lay a finger on her target.

“The pressure point pinch.” After another failed attempt, she stops her efforts knowing he’ll get mad if she decides to continue. Finally, after years of getting in trouble, Carmen knows how far she can push things before the faculty get angry with her. Coach Brunt, being the mama bear she is, doesn’t mind anything she does, even going out of her way to excuse the girl’s behavior as ‘Learning new skills.’ Professor Maelstrom and Dr. Bellum allowed six attempts, on their good days, before they become irritated and threaten to call the Cleaners on her. Countess Cleo gives her three tries, and on the fourth try, she forces the girl to take a ten-hour lecture on how to be a ‘Proper Lady’. Lastly, Shadowsan might allow two attempts before he starts grunting in disapproval.

“Yeah, that!” When he doesn’t utter another word, she continues before he returns to his normal pace. “Blackout betted I couldn’t knock him out and I am going to enjoy proving him wrong. At first, I thought of asking Boris and Vlad for help, but they only appear when I do something ‘wrong’ and/or ‘foolish’. Then I thought of using oil, but Professor Maelstrom banned me from the kitchen after, and I quote ‘covered the stairs leading to VILE in oil, causing Cookie Brooker and several other operatives to fall and hit their heads’… Which I am innocent of doing, I swear it was Neal the Eel, despite footage showing otherwise.”

“If I teach you, will you leave me alone?” In an instant, he completely stops in his tracks, which leads the girl to bump into his legs. A grunt escapes him, but she will not let him change his mind. Immediately she agrees to his demand, running around his legs so she is standing in front of him. “Alright. I will teach you when you wake up.”

“Wake up?” Before she could realize what he meant; the man leans down so they are at eye level as his right hand rested on her shoulder. In a swift motion, he quickly applies slight pressure to the muscles on her neck.

Lifting her right arm to massage her neck, Carmen feels it. The slight sting on her wrist as the metal cuff moves against her irritated skin. “Of course, they wouldn’t make it too easy for me, that wouldn’t be fun.” It doesn’t take her long to see the cuffs around her wrist aren’t standard police handcuffs. The metal link is longer than it should be, allowing enough room for her to stretch one arm at a time but making it difficult to fight at her fullest capability. There is no way she can pick the lock, considering she’s without any of her gadgets and there is no keyhole to even pick. In an instant, she understands that the cuffs are using a magnetic lock, and the only way she’s getting out is if she steals one of the blue coat’s keycards. No random idiot’s clearance level will work either, she’s going to need one of the bimbos that arrested her or the boss’s card.

The table Carmen is sitting at shows signs of being altered to keep her restrained. The metal bar, ensuring she remains stuck with the table, is a dark copper that stands out from the silver table. The bolts on either end of the pipe are hastily screwed into the table and pipe, the quick work leaving some space between the bar and screw head. Not a lot, but just enough for her to unscrew the screws. Running her left index finger over the end, the sharp metal begins tugging at her skin, with enough pressure and speed the pipe could cut skin.

Looking around the room, Carmen sees that she’s in a typical interrogation room. Two metal chairs on the other side of the table. One exit to her left that must be unlocked from the other side as there’s only a handle to pull the door open. Flickering lights hang above her, a slight hum the only sound she hears, as her eyes land on the two-way mirror, five feet away from her. Focusing on her reflection, Carmen leans forward being sure she moves both of her hands in front of the screws, effectively hiding them from view. As she tilts her head to the right, she discreetly tests how well the bolts are tightened. The hard part is to hide her thumb’s movements to avoid anyone on the other side of the mirror seeing what she is up to. When she feels both screws budge a little, only being able to do half a turn, Carmen knows that if she wants to escape, she first needs to remove the nuts from under the table.

There must be at least ten agents that can easily be taken care of, but Shadows will be a threat she needs to prepare for. The only thing that might stop the ex-faculty member from playing hero, is a hostage. The male agent, with the glasses, is going to put up a fight and he has already proven to have no regard for his safety or the safety of others. The female agent on the other hand barely put up a fight against Carmen, even going out of her way to tell the other agent not to hurt her.

Leaning backward till her back is pressed against the metal chair, Carmen sighs in relief. It’s going to take some doing but she’s going to be able to escape. All she needs to do is play her cards right and she’ll be walking back to VILE with the greatest price in the world, a bluecoat.

As she stares at her reflection, an image of herself without her signature red coat and fedora brings a shiver to her spine. A reminder of a time before she graduated from VILE, a reminder of a bright-eyed child that admired Shadowsan, and was attentive to every single word that came from his mouth. Carmen loathes that she tried so hard to make him proud, all those years before she even enrolled in VILE, spent trying and failing to prove herself. Everyone in the faculty had approved of her skills before she was able to walk, the only one who constantly refused to acknowledge her abilities was and still is Shadowsan. All of her accomplishments were undermined by him, whenever she bested an operative, he would state it was because she received help from Coach Brunt or she cheated.

“Black Sheep, you had better be certain that becoming a professional thief is what you truly desire, for if you choose this road there will be no turning back.”

“I want this more than anything Instructor Shadowsan, and I am willing to go to the end of the line.” As she bows to him, her posture remains firm and calm but her heart beats fast enough to fly out of her chest. She doesn’t want to show how badly she wants his approval, how even if the rest of the faculty tells her no, she’ll be ecstatic if he just for once approved. As she slowly rises in time to see the vote, her heart stops at the sight. Once again, the faculty approved of her, except Shadowsan. Her heart stops beating and falls to her feet as the ninja leaves, she wants to throw up at the feeling of being rejected again, for the millionth time.

The hiss of the metal door opening draws Carmen's eyes to the only exit as a pair walk in, one of them being the agent she tried to kill in the Ferris wheel. Neither are wearing suits, instead choosing to remain in their civilian disguises. The girl holds a single red laptop in her hands, setting it carefully on the table before taking a seat. The other agent takes a long time to sit down.

"I see you survived your little fall; I was starting to get a little worried I missed your funeral. Guess I won't need to pay my respects... yet." In an instance, both agents react to her comment, the female clenching her fist to calm down while the male agent looks away from Carmen, his eyes showing the fear of being reminded about his fall. Seeing she hit a nerve, Carmen innocently smiles at the two. As the three of them fall into silence, the girl uses the time to start up her computer while the boy stares at the oh-so-fascinating floor. Taking a small glance down, Carmen sees why the stained floors have the young agent’s attention. "Tell me, agent was your free fall the other day your first? Wasn't it exciting feeling the wind hitting you as you fell?" Carmen makes it a point to whistle a tune that starts off at a high pitch and quickly lowers, mimicking the sound effects as a cartoon character would fall.

The boy doesn’t have a great poker face, as he grimaces at her words, and she leans towards him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that the female has turned the laptop to point at Carmen, but her blue eyes focus on the male. “Just breathe bro-“

“Yes, just keep breathing, and breathing because-” Slowly moving her right hand under the table, Carmen begins the process of unscrewing the nut as she states. “I wonder how many breaths you’ll take before I take your last.” Her shell of a threat works, her eyes noticing him gulp as he leans away, almost causing him to fall onto the floor. Despite knowing she won’t be able to follow through with the threat if she wants to escape, it helps elevate Carmen’s situation. If they are going to keep her imprisoned, the least they could do is allow her to mentally break the agents.

“We might be friends, but I will not let you talk to him like that!” The female yells, slamming her left hand down next to Carmen’s. For a moment she stops unscrewing the nut as her brown eyes meet the agent’s eyes.

“We are not friends.”

“Yes, we are!” Sighing, the girl sits back and takes a deep breath before continuing. “We are more than friends, we are family-“

“Don’t make me laugh.” Out of the corner of her eye, Carmen sees the laptop turn on and she is immediately greeted by a young boy. He looks unsure as he stares at her, bags under his eyes yet he keeps them wide open. For several minutes no one says anything, no one even moves a muscle as everyone waits. Everyone is staring at her, and she hates it with a passion.

A thief isn’t supposed to be seen; she’s supposed to be like a ghost. Appear and then disappear.

“They’ve been calling you the crimson ghost, red.”

“Really? What an honor.”

Closing her eyes, Carmen forces the voices in her head out. She needs to stay focused, and she needs to get to work. Breathing in and then out, Carmen opens her eyes and begins unscrewing the nut again. Her left hand hid the bolt from the agent’s view.

“Red, do you remember me?” Carmen doesn’t reply, just letting her eyes linger on him. She has never seen him before, and she starts to wonder how long this agency has been after her. If they know anything about VILE. “My name is Player, and I’ve been- we’ve known- I’m your friend, best friend.” Her features remain still, not showing an ounce of emotion as she forces herself not to roll her eyes. No one at VILE had friends, especially the faculty. There were only the fellow thieves you could work with and the thieves you wish you could push off a cliff. And even though she got along with Crackle, Carmen still didn’t consider him a friend, because she knew if they were to ever be trapped, with law enforcement creeping in. She would throw him under the bus.

She can never be caught…. Unless it was worth it.

“I was there for your first caper when we meet Ivy and Zack,” Player stops for a minute, gesturing to the agents in the room, as they smile. It’s faint, and with one look from Carmen, Zack loses his smile as he shrinks into himself. “The four of us have been inseparable since then, and we’ve only gotten closer when Shadowsan joined us.”

A soft chuckle leaves Carmen’s mouth just as she was able to remove the nut and can feel the bolt come loose enough that she can yank it out of the table. Shifting her body to look at the young boy through the screen, she positions her left hand over the remaining bolt. Her right-hand repeats the process of removing the nut that is keeping her trapped. “You don’t say? Tell me ‘best friend’ what other grand adventures we’ve been on.” The young boy begins detailing events but with every twist of the nut, Carmen tunes him out until the nut drops in her waiting palm. Taking a deep breath, she leans her head back which makes the boy quit talking.

“Carmen?” The girl asks, but when they lock eyes, Carmen springs into action. Pulling the metal bar out, she leans back far enough to use her legs to push the metal table toward the two agents. The red-headed boy is just barely able to jump away from the table as the other agent’s back is smacked against the see-through glass and pinned there by the table. As she slowly makes her way to the terrified agent, she throws one of the nuts at the laptop screen, causing it to crack as the boy yells her name. The second nut she has makes immediate contact with the female’s forehead.

Before Carmen can get the chance to torture the agent in front of her, the door leading to her exit bursts open as more agents barge in. Looking over her shoulder she smiles as she sees Jules and the loudmouth agent are among the agents now aiming their weapons at her. “Carmen Sandiego, surrender or I will be forced to take you out,” A tall woman states in a commanding voice, and simply by her attire Carmen knows that she’s in charge. Slowly turning on her heels, Carmen raised her hands up, the metal bar being loosely held in her hand. “Drop the weapon.”

The second Carmen sees Shadowsan, she can tell that he’s able to anticipate her next move as he goes for his sword and yells. “Julia move!” Unlike in the past, this time she’s faster than her old mentor and gets to the agent in the blink of an eye. In a swift movement, Carmen is able to twist Julia’s arm behind her and press the metal bar to her neck.

As her now-captured agent yells in pain, everyone in the room takes a small step back. “Do as I say or say goodbye to Jules.” To ensure her threat is heard, Carmen pulls the bar down causing the agent’s skin to tear a little. A small cut, but enough to allow a few drops of blood out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[playthelaughtrack]

Can you do headcannons for the mime time where the reader tries to make his job a little safer

☙ the mime -- reader (tries) to make his job safer

• It feels like no matter what you do, he always leaves his job with an anvil on his head.

• You knew he could take the hits. As a toon, he could withstand almost anything— falling pianos, sticks of dynamite, comically large mallets, you name it, he's survived it.

• Any time you try and express your concern he simply puffs out his chest, acting out a scene as if he was a strongman... just for him to be caught in the crossfire for some hyjinks running rampant across the movie lot.

• You scold him for not taking care of himself after, only to be met with him showing off his durability, being caught in the middle of another dangerous sitiation, you get the gist

• One day you make him wear a helmet to work. It works for a moment! A piano falls on his head, cracking in half the moment it makes contact with his helmet, leaving The Mime without a scratch! He takes it off, giving you a thumbs up for the good work!

• It's too bad he didn't see that second piano fall.

• Bubble wrap. Lots of bubble wrap. He looked something akin to a snowman, until an oversized boxer glove flew in from one of the filming sets, popping his wrap in a single blow.

• Maybe it'd be best to treat him when he's off the clock. He'll never say it outloud, but he sure does make it apparent on his face that he enjoys it when you pamper him!

[readmarkclippastecollage]

How did that get in there?

Well we right the policies.

But why?

To accommodate seasonal fashion.

What fashion? We’re coming to work naked!

No, no. The term is Natural. It is the antithesis of Fast Fashion. My girlfriend knows about these things.

Hmm, this does comply with the equality policy, and our green initiative. You just made our company an industry leader. But, “right”?

We write policy to right policy.

Get out now!