#just got the all clear from the home inspector

[d1scow1ng]

Holy shit we own a house now

[ghostybaby000]

Never Yours | Part 4

Part 1

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

Summary: He had seen blood hundreds of times before, but never from you. He didn't know what to expect while listening to your cry's on the phone praying you wouldn't loose consciousness.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: 18+, violent theme, weaponry use, blood, symptoms of panic.

Tag List: @yyiikes @talooolaaloolla @cumsluut @sofiacoppolaslut

(Not fully edited, apologies for any inconsistencies! My internet is also down for now, so posts may not be consistent)

You adjust yourself to be seated more upright, again clearing your throat. Letting go of Simons hand for a moment you rub the tiredness from your eyes and take in several deep breaths. Replacing your hand and Simons in your lap, you begin.

‘I was trying to get things ready for dinner. Setting the table, cleaning the countertops, finishing the dishes. Someone knocked on the door so I set my dish down in the sink and made my way to the door to check the peephole. He was in uniform, some company uniform it…It looked so real.’ Your voices begins to fade out as the lump in your throat became harder to swallow. You shake your head to clear the thoughts, knowing that Simon would need to know the information at some point nonetheless. You take a long breath and squeeze his hand as you push on. 

‘I opened the door a crack and he said that he was a home inspector of some kind when I’d asked. I remember he was knowledgeable of the company and what it was about, not that I’m remembering much now. I told him…I tried to tell him that he could come back another time and that we were busy. That’s when I knew something was off.’ Another pause that allowed you to take in more air your lungs suddenly needed desperately, Simons eyes giving the strength to continue. 

‘He was so much taller, bigger than I was- I didn’t want to be alone with him, and my gut agreed. He insisted that he would check some part of the house as an annual inspection and he tried to open the door more…I-I pushed as hard as I could to shut it, and I almost had it. Everything moved so fast after that. I knew he wasn’t true to his title and that I was in danger, so I tried again to close the door with all my strength but It wasn’t enough…’ Simons hand drew you out of your mind as he thumbed over the top side of your hand. His jaw was set firm and his knee had entirely stopped bouncing. He nodded to you letting you know to continue although you knew that if you didn’t want to, he would never make you.

‘He had pushed hard to get inside against my efforts, so when he tried to do a much bigger push I let the weight of the door go and he came barreling inside. He didn’t fall but took a moment to turn and close the door, I heard him lock it. I tried to run as fast as I could, I just felt so panicked it’s like my legs were jelly. I made it to the stairs where I got up before him and to the bedroom, and I noticed he wasn’t running after me- like he knew I wouldn’t get away by running…’ Again the thoughts in your mind became a storm as you wiped a falling tear, trying to steady your breathing. Your voice went on slow, taking time to recall the events as best your mind would allow you to. 

‘I grabbed my phone off the bed and went into the bathroom as quietly as I could, I had your number dialed when he kicked in the door and grabbed me around my neck.’ Your hand reached up to touch the tender spot where bruises had formed. ‘He hit me across the face and I fell backwards, and then he hit me again when I made my way to the ground. From here it gets fuzzy, I know I passed out and I’m not sure for how long. All I knew is that when I woke up I heard him rummaging through the house, and then his steps. He bounded up the stairs again for the bathroom and he saw that I was conscious. His figure is blurry when I think of it, but he was tall and had dark hair.’ You were straining your mind to try and recall what the man had looked like, your head began to ache so instead you pressed on. 

‘The next thing I knew I…I saw him over me and felt a horrible burning followed by a wetness that wasn’t like water, it was warmer. He ran from the room and then the house, fleeing the scene. I couldn’t sit up and felt really dizzy, and then the pain set in. I’d never felt pain like that, so sudden and unending…. I saw my phone and made a reach for it but I just couldn’t get it in my hands. I could barely click call for your number…The next thing I know I’m here with you in the hospital.’ Simon was deep in his thoughts, a tear stain running down his left cheek. 

He takes a deep inhale that sounds stammered as you touch his arm and speak out to him. ‘I’m here, and safe now.’ Simons gaze doesn’t meet yours, his face only growing more stern- he was angry. You pull your hand from him to turn his face towards yours.

‘Simon. I’m here. I’m here looking at you and listening to you. You saved me, you are the reason I am alive.’ Your eyes darted between Simons as he looked into yours although they didn’t light up in the way they typically would if you had said something of a similar manner, his mind was elsewhere. He tugged a grin across his face and then his husky voice met your ears. 

‘I am the reason…’ His voice fell short in his throat before he could continue. He tore his eyes from yours to look at the floor and then back to you. He took a short breath and started again in a better tone, although you knew he wasn’t saying what he wanted. 

‘You need to rest my dove, it’s going to be the best thing for your recovery and that’s whats important.’ He stood just slightly to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead. You knew that arguing his thoughts would be no use and decided he was right, within minutes you had fallen asleep.  

Once your eyes began to dart underneath your eyelids, he knew that you were in a deep enough sleep that you wouldn’t stir if he had left. Simon rose to his feet and made his way out of the room silently, closing the door behind him. He didn’t like leaving you at all, but his anger for the man that harmed you outweighed the need to stay. 

He rings Price as he gets to the parking garage where he moved the car after the doctors had taken you. The ring goes on for a moment, before he hears him on the other end.

‘What have you got for me?’ Simons voice is lower, a scary calm that would send chills down anyone’s spine. Price took a long breath on the other side before responding to Simon, he could hear him leave a group of other people for privacy. 

‘I’ve managed to find who we think it is, and we might have a location I told you I would call when I found him.’ Prices voice rings with leadership and power, he wants to keep Simon from loosing his head all the while bringing justice to you who was harmed. 

‘Where is he?’ Simon starts the car and begins to make his way out of the lot. Price sighs, a mutual agreement that Simon would be relentless in getting to the man no matter the odds. 

‘I’ve already got men headed to the location Simon, and I’ll tell you when we’ve got him’ 

‘I want him myself.’ Simons voice is stern, and Price understands his determination more than he lets on. The team he’s sent should already be there by now, so there was no harm in allowing Simon to go, there would be others there to step in if things got out of control.

*ding* Simon takes a moment to pull the phone from his ear and see the text from Price, the location. 

‘Thank you.’ Simon hangs up the phone before Price can respond, the sound of the car filling his ears as he made his way around a turn headed the right direction. 

When he pulled into the abandoned apartment duplex, he found 2 more vehicles parked outside and recognized them as part of his own team. He saw their flashlights in the windows as they were searching the first story of the building, they hadn’t found him yet. 

Simon parked a good distance away and walked around towards the backside of the building and rounded a corner, coming face to face with the back side of a truck. The same truck the cameras showed from the neighbor’s home, he was definitely here. He made his way further behind the building, the only thing outside being dumpsters and broken glass scattered around it. He paused upon hearing a screeching door somewhere on the other side of the building behind him. 

*BANG*  

*BANG*

Shots rang out from behind Simon as he spun around he saw a man lying face down to the ground groaning. He ran to the man who had been shot and heard his comrades radio that they had gotten him, and didn’t go any closer seeing Simon approach the man. Simon watched as blood slowly leaked from the man’s lower half thanks to the bullet hole through his lower abdomen. A glare caught his eye as he looked over the man, a jagged knife had fallen from his hands and was now out of reach. Simon was over the man now staring at him, he couldn’t hear his thoughts or the mans protests through the anger as he rolled him over to face him.

 He held the man into a sitting position with one fist bunched around his clothing as he began to ruthlessly beat him with his other free hand. He thought to your face and swollen neck, the IV drips coming from your body, he saw the mans face was contorted and his nose began to bleed aggressively. He thought to the bandages and wounds that should have never touched your body, as he heard a crack somewhere in his hand. The man took a hold of Simons arm that was holding him up, trying to wrench himself free. He thought to your voice calling out for him over the phone as you groaned out in pain, and the fear that followed your voice and landed a punch square to the mans face. His hands that had been trying to rip him from Simon now fell limply to his side, he was unconscious.

Simon dropped him from where he was just as others had reached him to stop him from doing any more damage. He said nothing to the others as he walked back to his car, leaving the mangled man on the ground, and made his way back to you. 

He pulled into the lot, adrenaline still pulsing though him as he parked the car and made his way up to your room. He took no spare time in getting back to your side, pushing open the room door to see you were still asleep. He settled into his chair as he reached out again for your hand. He felt his own hand twinge in pain as he looked down to see one of his fingers was heavily inflamed and slightly twisted, another inflamed but still straight. He huffed to himself taking a breath as he settled into the chair, he would worry of his own injuries once you were awake. 

A few hours went on as nurses came and went, one staying to take vitals and waking you in the process. You sat up to see Simon in the chair next to you, this time asleep. He always looked so calm like this, something that made you feel all the more safe when with him. It was dark in the room and the nurse quickly made her way out as you laid back down and allowed yourself to rest as well. 

Morning came as the doctor strode in, Simon already awake and watching a silent show on the TV. His chair was facing the same direction, his hands interwound in his lap. 

‘Good morning everyone, I see you stayed the night Simon.’ Simon looked to him and gave a nod as he turned his chair to face you and what the doctor would say next. 

The doctor went over test results and assured that you were recovering well, despite it taking longer than you had hoped. He left you with a prescription for medication and let you know it would be another day of tests before you could leave. Simon looked to you and smiled, a true smile now knowing that you were making progress towards being better. He let his hand come up to meet yours as the doctor began to leave the room. 

‘You’re in an awfully bright mood this morning.’ You smile to Simon as you place your hand over his you feel him tense. He looks to you and blinks slowly, as he talks to you with the morning gruff in his voice you never wanted to lose. 

‘Only when I get to see you.’ Your smile begins to fall as you look down towards Simons hand and find the knuckles to be bruised, one of them split. You gasp as you retract your hand from his and look to his face, which had become more serious now. 

‘Simon…What did you do to yourself? It look so inflamed…’ Your voice trailed as you gently grabbed his hand and held it in clear view, he had definitely broken at least two fingers. His head fell as he stared at the blankets, and it all clicked. He went after the man, that horrible monster. You thought to yourself that it wasn’t at all necessary for him to go after him himself but understood that he felt far to much unnecessary guilt and that was how he knew to fix it. 

Not that you would ever approve of Simon being irrationally violent, you felt a weight you didn’t know you had become lifted off your shoulders knowing he had been delt with. He wasn’t proud of how he handled the situation, his head lowered in obviousness, but you knew that he needed to avenge your pains and that it could have been far worse.

‘Thank you, Simon.’ He looked up to you quickly, expecting a lecture of some kind on being unreasonable or not letting someone else handle it. He didn’t respond but instead took his good hand and interlocked it with yours and slowly closed his eyes, rubbing over your small hand taking a deep breath. He let out his breath as he smiled to you half opening his eyes. You then called for the nurse although Simon initially protested, one look from you and he had been silenced. The nurse came in to see his hand and let the doctor know to make his way in to decide what to do next.  

The doctor came into the room and assessed him hand carefully. To your surprise he didn’t ask Simon any questions but instead simply took him to get an X-Ray. About an hour later with a wrap around his hand, Simon made his way back into the room, plopping into his chair beside you. 

The rest of the day you both sat quietly, resting as the daylight streamed in through the windows and enjoyed a show together. You watched him as you looked from the TV, he was relaxed. Sitting in the chair with his feet on the other chair across from him, he was holding your hand from the side, his eyes watching the screen.

You knew that he would do just about anything and everything for you, and for that reason alone you knew to call him.

[motherofdogs1010]

Siren II (Dark!Thomas Shelby x Reader)

Summary: And so a game of cat and mouse begins...

Warnings: 18+ only, eventual NONCON/DUBCON smut, forced marriage, dark!Tommy, obsessed!Tommy, singer!reader, eventual pinv sex, eventual pregnancy, dark shit will be happening

A/N: Song used: Say Yes to Heaven- Lana Del Ray

I just wanted to say I love the support you all have towards my writing, it means the world, but I wanted to say that I do take mental health breaks! So anytime I take from posting is because I am focusing on that!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics Banner by @vase-of-lilies

Part I

Her eyes widened a little at the sudden appearance of a man in a suit standing in the doorway. He was only a little taller than her, maybe by a inch or so with a dark-colored pageboy's cap on his head as a cigarette hung from his lips; she could see the sides of his head were shaved very tight against his scalp but his cap hid his eyes so she couldn't see them.

But she could feel his eyes still and it made her feel on-guard as she cleared her throat.

"Hello", she responded back, "can I help you?"

"Forgive me", the man said, pulling the cigarette from his lips. "I'm Thomas Shelby, owner."

"I thought Harry was the owner", she said, confused.

"I bought him out recently", Thomas stated, Y/N still eyed him cautiously.

The man screamed danger and she felt a little uneasy under his blue gaze as he smirked at her apprehension.

"I just wanted to let you know that you gave quite the performance. You have quite the voice."

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby", she responded before clearing her throat. "It's time for me to go."

She could still feel his gaze on her as she hurried out of the Garrison, even in the current safety of her home, it was like she could still feel his deviled gaze on her body.

🍾

A few days had passed since the meeting with Mr. Shelby and it seemed like wherever she turned, she'd find a man with a peaked hat following her. Always a different man trailing enough behind her that she was sure they were supposed to remain hidden, but her eyes always caught them.

She figured it was best to pretend they weren't there, a sinking feeling telling her that if she acknowledged them, things wouldn't turn out well for her. So she took many turns and circled the same route. It made no sense to throw them off so they wouldn't find her way back to her apartment.

Today, she was at another pub that she sang at, known as The Drunken Griffin. It was larger than the Garrison with a proper stage where they had a band play for its singers and she was hoping this would help as she stood at the microphone. She had to make sure she didn't get too close since the microphones were so sensitive as she heard the melody the band began to play.

If you dance, I'll dance And if you don't, I'll dance anyway Give peace a chance Let the fear you have fall away

Tommy sat in the hidden back of the pub, a cigarette dangling between his fingers as a cold whiskey sat in front of him. She was dressed in black again, her hair framing her as she sang to the watching crowd.

I've got my eye on you I've got my eye on you

His mind felt quiet as the troubling thoughts of Kimber, that new Inspector Campbell and the stresses of Ada running off with Freddie Thorne began to melt away.

Say yes to Heaven Say yes to me Say yes to Heaven Say yes to me

Tommy had been having her followed for the past week, but the little minx seemed to have caught on to that.

If you dance, I'll dance I'll put my red dress on, get it on And if you fight, I'll fight It doesn't matter now, it's all gone

It was only a matter of time now...

I've got my eye on you I've got my eye on you, mm I've got my eye on you I've got my eye on you

He definitely had his eye on her...

[xserpx]

morse for the ask game?

How I feel about this character?

(Caveating this with the fact I haven't yet watched Inspector Morse, so this is only about Endeavour.)

Normally I'm not at all a fan of whump and I don't like feeling sad for well-meaning characters who are hurt repeatedly through (mostly) no fault of their own, but I really love Morse's brand of melancholia. The way he struggles to deal with change is too damn real, I'm a sucker for characters who struggle to voice their feelings and whose anxiety causes them to say nothing, because bitch me too. I also like that he's shy but it's kind of a selective shyness? Like if you catch him at the right moment or say a certain thing, he can be very snappish and outspoken and even funny, but then in those (incredibly important!) moments where he feels truly vulnerable, he just clams up, and it's heartbreaking and delicious to watch.

It's also undeniable that he is a massive prick sometimes. His treatment of women, his pretentiousness, there are moments when I want to slap him upside the head and I'm like you deserve this shit buddy! Monica my beloved, she deserved so much better from him. As much as he craves deeper connections with people and as much as I really want him to find a place to belong and settle down, it's so clear why he can't, why he shouldn't, and it's so deep rooted that in a way if he actually made a more concerted to change and do better he'd pretty much be a different person. And I like that the show never compromises on providing answers or catharsis for his struggles. Change happens, that's life, and there's often no way to deal with it that doesn't hurt.

I also love his dark academia style and the way it's grounded in finding meaning/belonging. It's not that it doesn't give him a sense of superiority at times, but like... that was his rebellion in the face of anti-intellectualism and abuse at home, and in a way I feel like he's earned the right to that pretentiousness. I think it dilutes some of the intimidating effect that opera and classics and poetry can have - some people listen to the Beatles, he listens to Wagner, one thing isn't "better" than another - but without binning it off entirely so that we still get to enjoy the commentary on classism. Plus watching him school the Oxford dons is always fun :P.

All the people I ship romantically with this character?

Romantically, hmm... The trouble is I end up feeling sorry for either Morse himself or whatever woman he's got his eye on at the time!

I love Joan and Morse, and I'd love for them to work things out, but the more time passes the less and less suited they seem to be. It's one of those relationships that's more about yearning than it is about getting together. They struggle to communicate and they're constantly miserable. He puts her on a pedestal because of her family, and Joan likes him because he's an enigma, and they can't move past that. But at the same time, fanfic exists for a reason, and I still love the yearning despite it all.

I'm not sure if I ship it romantically per se, but Max is another one where I feel like they could be more than friends, they're very Sherlock and Watson (and this fic by gaytobymeres is so good I love it). That scene with Morse and Max having tea in Max's garden is one of my favourites in the series, and I want that life for Morse so badly! Literalllyyy at the end of Exeunt I was like dude just move in with Max!! He'll never leave Oxford! He'll come along to your choral recitals! You have way more interests in common than any of your girlfriends have thus far! And he's lonely too, bless him ;w;.

My non-romantic OTP for this character?

I don't think there's a single character I don't ship Morse with platonically?? All I want in the world is a pub quiz fic featuring all of Cowley CID (and Trewlove) but I'm not clever or patient enough to write it. I wish we had more teamwork episodes tbh, and I think that's the best thing about seasons 5 & 6 (as dissipated as CID is at the start, that just makes them coming back together all the more heartwarming).

Morse & Thursday are of course the freaking bedrock of the show, they're just insanely good and I genuinely want them to be together forever. As much as he misses Joan at the end, I really want a happy ending where Thursday and Morse can stay together. At the same time, what with the whole men in the 60s reinforcing one another's emotional repression, I kind of wonder what would've happened if Thursday had been able to steer Morse in a different direction, and if it would have had a knock-on effect with helping Morse express his feelings for Joan and maybe end up somewhere better. But their characters are so intertwined it's hard to separate out the what-ifs. I do think Thursday had more of an impact on Morse than Morse did on Thursday, but you could maybe chalk that up to age. Leopards don't change their spots, etc. Still... lamenting lost potential is what grief is.

I'm also a huge fan of Morse & Trewlove tbh, he's so relaxed around her?? He tells her stuff he never tells anyone else?? They fake marry?? Ridiculously sweet. They share the trait of being incredibly dedicated and detailed in their work, and it bleeds over into a genuine appreciation for one another that they don't really have with any of their other colleagues (save for maybe Trewlove & Bright, another fantastic platonic OTP in my book). I also can see them being friends w bennies but I def don't ship them romantically.

My unpopular opinion about this character?

Not sure if I have one tbh. I haven't been here long but I generally think the wider fandom has it right about most things. Maybe not including Jakes as some brand of OTP? I feel bad because I love Peter, I just don't see him and Morse being particular friends any more than Morse and Jim are tbh.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

Um, happiness. Just, all the happiness. I wish he could communicate better. I wish he'd had a better childhood. I wish his house hadn't been burgled and that he could still listen to Rosalind Calloway without taking emotional damage. I wish he hadn't been beaten down and that he could feel secure and safe, and have a fulfilled life outside of work. Great tragedies always keep the happy ending in sight, and Endeavour does that incredibly, painfully, well.

If I had to choose something specific to have happened in the show, I guess I would have liked to see more of Joyce. I'm fascinated by their relationship and I really loved every cameo from Morse's past that we saw, plus episodes like Cartouche with cousin Carol. Tbf I have heard that Joyce shows up more in Inspector Morse, so... 👀

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine trying to warn Sherlock that Moriarty is free…

The verdict was in - not guilty. You honestly wanted to shake the jury by their shoulders and ask why they had left their rational thoughts at home. The judge slammed the gavel, signalling for Moriarty to be free of his bonds and when you looked at the man, you could have sworn that he winked.

John nudged your arm, reminding you that it was time to follow the rest of the courtroom out. Once the pair of you were out on the street in much cleaner air, John pulled out his phone and began punching in a number.

“I’m calling Sherlock. He needs to know that this maniac is going to be walking about like a free man.”

Giving him a nod, you pulled out your own device. “I’m going to head back to Scotland Yard.”

John instantly pulled his phone away from his ear as it started to ring.

“What? Y/n we need to stay together.”

“I know but I need to set up a protective detail on Sherlock and Baker Street. Moriarty doesn’t care about collateral damage.” You reminded the good doctor.

Pointing at you, John’s expression was stern and serious. “Okay but be careful. I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

You gave the man a brief hug before turning and bolting down the street to hail a cab. Thankfully, the area was crawling with the vehicle you required. Once you had hopped in, you dialled Lestrade’s personal number and hoped with each ring that he wasn’t otherwise engaged. Your heart was pounding in your ears, the traffic felt slower than normal and the phone wasn’t being picked up as if the matter wasn’t of import.

“Come on.” You edged nervously, staring outside at the pedestrians huddled on the sidewalk.

When the signal turned green, the call was answered by the man you had been trying to reach. “Greg? Oh, thank god.”

“Y/n, I just heard the news. How are you holding up?” The detective inspector asked.

“Honestly I’m pissed but we can get into that later. Listen, I need a favour. I need a-“

“You need a protection detail on Sherlock, I know.” Lestrade guessed correctly. “I filed in the paperwork as soon as Moriarty’s trial started and got it fast tracked. It felt appropriate since you, Sherlock and John have thwart his schemes the most.”

You frowned. Something didn’t feel right about the way he was talking about the detail. “And?” You prompted.

“And it got rejected as soon as Moriarty was acquitted.”

You were mad and disappointed - in all honesty, you wanted to scream. But you pushed it all down and did what you could to tackle the problem. Leaning forward, you tapped the driver on the glass to get his attention.

“Yes, dear?” The elderly man smiled.

“Change of plans - take me to 221B Baker Street please.”

“Y/n, what are you doing?” Shit, you almost forgot Lestrade was on the phone.

As the car turned left onto Baker Street, you kept a tight grip on the device. “If Scotland Yard won’t help, I’ll do it myself.” You told your friend before hanging up just as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

Paying for the ride, you made a mad dash to the front door, pushing it open to get inside. It was mostly quiet. Mrs Hudson was running the cafe and it was clear that John wasn’t home from the lack of his coat from the hallway rack.

There was an absence of people and yet you heard teacups being set upon saucers and very low voices speaking. Heart leaping into your throat, you raced up the stairs and burst into the open flat of 221B.

“Sherlock-”

The rest of your sentence died on your tongue, ice running through your veins when you saw the man who had almost killed you and your friends without any remorse standing in the living room.

“Hi Y/n.” Moriarty greet when his eyes laid on you. “I take it that your little bid for a protection detail fell flat?”

He knew and he was mocking you for it. Stepping into the flat, you scowled at the enemy. “I’ve kept my friends safe from you before. I can do it again.”

Moriarty smirked. He moved away from Sherlock and across to you on his way to the door. His eyes skimmed over your features before he inhaled.

“You’re just delectable. Ready to give your life for a man who isn’t ready to return the favour. A pity really.” He commented and walked off.

~ More imagines here ~

[gabessquishytum]

CW: past child abuse, past parricide

Special inspector Hob Gadling hates his job. Well, it's actually not true - he loves his job, but today specifically, he hates it. First, he was hoping for a bonus, and now he got assigned to a years-old cold case 'just to ensure that no new details emerged, and the investigation needs not to be reopened.' Second, he'll have to deal with some filthy rich weirdos.

Destiny Endless is a top-tier consulting risk manager, his services costing more than Hob's yearly paycheck. Death is the founder of a successful chain of funeral homes - after all, people always die, and rumor has it that Death is the best in her line of work. Dream is a famous writer who's able to write it all: whatever genre he sets his eyes - and pen - on, the book becomes a bestseller. Desire Endless is a porn star; the only mention of their name makes armies of fans go hard, wet, and horny. Despair founded a pharmaceutical corporation and revolutionized the world by introducing new, highly effective antidepressants. Destruction seems like the only normal person in that fucked-up family of masterminds: he had made a career in the military and then fucked off to travel the world. Last but not least, there is Delirium, an artist. Personally, Hob thinks that one needs to be constantly high to come up with such colors and forms, but hey, it's not him who's paid six figures to install some mind fuckery in amusement parks, so he doesn't get to judge.

Hob wouldn't come close to any of these freaks, but he has to verify that nothing was missed during the investigation, and so, here he goes. Mama and Papa of the Endless disappeared almost twenty years ago with no trace. Their bodies were never found, and there was no evidence of foul play. They just vanished into thin air, voilà. It was presumed that they had got bored, bought themselves new personalities, and left to live someplace else. To Hob, this seems strange yet plausible: looking at their kids, it's obvious that insanity runs in the family.

Still, Hob shows up to do his job, examine old records, and talk once again with all the Endless heirs. All goes very smoothly - there's nothing suspicious, all the kids' testimonies match. Hob would gladly close the check, but there is one tiny problem: he fell head over heels in love with Dream. Now in his thirties, he's unconventionally beautiful, insanely talented, and he's got Hob wrapped around his slender finger. Dream keeps his distance at first, but eventually, they begin dating. Hob finally closes the check for good - it's as clear as day that Endless parents must be chilling on some private island - and plunges into the relationship with Dream, learning him from the other side, as someone vulnerable, insecure, and kind-hearted. There's only one strange thing: Dream is inexperienced in bed for his age, and he's always somewhat tense during sex. Hob tries to talk to him, but Dream shuts the conversation down. Hob guiltily googles his bf and finds out that despite his high profile, there are no mentions of his exes in the media. At all.

Hob is puzzled, but it all falls into place when, one night, his lover has a nightmare. Hob wakes up from his screams and, with horror, realizes that this is more than a nightmare - it's a memory. He wakes Dream up and holds him while he cries. On the periphery of his mind, Dream's screams and pleas create a terrifying story of the siblings being abused by their parents for years.

'You killed them together, didn't you? Each of you thought you were the only one who suffered and thus kept the others safe. But once you all learned the truth…' Hob whispers into Dream's hair and holds him tighter. 'It's alright, my sweetling. I'd have killed them myself for you if they had been still alive.'

They stay like that through the night. In the morning, Hob makes Dream breakfast like nothing happened and goes to work. He's got no reason to worry about the case ever being reopened: there's no evidence, and he's determined to be the only one who sleeps by Dream's side till the end and holds him through his dreams and nightmares.

I love this so much. Poor, poor Dream. And the rest of the siblings too!

Hob doesn't want to draw further attention to the case of course, but he does all he can at work to make sure that files are carelessly "lost" or at least buried so deep in the archive no one will find it for a century. It even occurs him to frame someone else for the crime to make sure that the siblings are thoroughly safe, but... its better left forgotten. God knows Hob will spend the rest of his career making sure that no one ever goes sniffing around the Endless siblings ever again.

What's more he'll spend the rest of his life helping Dream in his recovery. He makes sure that he has private, confidential access to resources that a survivor should have - none of the siblings ever told anyone about the abuse or went to therapy because they're terrified to look like they had a "motive" to get rid of their parents. Hob changes that. He persuades as many of the siblings as he can to visit trusted therapists. Not all of them go for it, but at least someone is finally advocating for them and offering a little bit of support.

Hob loves Dream most of all of course, but he considers all the siblings as his family. He hates what happened to them. He can't fix it. But he can protect and love them as they deserve. Maybe all of them can finally breathe a little easier, with a friend on their side.

[teaandransacking]

I loved your lockwood x reader smut. Could you possibly do another one where anthony is being really needy and loud and the reader is teasing him about it?

There are NOT enough lockwood x reader spicy fics so it would be great if‘d give it a go.

Btw you’re very talented

Thanks so much!

I did stray a bit from the brief but I hope you like this.

Wrecked

Words: 997 ~ Content: heavy petting, allusions to sex, curse words

a/n: I feel like a little gremlin in this Lockwood pit, but I don't want to be thrown a ladder. Maybe ever.

There’s no fucking privacy in this house.

Usually, you don’t mind. It’s fun and comforting, normally, for you, George, Lucy and Lockwood to live in each other’s pockets, always eating three meals a day together, doing laundry together, watching films together.

But sometimes, especially since you and Lockwood confessed your feelings for each other, you just want to have the house to yourself.

To do things you really can’t do in close proximity to the others.

So, when some eccentric billionaire on the South Bank throws a party in his mansion and Flo invites you all to watch the fireworks from the bank of the Thames, you and Lockwood politely decline.

George gives you the side-eye. Lucy says, “Probably best that we’re out. I don’t want to hear what you’re going to get up to.”

The day seems to drag until finally, the clock creeps around to six, and Lucy and George leave in a flurry of goodbyes and the clunking of boots and coats being dragged on.

Lockwood closes the door and leans his back against it, his gaze finding yours. “At last.”

You waste no time, grasping the open edges of his hoodie and dragging him into you. Your mouths meet and it feels like forever since you’ve kissed, properly, without worrying about being interrupted by one of your housemates or a call from Inspector Barnes or a request to dispatch a haunting.

“I feel like it’s been forever since I had you alone,” you agree.

His arms come around you and then slide down to your hips, settling you against him, and it’s clear that his body has gone from 0 to 60 in a heartbeat.

“You’re keen,” you purr against his mouth.

“Darling, you have no idea, he says huskily. “Bedroom, if you please. As distracting as the thought of bending you over a stair is-”

“You’ve thought about that?”

He gestures to the window above the door. “Do you remember that day last week? It was early afternoon. Sunny. You came down the stairs just as I got home. The sunshine hit your hair just so…” He strokes his fingers through the strands “..and I was transfixed. I’m used to seeing you in the dark, and you’re beautiful, but in the daylight….” He swallows and kisses your forehead. “You’re unforgettable.”

Emotion surges inside you at his sentimentality. It’s one of the things you love about him. He’s been through so much, but he still loves with his whole heart, has still opened himself to Lucy and George and you, even though it must be scary to do so.

“Stop. I can barely handle how gorgeous your voice is. When you’re saying stuff like that, I can’t think.”

His mouth drops to your cheek, and his hand in your hair moves to cup the back of your neck. “Maybe I like it when you can’t think straight. Maybe I want you wrecked.”

Oh, God.

The mouth on this man is going to destroy you. 

“Bed, bed, bed,” you chant, tugging his hoodie and walking backwards until your heels meet the stairs.

“No backwards walking,” Lockwood admonishes softly. “I want you there in one piece.”

You reluctantly turn, taking his hand, and you rush up the stairs, fingers tangled together, like excited children running towards a playground.

By unspoken agreement you go to Lockwood’s room (it’s closer). You both reach the bed and then you push him down on it, and he looks up at you breathlessly, like you’re his beginning and end. Like you’re everything, and in that moment you look into his big brown eyes and you think you can see his soul.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please, touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Promise you won’t shut up?” you smile, lying down beside him.

“Promise that I won’t?” he asks, softly, flashing that megawatt grin.

You trail your index finger from his collarbone down to his belly button and watch as his breath hitches. 

“Promise that you won’t,” you repeat. “We’re alone for the first time in bloody ages, and the way you were last time…” You trace your finger along the waistband of his jeans. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

A rosy flush creeps up his neck. “I was loud.”

“I loved it.” You resume your exploration, taking your finger on the path delineated by the zipper of his jeans,

He bucks under you. “Please.”

His voice gets like this when he’s needy - half an octave lower, huskier. His pupils get lust blown, his cheeks get just a little pink, and he’s even more beautiful like this. He might have teased you earlier about wanting you wrecked, but it’s he who is now, spread out like an offering, primed to blow at your touch and your touch alone.

You pull the zipper down. “Use your words.”

“Please touch me,” he keens, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he’s struggling for control.

You watch his face as you gently part the slit in his boxers and free him out, and his teeth sink into his bottom lip as you palm him greedily. 

“Oh, fuck yes. Do that. Please.”

His eyes flutter closed. He really does have that whole long-lashes-high-cheekbone thing going on, and it does it for you in a big way.

You take your time pleasuring him, your gaze on his face, drinking up all his lip-biting and uttered curses and best of all, his needy pleas, and for the rest of the evening, you completely and thoroughly rock his world.

Turnabout is fair play, though, and in the morning, he makes good on his promise to absolutely wreck you. 

You don’t make it downstairs for breakfast.

[shyday-ao3]

1000 scribbled words to nowhere, a Ripper Street mini sickfic offered up as brief distraction from the events of rl. apparently this is what i'm doing for novella november. hopefully someone enjoys it.

Jackson's not in the best mood when he gets to the crime scene, having been rousted rather rudely from his bed. Another body, the uniform had said, refusing any further detail. The kid was green in more than just experience, but he'd gotten his point across and stood firm behind it. The American was summoned. To decline an unacceptable option.

He greets Reid and Drake without really looking their way, not bothering to temper his annoyance. There's a headache lurking behind his eyes, the result of too much gin and not enough sleep. His focus is only on the body and how quickly he can get out of here. He crouches beside the dead man, already pretty damn sure of the cause of death. Drake wanders off into the adjoining room.

Reid clears his throat. "Strangulation, then? As with the others?"

"Yeah, and you didn't need me here to tell you that."

"Perhaps not. But, as you are here, I wonder if you might not do your job and see if he has anything new to share with us."

Jackson prickles under the tone. "Sure, Reid. Simple as that."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I need to get him to the deadroom where I can do a proper autopsy. Meaning I could've just as easily met you at the station in a couple of hours. Meaning I didn't need to be dragged from–" The litany is interrupted when he glances up to see that the inspector has a white-knuckled grip on one of the wooden chairs. "Reid?"

"Mmm?" The response is as distant as his gaze. Jackson frowns, gets to his feet.

"You feeling all right?" It's his first good look at the man since he got here, and he doesn't like what he sees. Pale yet sweating, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He touches the back of his wrist to Reid's forehead. "You're burning up."

"Irrelevant. We have work."

"Sit," Jackson says. Surprisingly, Reid obeys. "Your wife let you out of the house like this?"

"My wife… has other concerns." He stares through the body on the floor. It takes him a long moment to blink. "As do we." He makes no movement to get up.

"Symptoms, Reid."

"Irritation," he murmurs. "Impatience."

"Funny. Nausea? Cough? Dizziness?"

"Captain. It is a minor inconvience. Right now we have a murderer to catch; your talents would best be served toward that end."

"Lucky I can handle focusing on both. Why don't you let me and Drake finish up here, and you can head home?"

Reid shakes his head. "Impossible."

Jackson lights a cigarette. "Gonna take me at least a couple of hours for your autopsy. I can send someone with word when I get it done."

"No," Fingers rub at his forehead. "If this is indeed part of a pattern, we have seventy-two hours until the next victim is found. There is no time to waste."

"Ain't nobody suggesting we do so. Just a break, Reid."

Drake returns to the room; Reid pushes to his feet. "Unneccessary, Captain. Sergeant, report."

"A boot print in the outer room. Looks could be a match for the one found at the first scene."

"Show me." They exit the room together.

Jackson turns back to the body, resumes his superficial examination. Defensive wounds on the hands; a new development, and one that gives him hope he might find some evidence under the man's short fingernails. He's inspecting one of those hands in the light from the window when he hears the sounds of a scuffle in the next room.

"Reid? Drake?"

No answer. The room devoid of everything but the disturbed dust settling in striated sunbeams. The door is ajar, however; Jackson draws his pistol and pushes through. Out front he finds both of his colleagues. One empties his stomach onto the cobblestones beside the stairs.

"Christ, Reid. Go home."

"No." Bracing himself with an arm on the brick wall, he holds a handkerchief to his lips. "There's a killer stalking my streets."

Jackson shares a look with Drake. Shrugs. "Well I'm ready to get out of here whenever you are."

Pale as paper, Reid rests his head on his arm. "Very good," he exhales, as if his breakfast wasn't splattered on the ground in front of his feet. "We go to Lehman Street." He doesn't look particularly inclined to move.

"Sure, Reid. Whatever you say."

Two hours later, he's finished the autopsy; a scrub and a smoke and he's headed up the stairs to Reid's office. The blinds are closed, as is the door. With a perfunctory knock, the captain lets himself in. The inspector's head comes up from the desk so quickly that it rustles his papers.

"Jackson." It's rough, slowed. "You have news."

"Not really. Just that your killer might be sporting some fresh scratches courtesy of our man downstairs." He slumps into the chair on the other side of Reid's desk. Lights a new cigarette. "Not much use for finding him, but it should help if you do."

Reid groans, rubs his eyes. Two bright spots high on his cheekbones – the only color to his face – tell Jackson that he's still got the fever. "Nothing else?"

"Oily spot on his sleeve, near the elbow. I'm cooking it." Tugging at his tie, the inspector clears his throat. Swallows. "You gonna be sick again?" Jackson asks.

"No." As if he can simply will it to be so.

"If you don't plan on going home, why don't you make use of that cot you've got there." He nods toward the small bed. "I'll tell Artherton not to let anyone up."

Reid looks at the cot for so long that the captain thinks that he might give in. "No, I…"

"Any break in the case and I'll be right up here to get you," Jackson adds "You have my word."

A moment more and he nods heavily, a testament no doubt to what ails him over Jackson's persuasive skills. The American doesn't care.

He sees Reid settled. Closes the door.

[lewkwoodnco]

Heyy:) I just wanted to request a George x fem!reader one shot :P I totally understand if you don't want to write it or if you don't like the idea or anything but I was thinking a fic inspired by "wildest dreams" by Taylor? Just some silly teen romance vibes you know🤭 (and please no Angst or anything, I can't take that shit atm😔)

Wildest Dreams - George Karim x Reader

A/N: going to be taking a break from the requests in my inbox to work on my 12 days of fics series! (but will get back to them after im done heheh) I might have completely butchered this ask im so sorry BUT I made it as fluffy as I think it gets (w George at least), just had to do the 77 thing i have no self-restraint, also this poem is soso beautiful one of my absolute favesss but idk whats up with the formatting :(((, wc 3.3k!

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Subtle Bridges

Walking with me, you'd once pointed to the fragility and ingenuity of a spider's web. Subtle bridges, you said, On bridges some men hang. A warning that has stayed While I read history traced in blood and tears of men. I was caught in the end with a nest of books. They burned anyway, and now I bend to build an emperor's endless wall. Like a thread of longing the border runs in loops and bends, and along it we root the gravestones of nameless men. A king's metaphor, This is, history raised from ash and bone -- a symbol Of its vast futility, or of eternity. Which it is I do not know, But since leaving home some things have come clear. No one literally breaks from loss, not even here. And some ties won't give. I sometimes dream of you, and walking, in gardens where love and knowledge hang.

By Yvonne Koh

She was at the Kensel Green Cemetery with the rest of her team from Fittes, after being called down by DEPRAC because of a robbery. They had spread out over the building, looking for any sign of the missing relic or the culprit, when she heard a slow, grinding noise from inside the hall. She quietly crept in to the silhouette of a shadowy figure bent over the casket.

"Can I help you?"

The boy's head snapped up immediately, painfully slamming against the stone shelf behind him. She let out an involuntary gasp, briefly wincing at the hollow thunk.

"Didn't do it," he groaned, steadying himself against the wall. "...whatever it was that...someone did."

She squinted at him using the little light spilling in from the corridor. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than her. Against her better judgement, she kept her voice down.

"This is a crime scene!" she hissed at him.

"I - what?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm not a thief, or a relic man. I promise."

Her eyes swept his scruffy appearance critically. "Why would I think that?"

"Ms L/N?"

She turned, momentarily speechless, barely registering the rustle of the boy stealing away into the darkness. She blinked against the brightness of Inspector Barnes' torch, glancing back to check that he really was gone.

"Everything alright?"

She paused for a moment longer, as if willing him to rematerialise in the corner he had been crouching in just a moment ago. Nothing. Her eyes narrowed. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

"Must have been the wind."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George was staring out the kitchen window glumly, lazily stirring his mug of tea. The weather was as pleasant as it got, and Lockwood had roused them all at the crack of dawn for a breakfast picnic, to 'boost morale.' Of course, George should have known better than to hold his breath, especially when loud angry voices had started to shake him awake when he had been halfway through groggily packing their picnic basket. Now, he sipped his cold tea through thin lips, listening to the slow, steady footsteps approaching the kitchen and the wan face belonging to them.

"Let me guess. You and Lucy are no longer in the mood for a picnic?"

Lockwood sombrely shook his head. George sighed, picking up the picnic basket. Seemed like a shame to let his slaving away go to waste. And he was still very much in the mood for the strawberries and cream he had packed inside. Which is why George had been heading out for a solo breakfast picnic with enough food for three when he heard a foreign voice stop him.

"George Casper Karim."

He looked up from the doorknob in alarm. It was the girl from Kensel Green Cemetery. He hesitated, trying to gauge her expression.

"Ex-employee of Fittes Agency, fired after six months for insubordination, currently a researcher at Lockwood & Co."

"Brilliant. Astonishing, really, how you've repeated my own job history back to me."

She frowned. He relished the stab of satisfaction. He'd had a shitty morning and was likely going to have a shitty day, so really, having a go at someone was probably going to be the highlight.

"There's no need to be rude."

"I think I'd know where I've been the past couple of years, thanks very much. Forgive me for not being more impressed."

Still looking a little disgruntled, she pressed on, firmly clutching the waist-high gate. "I've got a bone to pick with you, if you don't mind."

He eyed her warily, and decided against approaching her any further. "You can pick it just fine from over there."

She looked mildly peeved, but he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her. After a few long, tense seconds, she relented, not that she was happy about it..

"So...you were right. You're no relic man."

That was quick. "Thank you. Have a nice day." He closed the distance between him and the gate in a few quick strides, pushing against it, but she pushed right back with a steely look in her eye.

"Don't know about the other bit, though."

He didn't like the look in her eye; the look of someone knowing something he didn't. His mouth went dry.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Might be more convincing if your associate hadn't mentioned a talking skull. Awfully difficult to contain a visitor without a ghost jar, wouldn't you say?"

He swore under his breath. "Fucking Lockwood can't keep his mouth shut."

"I don't expect DEPRAC takes kindly to thieves or hooligans-"

He let out a bark of laughter. "Hooligan? Me?"

"-or strange boys who break into places they shouldn't be-"

"You can't prove it was me."

"Wanna bet?"

A challenge. A dare. His mouth was already open to call her bluff when the self-satisfied smirk curling at the corner of her lip gave him pause. Lockwood wouldn't be much pleased if he gave DEPRAC another reason to steer the agency dangerously close towards closing. He wasn't like Lockwood or Lucy - he was careful, very careful. Too late George wished he had been a little more careful all those years ago in covering his tracks - but, to be fair, he had no reason to think anyone at Fittes would have been capable enough to put two and two together.

Until now.

"Look, why don't we...talk about this, like civilised people? I've got strawb - you like strawberries and cream, don't you?"

She sneered again. George was beginning to think that was just how her face looked.

"You want to bribe me with...strawberries...and cream?"

"It's not bribery. Just...a friendly chat. Agent to agent."

Which was how they ended up on a grassy hill at one of the meadows at the outskirts of London. He had never been there before, but Lockwood had remembered it as a prime spot for cosy family picnics.

"So what else do you know about me?"

She chewed a bite of scrambled eggs thoughtfully before responding.

"You're obsessed with the Problem. An obsession that made you an asset, initially."

She had heard that he was the one who had identified the visitor, Edmund Bickerstaff, but what she had had difficulty wrapping her head around was how he had managed to do it with only the vast yet imprecise volumes of the Archives at his disposal. Imagine what he could do with the carefully curated library at Fittes. She stared at him, trying to figure him out. There was a gentle breeze blowing and the slight movement made him look marginally more affable but not any more comprehensible. She let out the breath she was holding.

"You must have really screwed up for Fittes to have let you go."

He shrugged. "It was a long time coming. Fittes never really was the type of company I was interested in working at, and I was never the type of employee Fittes was interested in keeping."

"What about now? Have you ever considered leaving?"

"Why would I?"

"I've taken a glance at Lockwood & Co's financial records. You can't be making much, if anything at all."

"And go from being broke to being broke and homeless?"

"Homeless? What about your parents?"

"I visit them, occasionally, but they're a right piece of work. Last time I saw them was my grandmother's 77th birthday. I think there was a row but I can't be completely sure because I was a little, er, sloshed. The party ended, and I expect the champagne went flat, and my aunt was the last to leave. She was sitting on the floor with a merlot in her hand, and her voice was ringing through the halls. The curtains were burnt, my parents didn't talk to each other for a week, and one of my brothers had broken his hand. But I could never forget sitting in that empty dining hall, holding those sodden, scorched curtains, listening to her saying nothing lasts forever, nothing lasts forever."

The sunlight had a diffused quality to it, at least the little of it that managed to pour through the layer of clouds blocking the sky. The ashy light threw a powdery glow on George's face, and for a moment she felt as though she was in that dining hall with him, listening to those same laments. He glanced at her, and she felt a sudden, foreign uncertainty grip her heart.

"Now I feel really bad about lying."

His hand slipped, missing his mouth by a good couple of inches, nearly sending the contents of his glass down his shirt.

"Lie? What lie?"

"I kind of haven't, not really...actually spoken to any of your associates."

He chokes on his laughter, and when he throws his head back she wonders if she's ever seen anyone laugh as freely as him. It's a ridiculously enticing sight.

"Touché. Touché."

He looks at her in the eye, unabashed, with an unnaturally casual intensity. It almost feels impolite.

"So...yeah. Maybe I was suited to be a Fittes agent, once upon a time, but not anymore."

"That's a pity."

He looks at her weird, and she hastily changes the subject.

"Do you do this often?"

"What, taking strangers out for breakfast?"

"No. Bring a girl out here, feed her some strawberries and cream, maybe a Shakespearean sonnet or two..."

"I don't set much store in Shakespearean sonnets. I'm not...I'm not much of a poetry person."

There's something reserved in his face that makes her feel terrible for asking.

"I've really only read one worth remembering. Subtle bridges, you said, on bridges some men hang. Some ties won't give. I sometimes dream of you, and walking, in gardens where love and knowledge hang."

He bites into a strawberry, which stains his lips a bright red. She looks away a second too late.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After reluctantly agreeing to keep the matter of the stolen ghost jar between the two of them, she never expected to see him again. And yet, as fate would have it, they crossed paths again roughly a week later. She and one of her teammates had been assigned to a Church to handle a relatively weak Type Two, when she heard a scuffling sound from one of the rooms whose door was ajar. Her teammate froze, and she didn't feel much braver either. They approached the room cautiously, rapiers at the ready.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

"Y/N?"

The glare from their flashlights blindly darted over the room before it settled on the floor, illuminating a bleeding George looking the worse for wear, hissing at the harsh florescent light.. She visibly relaxed.

"Oh. You again."

Lockwood and Lucy exchanged a look.

"Do you two know each other?"

A silence followed. George looked to be at a loss of words and she, too, couldn't quite find the right answer.

"We've...met."

They helped George up while Lockwood smoothly explained the situation, and how they would never dream of intentionally From the derisive eye rolls of his remaining, uninjured associate, there was clearly more to their presence than he was letting on, but she wasn't paid nearly enough to go through the trouble of finding that out. Apparently, they had already dealt with the Type Two, so she filled out her report as vague as she dared to be, while they wandered out to flag down a cab.

George lingered behind briefly, dabbing at his nose experimentally while she put the finishing touches to her file.

"We can't keep meeting like this, you know."

"Like what?"

She shook her head, surprisingly having to bite back a smile. "You're incorrigible. If you keep sneaking around for much longer I'll have to report you one of these days."

He pulled his face into an exaggerated sulk and ducked as she tried to smack him with her case report.

"Alright, alright!"

True to his word, their less-than-ideal meetings came to an end. Instead, they continued to occasionally meet at that serene, refreshingly Edenic sloping hill. She'd return from a client meeting or from scoping out a location and the front desk would have a message waiting for her, from one vaguely snippy anonymous man. Sometimes he'd be waiting at the hill with snacks, which she'd ravenously dig into, though he was less generous on the biscuit front. He tells her about the happenings of 35 Portland Row and his research and bounces his latest theory on the origins of the Problem off of her. She tells him about her week, and the bothersome, inept people she works with, and on their joint cases he's snarky towards all the right people. It makes her feel special.

On one such evening, they were lazing on a picnic blanket, and a pleasantly warm breeze was toying with their hair. George was looking at the severe, fragile branches encroaching on the powdery blue sky through heavily-lidded eyes. She was absent-mindedly fiddling with his surprisingly soft fingers, distractedly breathing in the faint, antiseptic smell of ammonia that clung to his clothes. She was thinking about how sharp he was and how quickly he picked up on details on their joint cases. No matter how many times she saw him pick apart a case with a carefully perfected elegance, she felt like a part of her would forever be in awe of his beautifully intricate mind.

"Sometimes I feel like your talents are so wasted here. Imagine what you could do with access to all of Fittes' resources."

"i don't need Fittes's resources to be a good researcher."

She watches the yellow daffodils tossing their heads back just inches in front of them through her eyelashes.

"i know you don't. It can't hurt, is all I'm saying."

"Why do you care?"

She paused. Why did she care? She cared about him, sure, but it was no different from how she cared about her teammates, her friends, but with George...it somehow felt more personal. She sighs irritably, releasing the bubble of frustration lodged in her throat all week. She just wanted what was best for him. It takes her a minute to come up with her hesitant response.

"I...don't know. I don't care. But sometimes I can't help but wonder...what if this was what you needed to uncover the root of the Problem?"

He half-laughs, but stops short at the sight of her face as she lifts her head off his chest. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"Y/N...statistically speaking -"

"All I'm saying is the answer could very well be in the Fittes library and you might be the only one who'd know where to look."

She lies down again, and whispers to the trees rather than George.

"Just...something to think about."

As time went on, their relationship began to bleed into more public spheres. She dropped by Portland Row occasionally, and they even had tea at her apartment once. On this particular afternoon, they were in George's room at Portland Row. She was looking through the titles on his alarmingly tall bookcases while he was at his desk, copying some runes from a book while telling her about his latest experiment with the skull. Her eyes roved over the titles restlessly, unseeingly, in a futile attempt to distract herself from her upcoming assignment. She let George's voice wash over her, pleasingly varied in tone and comfortingly familiar, soothing the itch in her brain. After a moment or two, she realises he's stopped talking, and looks up to see him staring at her with a frown on his face.

"Er, sorry. Drifted off there for a while."

"I guessed."

He studies her with an inscrutable expression and she's been caught too off-guard to come up with anything other than the letter burning a hole in her desk.

"You alright?"

She sits on a chair next to his and rests her chin on her knee, feeling oddly wooden. After getting to know George, she had taken the comfort of being able to somewhat predict his mannerisms for granted, and the thought of heading into this blind made her nervous.

"My team's been assigned a case outside of London."

"Oh. When?"

"We leave this weekend."

He looks too stunned to ask the question weighing on both their minds.

"It's for a month."

"A month," he echoes distantly, as if not quite sure what to make of that piece of information. His face remains impassive and she waits for a reaction which never comes. "What about that celebratory dinner?"

"We leave after it."

"Oh."

For someone who usually always had so much to say about anything and everything, his current conversational skills were desperately wanting. Say something. Be affected, she begs internally. She needs to hear him say it. She needs the sickness in her chest to be real, to be founded.

"It'll be...different without you." The careful look on his face makes her feel like he's picking out her emotions from her face and engineering an optimal response. "I'll miss you."

It doesn't comfort her in the way she expected it would. Suddenly, she can't even bear to look at him.

"You don't have to."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Either George had decided that she needed some space or he was just as pissed as she was, because she didn't see one sign of him over the next few days. Good. She hardly noticed. The thousand times a day he crossed her mind were only out of relief, and nothing else. But as much as she pretended otherwise, by the time the celebratory dinner rolled around, his absence had taken a toll on her. She couldn't tell if she was hoping or dreading seeing him again.

She was on a balcony on the upper floor, looking miserably into the radiant foliage of the gardens below, where unfamiliar faces flitted with a lightness of heart she envied. Their shadows are tall and intertwine ceaselessly, making her dizzy. Her bags were packed, her ticket was waiting on her mantle, and all loose ends were tied up. Even her one chance at happiness for the rest of her life.

There's a rustle behind her and she turns to see George standing a considerable distance away from her. He's only marginally closer than the first time they met, properly, when he was standing outside their front door and she was pacing behind the garden gate. She wants to cry in relief. Instead, she finds it in her not to look away. Maybe it's the confusing lighting, but there's a soft edge to his face.

"I thought I saw you come up here."

She doesn't say anything; she's too happy to. And yet, a part of her is still deeply unhappy with the sight in front of her.

"Have you...tried the food?"

"...it's not as good as yours."

"You must be leaving soon."

"Tomorrow." The thought makes her want to rip her face off.

"You'll be back in a month."

She drummed her fingernails against the marble railing, carefully choosing her words.

"What if things change in a month?" What if, she wanted to say, you meet someone else who loves you better than I can?

"It's only a month."

"A whole month."

"I don't understand. Why are you so afraid?"

"Because - because you'd forget me. You'd forget me, and our memories would sink six feet under, and you'd move on and my heart would break and...you wouldn't care."

She's never felt this way about anyone before, and she doesn't know how to express how badly she needs him to stay.

"I don't want to go back to not knowing you, George."

The setting sun burns into her neck and all of a sudden, she feels unbearably hot. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and her hands feel clammy. Her face is flushed and she feels ridiculous in her dress. But he's here, and she's said it, so she lets herself dream, if only for a moment.q

"I think about you every day. One month, two months, three months...I'll wait."

TAGLIST: @avdiobliss @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @mitskiswift99 @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 6: Accomplice

All confidence and security I’ve accumulated is depleted. The Shelbys have helped keep me safe from the unpredictable world outside, and as the cop pushes me through the ash-filled streets I’m reminded of just how vulnerable I really am. Yet I still keep my head held high and mask my fear with stern eyes. I’m led to what must be the police station and down the hall to a small waiting room with a single desk. The cop shuts the door, closing off what little light there is. 

“I demand to know what’s going on!” I shout at the door. “I will not be imprisoned without official charges! If there is no official complaint then I shall inform the authorities in America!”

“No need for that, Ms. Steenstra,” a familiar voice speaks from the shadows. Campbell steps forward smoking a pipe and I see he’s holding a file.

I tighten my jaw and refrain from yelling again. My state of mind is much more fierce compared to our last encounter. “Hello again, Inspector Campbell.”

He slides the file onto the desk and sits down. “Last time I saw you, you were trying to get home. Scared of Small Heath and all its glory.” He points a finger at me. “I told you to stay away from the Peaky Blinders. Now I’m told you’re working for them.”

Keep calm, Steenstra. Remember what Polly told you.

“I’m a tutor, nothing more,” I say firmly. “I know nothing about their real business so if that’s why you brought me here then you’re wasting your time.” I turn away and face the door.

“If you’re interested, we could set you up for an inside job,” Campbell offers.

Did I hear that right? “You mean… spy? On the Shelbys?” I ask.

“Yes. And if there is any odd behavior then you can report it to me.”

Thomas was right. This man is out to get the entire Shelby family. I can’t be an asset to his cause. Not only because of my feelings for the Shelbys, but also for the loyalty of my employment.

I turn around and stare the inspector straight in the eye. “Maybe it’s done differently in England, but in America we are loyal to our employers. The answer is no, Inspector.”

The man takes a puff on his pipe. “What if certain arrangements were made? You still wish to return to your country, yes?”

The thought of going home is a spark of hope in my chest. But I can’t cave into this.

“Correct.”

Campbell shrugs. “Well, if you decide to join our cause we could arrange for a plane ticket, as well as better lodgings here for you.”

Just as I thought. “If you’re trying to bribe me, it won’t work. I’m sorry Inspector, but I cannot be bought.”

I grab the door knob and find it’s unlocked, no doubt because they don’t see me as a threat. Yet. Just as I start walking back to the front door I hear Campbell call out:

“Be careful, miss. Never know when the wolf will step out of its sheep's clothing.”

But in this scenario, who’s the wolf? I have no desire to be connected to this intricate web of lies and deception. I am in good relations with both the law and the Shelbys, and want to keep it that way.

I make haste to get back to the Shelby house. All previous angry thoughts are long gone and I don’t care if Thomas is still mad at me. Once I close the door I take a deep breath and take in the familiar kitchen. Calm down, you kept quiet. Just stay here and ride out the storm until you can go home.

My invisible mask falters and my eyes start to tear up. In a quick panic I grab a damp cold cloth and head to the living room to sit on the small couch. God, how did I get caught into this? All because I was an idiot and got myself lost!

“Ah, you’re back.”

No. No. Of all the Shelbys to walk in, why does it have to be him?

“Hello, Thomas.” I keep my head lowered and hastily try to block away more tears. “I’d like to apologize again for earlier. My mind hasn’t been very clear these past few days.”

Fate must have a sick sense of humor because Thomas decides to sit next to me. His weight pushes the cushions down further and has me leaning slightly towards him.

“Nobody apologizes to me unless they’ve done something else against me,” Thomas speaks in a dangerously calm voice. “What did you do after you left?”

Fighting my screaming nerves I lift my head up to face his cold eyes. “I was headed to the chapel when one of Campbell’s officers temporarily apprehended me. I was brought to Campbell’s office, where he questioned me.”

Thomas’ eyes flash. “He what?” Thomas grabs my neck, drags me over and pins me against the wall to shout in my face. “Well? What did you tell him? What did you say?!”

I try to choke out a response. “I- I didn’t say anything, Thomas!”

“Why? We never bought you over!” He releases my throat and I gasp for air. “We don’t own you-”

“You don’t have to, Thomas!” I seethe. “I didn’t say anything because A, I honestly don’t know much about the guns. And B, it would be betraying you.”

Thomas doesn’t budge but his eyes soften a fraction. Why must every encounter with him end so violently and not as romantic? I- No. Don’t flatter yourself, Steenstra. There are far more important issues at the moment!

“Really?” Thomas’ voice is calmer, yet still suspicious.

I take a deep breath and put both hands on his chest. “You may not think you’ve bought me, but I still owe a debt to the Shelby family. You took me in. You gave me a job and a roof over my head. If that’s not buying me over, I don’t know what else there is.”

Slowly, Thomas’ hands snake up to grab mine. His breathing has calmed down. He must believe me.

“No one’s this nice, Ms. Steenstra,” he whispers. “You’re not like any other person I’ve met. If you really are this loyal it would be a shame to see you go home.”

I sigh in relief. “So I’m not fired?”

He chuckles. “You always fret about being fired.”

“It’s my first job,” I reply sheepishly. “I’d hate to lose it in such a short time. Plus I really don’t want being fired by the Shelby family to be on my short résumé.”

“You’re fired?!”

We both look over to where Finn is standing, having just entered from the hallway. He’s holding another one of my books, no doubt having finished it already.

“No, Finn. She’s not fired.” Thomas gives me a smirk. “I don’t think she’ll be leaving for quite a while.”

My face falls. “Are you saying you’re going to keep me here against my will, Mr. Shelby?”

He quirks a brow. “You said you owe a debt to us, yes? How’d you like to have your Birmingham experience lengthened?”

I frown. “Meaning…?”

“That you are to stick around until you’ve earned a ticket home and we feel you’ve worked off your debt,” Thomas replies coolly and leans in closer. “Deal?”

A week ago I would have declined on the spot, but the few days I’ve spent here have snatched my interest. Maybe a while longer in Birmingham wouldn’t be so bad?

I smile. “Deal. My only request is that I’m escorted around town in order to not be snagged by Campbell again.”

Thomas tips his hat. “Your wish shall be granted, Verena Nora Steenstra. Welcome to being an accomplice to the Peaky Blinders.”

Accomplice. The word brings a whole new meaning to my job. I’m no longer a simple tutor. I’m part of something much bigger now. It scares me a little, but it’s also rather exciting.

“Yes!” Finn celebrates. “Can we do another lesson now?”

Aw, Hell. I can’t say no to this! My family’s not perfect and neither am I. I was always going to do something drastic someday, and if this is it then I’d love nothing more!

Thomas walks off to the kitchen and leaves me with his brother. You are one peculiar individual, Thomas Shelby.

I smile. “Yes, Finn. Let’s get started!”

[teecupangel]

This is messy but—

Desmond ended in AC Syndicate and poses as a pub owner and serves drinks and unfortunately it became popular cause of his drinks (and maybe his charm and good looks) which made it a hot spot for the Rooks to get drunk and Jacob keeps flirting with him either drunk or sober.

His area of the pub is the safest place with little crimes and somehow Templars activity is diminished there. And Henry and Evie is suspicious of it and Jacob just wanna know how who is the mastermind and recruit them in the gang.

Desmond will be a safe space for the unchrins, giving food and fixed and clean clothes (Desmond can sew) and prostitutes will go to him for shelter and protection from bastard men and just help anyone in need

Any drunkards in his bar rioting and Desmond is simply cleaning with broom and going "Sir, please go home" and the drunks pick a fight with him and just get beat by him using the said broom.

Do you think Desmond would visit the Kenway Mansion or leave cryptic messages to help the creed?

Oh yes, pub owner Desmond is (chef’s kiss). Awkward flirting from Jacob which he just stares down with a look of “I have all of Ezio’s memories which includes his disastrous flirting with Christina and his suave flirting with Sofia. This is child’s play” which Jacob thinks of as a challenge.

Also, the urchins liked to tell him all the gossips they hear because he gives them sweeties if they do (they get free meals regardless if they have any gossips or not)

Then there’s this…

======================================

It was annoying having to wade through the sewers just to escape Lucy Thorne and her underlings. But, at least, Evie was able to recover what may prove to be the key they need to find the Shroud.

And also spend some time with Mr Henry Greene.

Still, it left a bitter taste on her lips knowing that Lucy Thorne would find Edward Kenway’s hidden room filled with the history of both the Kenway family and the British Brotherhood.

They got out of the sewers and Evie was about to suggest they get a carriage to leave as soon as possible since they were still near the mansion when they both noticed the commotion.

By the entrance of the Kenway mansion itself.

Evie and Henry looked at each other before nodding silently, making their way to join the crowd standing in front. They stayed in the crowd but managed to get a clear view of what was happening inside.

“Get your hands off me!”

Evie’s eyes widened as she saw police officers escorting Lucy Thorne and her underlings out of the mansion, clamping their hands in cuffs before escorting them to one of the many police carriages that were stationed in the courtyard.

“Please, Miss Thorne, do not make this harder for you.” Evie recognized Frederick Abberline almost immediately as the chief inspector stood in front of Thorne, “We have you for trespassing, breaking and entering…”

Abberline looked at the small journal he had as he added, “Destruction of private property, intent to steal…”

“Oh, sorry!” A young man exclaimed as he bumped into Evie. Evie stumbled slightly and the young man continued to say, “Sorry, you okay? I’m… I need to go.”

Evie watched as the young man walked towards Abberline as Thorne shouted, “Trespassing! This mansion belongs to-”

“The Kenways.” The young man cut her off and stood next to Abberline, smiling at him as he said, “Thank you so much, Freddie. When I saw all these people walking inside my home, I…”

“Well…” The young man smiled at all the officers as he said gratefully, “It’s good to know that we have officers we can trust.”

One of Thorne’s men blinked as he recognized him, “Desmond? From Bad Weather?”

“The pub?” Another man asked as he frowned.

“You’re taking the word of a pub owner?!” Thorne shouted.

“This is Mister Desmond Kenway.” Abberline introduced the young man, “The current head of the Kenway family and the owner of the mansion you just tried to steal from.”

“That’s impossible!” Thorne shouted, “This house-”

“Belonged to my great grandfather, Haytham Kenway who inherited it from my great great grandfather Edward Kenway.” Desmond cut her off, “Later, great grandpappy gave it to his sister, Jennifer Scott, who died childless.”

“But not before giving this house to my grandfather Ratonhnhaké:ton.” Desmond recounted, “The mansion has been abandoned since my great grand aunt’s death but it never left the family.”

Desmond took a step towards Thorne as he added with slightly narrowed eyes, “No matter what certain… rodents believe.”

Desmond waved his hand at the mansion as he continued, “I inherited it from my grandfather together with the entire…”

Desmond turned to glare at Thorne as he stated, “... history that comes with it and the Kenway name.”

Desmond turned to Abberline as he said, “I plan to press charges against everyone, of course, and…”

Desmond glanced at all the other officers as he promised, “I will do everything in my power as a Kenway to make sure anyone who helped them or will try to help them will be punished accordingly as well.”

The police officers glanced at one another and kept quiet while Desmond smiled at Abberline as he said, “I’ll leave this into your capable hands, chief inspector.”

“Yes, sir.” Abberline nodded before turning to face the other police officers, “Let’s get all of them to the station!”

“Now if you’ll excuse me.” Desmond turned and stared straight at Evie as he raised his hand, showing the golden disc she just had moments ago, as he said, “I believe I have a few little fledgelings that I need to talk to.”

Desmond’s lips curved into an amused smile and he nodded his head towards the mansion before walking inside.

Evie and Henry turned to look at one another before Henry said, “Well… I think we just got ourselves a meeting with Mister Desmond Kenway.”

Evie grimaced as he realized that this was the same ‘Desmond’ that Jacob had been awkwardly flirting with since they got to London. She could already hear Jacob’s ‘You talked to him without me?!’.

=======================

Before anyone assumes this is Desmond getting reborn as Connor's grandson. Nah. Desmond forged all those papers. This is straight up Desmond time traveling. XD

[hazel-of-sodor]

What's Lost is Found

Ch.19 Embrace

Other Stories

Other Chapters

Tendrils shot forward and the younger 47xx yelped as she was dragged clear off the rails and into her older sister's embrace, her crew diving to safety. The Uman crews just laughed as they helped them up.

"I thought you scrapped." Screech rumbled, tears of midnight black falling onto her runningboard with an acidic sizzle.

Tyto laughed unbelievingly, "You thought I was scrapped. We saw you scrapped!!"

"They didn't do a good enough job."

"Obviously." Tyto laughed, joyful tears were streaming down her face. "We thought you were gone forever."

Abbey was the first to catch on. "We?" She asked.

"Oh right!" Tyto smiled up at Screech. "Yes, Flying Scotsman rescued me and Eagle, along with several other Westerners from Cashmoore's, before taking us to Caomhnóir."

"Caomhnóir... Is real?" Enid asked, not quite daring to hope.

"Yep!" Tyto chirped, "he's good too. Scotsman was only able to give him a few hours notice but he had places for all of us."

Screech reluctantly set her back down onto the rails in front of her, although she didn't let go yet.

"Eagle and I are North Western engines now." She said proudly. "Our controller has already announced he doesn't plan to follow the modernization plan."

"The Other Railway can't be happy about that," Becca observed.

3219 snorted, "They really aren't, but the island has a history of home rule, and the Suddery council is backing Sir Topham Hatt."

"You are safe then?" Screech asked softly.

"As safe as we can be," Tyto said happily.

"Then I am content."

 "Sir Topham Hatt is trying to get another of our siblings, but the Other Railway is being stubborn," Tyto explained.

"Same with us." Enid chimed in, "We've been trying to buy more engines for months, but we're blocked at every turn."

Tyto frowned, "We'll tell the others so they can pass it on to Caomhnóir, he may be able to help."

"Why not tell him yourself?" Blaidd asked curiously.

"I'm not sure which engine he is," Tyto admitted. "...or even if they are a he. Some of the others I've met said they were saved by a female engine. Honestly, it might be multiple engines."

"You didn't see them?" Enid said disappointedly.

"Only for a moment," Tyto explained, "and even then I'm not certain. I was barely awake when they directed Duck, a 57xx that's friends with Caomhnóir, to take me and Tyto to the works. Besides it's better if I don't know."

"You can't give away their identity if you don't know it." Una guessed. 

"Exactly." Tyto nodded grimly, "the Other Railway is desperate to catch them. None of us that were put back into service know who they are at first. I think a few have since found out, but they feign ignorance either way."

3219 nodded, "One of the Other Railway's inspectors was almost killed last month. He tried to set a trap for them but almost got crushed. If Thomas had not been there..."

"Thomas?" Screech asked with a frown, the name was oddly familiar.

"Our No.1," Tyto explained, "Tiny little tank engine, like smaller than a 1400 small. He's got a little branchline running up into the hills. Cheeky to everyone, but a good sort with an almost Western work ethic."

"Ah," Screech said in realization, "My driver used to read some books about him to their daughter."

Tyto snorted, "Don't mention those to him. He had an accident a few years back when a cleaner fiddled with his controls. He ended up stuck in a house and needed his buffer beam and runningboard rebuilt. For some reason the author of those books wrote it like the whole thing was Thomas's fault."

"I take it he's not the author's biggest fan," Abbey said with a grin.

2319 laughed, "Apparently he wouldn't speak to him for a month after that. In any case, he barely snatched the inspector out of the way in time. The Fat Controller was furious."

"Fat Controller?" Miss Morgan asked.

"Sir Topham Hatt." Tyto clarified, "Apparently the engines called his dad that and it passed to him when he took over."

She frowned, "he really was angry at that incident. The North Western hasn't had a human death on the railway in decades and that was almost ruined by the inspector."

"You said human deaths," Screech noted.

"Trucks," Tyto and 2319 said in unison.

"Ah."

[merryfortune]

you are alive, you are flesh and blood

Prompt: Any fandom: any ship - Confession

Title: you are alive, you are flesh and blood

Ship: Inspector/Shiro 

Fandom: Cat Fantasy 

Word Count: 2,275

Rating: T 

Warning: None 

Tags: Female Inspector, Love Confessions, Seemingly Unrequited Pining, Kissing, Interspecies Relationships, Mentioned Inspector/Mandy

   The Inspector sighed tiredly as she sat down at the bench as though it were a tavern’s bar. She sprawled over it, right where Shiro had just mopped up with a cloth and so earned a stare of unceasing neutrality from the AI cat-girl. She bore a hole into the Inspector’s head as the Inspector tried to have a catnap but no dice.

   “Is everything alright, Inspector?”

   Her voice chimed through the Inspector’s thoughts. They bubbled and clouded, clogging up her mind and wearing her down with all the weariness of the world. 

   “Sleepy…” the Inspector mumbled.

   “You are more than welcome to go upstairs to rest.” Shiro suggested. “It would be more hygienic than using our cafe as a bench.”

   “Oh, you.” the Inspector pouted.

   No rest for the wicked, or so she reasoned. She pulled herself up and by the bootstraps, too. She smacked her face and puckered her lips.

   “I still have paperwork to do and there’s still so much to clean in here, it’s been a wild shift-”

   The door to the restrooms to the right of the cafe’s front bench opened and Mandy came through. Surprised to see that all the tables had been cleared and the chairs upturned to be placed atop them.

   “Goodness, I didn’t realise how late it is!” Mandy exclaimed as she came closer.

   “I didn’t even realise you were still here, Mandy.” the Inspector returned her surprise in equal measure.

   Shiro, however, didn’t. “I knew you were here.” She spoke matter of factly like she always did. “But we are closed. Civilians are not allowed inside after hours, please return home safely.”

   “A privilege now that we can be out and about after dark, not that mine and my sister’s place is that far.” Mandy giggled. She bounced on her heels, made gaga eyes at the Inspector by batting her lashes and flashing her pearly white teeth. “All thanks to a certain someone.” She put emphasis on someone, staring down just who that person was: the Inspector.

   Her obvious infatuation always sent a chill down the Inspector’s spine. Still, the Inspector was not so unkind that she would give Mandy the cold shoulder even if she very much did not feel the same way. She got up and left the bar stool.

   “Your welcome, Mandy, my duty and honour,” the Inspector told her, “here, allow me to escort you to the door at the very least so I can see you get home safely. Just in case.”

   “Aw, thank you, Inspector.” Mandy purred.

   The Inspector nodded.

   She did exactly as she told Mandy that she would: she guided the teenage student a few steps to the door and allowed it to ring. Meow, meow, meowww. Mandy laughed at the jingle and relished how the Inspector watched her from the doorframe. The florist, though well and truly closed at this hour, was only a few steps down the road from the cafe and the Inspector sent her off with a warm, watchful gaze.

   And that was that.

   The Inspector closed the door behind her and the bell jingled again. She sighed. Mandy was so bubbly and high-energy, it gave the Inspector a pep when she was around but felt so drained with her gone. Her shoulders slumped forward and she took that as an excuse to stand around and do a quick stretch.

   “Why do you never reciprocate Mandy’s intentions? They are as obvious to me as I’m sure they are to you.” Shiro asked.

   The Inspector’s eyebrow twinged, “Why do you care about my love life so much?”

   “Ahem, no reason.” Shiro blatantly lied.

   It was kind of adorable so the Inspector would never hold it against her. She sauntered back to the counter, placed her elbow over the mahogany flat of it and sized Shiro up.

   “I simply do not feel the same way as her. It would be inappropriate, an officer of the law taking advantage of a sweet, underage Felian. The entire world would have a fit.” the Inspector informed Shiro.

   Shiro giggled mechanically, “Mandy is eighteen according to her records.” 

   Ah. Classic Shiro. Always knowing things that the Inspector didn’t. The Inspector blushed as she now found herself in the faux pas of having guessed Mandy’s age wrong by around two years at least. She supposed that wouldn’t be as bad… Still. Her point remained: she did not feel the same way.

   “Whatever.” the Inspector clicked her tongue and her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Shiro. “Besides, there’s someone else I like.”

   “Truly?” Shiro inquired.

   The Inspector nodded. She could feel the atmosphere of the cafe change. The slow, languid air chilled by the night turned electric. They were all alone in here. The fact it was after hours added a new layer of intrigue beneath their artfully dim chandelier lights. 

   If the Inspector strained her ears, she could hear the whirr of Shiro’s motors increase ever so slightly. They were usually imperceptible so if there was reason to hear them… That was unusual and so, she took heart in that. She licked her lips and continued her thinking out loud.

   “Yes, there’s someone I like.” the Inspector confessed and she stole a glance at Shiro.

   Her eyes were wide. Her attention was rapt. Her tail quivered. 

   “That someone is smart and loyal, she is- she is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m glad we met, that she was not just made but born. She’s serious but that seriousness guiles such sparkling wit and cleverness. I-I like her a lot.” the Inspector rambled, her heart raced.

   Shiro’s hands tightened, her fingers curled against her palms, “And is she human or is she Felian?” she asked, bravely asked because a tiny cue in her voice betrayed that she was afraid to know the answer and yet.

   She asked.

   The Inspector, in turn, found her own courage. She looked directly at Shiro and basked at her humble beauty. The sheer white of her hair, the shine to her silicon skin, the way she was always so cleanly presentable, never changing, never out of sorts whatsoever, a solid rock of programming and aesthetics. 

   “Neither.” the Inspector replied. Earnestly, honestly.

   Shiro winced, “How can she be neither?” 

   “You tell me, Shiro. How can you be neither?” the Inspector asked and she got to her feet. Her hands splayed over the bench. “How can you try and turn me away when I… when I…”

   When the Inspector woke up this morning, after exploring the depths of her dreams, the strangeness of her memories and the locations they created in surrealness and absurdity, she didn’t think this was how her day would go. Though, a few months into her position as Inspector really ought to clue her in by now that things never did go smoothly here at their Cafe.

   So, the Inspector let go of all preconceived notion of right and wrong, of up and down, of even species, when she had fallen in love with… Shiro.

   “When I love you.” the Inspector finally finished her impassioned speech with a small smile. Her heart was ready to break, though, as Shiro was a robot. It was clear that despite her cleverness and curiosity, surely she would never feel the same way as a human (or a Felia for that matter).

   A conclusion justified by how Shiro reacted.

   She froze. Not a complete blue screen, however, but her eyes widened as disbelief permeated her expression. Her parameters raced to find some understanding as they organised the Inspector’s speech, turned into binary and tried to decode it in rapid fire pace which would put a supercomputer to shame and yet. Shiro was silent. She was frozen.

   “I think I have since the moment I met you. The real you.” the Inspector added. She had another flashback of that dream of oblivion, of Shiro’s outstretched hand painted with blood as she tried to protect her.

   “Inspector…” Shiro gasped. Better late than never.

   “I-If you don’t feel the same way, it’s fine.” the Inspector awkwardly shrugged. “You’ve made it obvious with your attempts at matchmaking. Even if they were misguided.”

   “Don’t you want to be with someone alive?” Shiro asked. “Someone of flesh and blood?”

   Her voice broke as she asked these questions of existence.

   It broke the Inspector’s heart, too.

   “Oh, Shiro,” she murmured, “you are alive. You live, you laugh, you emote through the wide range of emotions that there are from joy to sadness to frustration and, clearly, envy. As far as I'm concerned, you are flesh and blood, Shiro.”

   “Inspector…” Shiro murmured.

   She still seemed stunned, disbelief glued to her but shakily, she brought out her hand from in front of her apron. The Inspector leaned in and, like a cat, nuzzled against Shiro’s palm. She smacked her lips contentedly and closed her eyes.

   “Aah, nice and warm.” the Inspector assured her and slowly opened her eyes. “I like you, Shiro. You are my first partner and the only one I want in a non-professional manner, shall we say.”

   Shiro squeezed the Inspector’s cheek. The Inspector cringed - hey, that hurt - but beared with it as Shiro’s hand trembled. Her lips quivered only to curl into the tiniest, most thankful smile.

   “I never thought you would feel the same, Inspector.” Shiro confessed. “I’ve seen many Inspectors, seen them rise and fall, I had seen them give up and become disillusioned. I wish to never see the same for you, I want you to go higher and higher, I want to never leave your side. You are, I think, the first partner I have truly resonated with. Your kindness is unparalleled, the way you strive, constantly, for the path less travelled as it is often the one which is the most mediated or peaceful… It means a lot. Catto City is in good hands with you and as am I.”

   “Thank you, Shiro.” the Inspector replied.

   Shiro lifted the Inspector’s head by her chin. Her delicate, robotic hands caged the Inspector’s chin. They both leaned over the cafe’s counter and the Inspector felt her blood warm inside of her, it droned and raged and she could only hope that Shiro could feel it via her sensors.

   Shiro initiated their kiss. 

   The Inspector could have swooned as Shiro engulfed all her senses. She smiled as she allowed all of herself to be surrendered to Shiro. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing and savoured the first kiss between herself and her most precious partner. 

   Shiro’s lips were soft and warm. Her eyes did not close, however, the Inspector could feel her trademarked, no-nonsense stare from behind her eyelids. Shiro’s technique was subtle. She didn’t know what she was doing but the calculations were clearly being run as there was micro-adjustment after micro-adjustment. She wanted it to be good. She wanted to be good at kissing. The insinuation was as powerful and obvious as the rubbery smell and taste that emanated off her but the Inspector wouldn’t have had it any other way as she kissed back. Intensely, passionately, humanly.

   With only the grace and splendour that Shiro was capable of, she requited all of the Inspector’s sentiments and more with this kiss. Slow and chaste, she overcame all her mid-confession jitters to wordlessly profess a love so profound it went beyond her programming and the Inspector received all of it until Shiro cut her off.

   She was running all the calculations, monitoring all the parameters after all. What was or wasn’t good for a human, leaving the Inspector “wanting more” or something like that as Shiro may have heard the idiom before.

   The Inspector opened her eyes and they were dewy with the emotions running high. Her lips tingled with the memory of Shiro’s own as they departed from one another.

   “I hope that was satisfactory, partner.” Shiro bade her.

   “Yes, yes it was, Shiro.” the Inspector assured her.

   They moved some more. Awkwardly, disjointedly. Shiro was akin to a ball-joint doll once more with an unknowable, unreadable expression. Now defiled by the entropy of humanity: a blush which was not in her cheeks before, now bloomed a rose on either side of her face. Her ears flicked contentedly and the Inspector took all these observations to her throbbing heart.

   “I hope we are partners for a long time, Shiro.” the Inspector told her, her voice a whisper.

   “I-I feel the same way.” Shiro shakily replied.

   The Inspector smiled and they both, mutually, receded from each other. Clunky and mechanical, a touch shy, even, like schoolchildren with their very first crush. The Inspector glanced, infatuated, at Shiro, bouncing in her boots, shifting her weight from one foot to the other only to yawn.

   “Get some rest, Inspector.” Shiro told her. “I will be here in the morning, I promise.”

   “Thank you, Shiro.” the Inspector replied.

   Of course, what tomorrow morning would look like was anyone’s guess. It was against protocol for Inspectors to fraternise with their Combatants, least of all the AI robot ones but in her short tenure, the Inspector of the Baker Squad could probably get some leeway. Falling in love with Shiro would probably be the least of all the infractions she had earned in her pursuit of truth and justice.

   Though the Inspector did hope, perhaps naively, for a bright, sunshiny morning after a night of being well-rested. She hoped for the birds to sing and for the trees that lined the street to sway pleasantly and for yet more kisses from her beloved partner and that together, they would go on to stop armageddon.

[jgmartin]

The Mask of Ashes [short horror]

My grandpa's an interesting man. He served in the Korean war before he could grow a moustache and walked away with a rack of medals heavier than a brick. Since then, he's had a series of careers including used car salesman, librarian, and most famously, archaeologist. I use the term famously a bit loosely, I'll admit. He didn't make any world-changing discoveries like uncovering King Tut's tomb or finding Excalibur. He did, however, ignite my family's imagination with his lavish descriptions of history.

It was a favourite pastime of my family, listening to grandpa speak. We'd crowd around him every gathering, be it Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter or just a Sunday supper. He'd regale us with tales of wonder and mystery. He spoke of the Ark of the Covenant, Blackbeard's lost treasure, and the Amber Room.

He also spoke of an old mask, one crafted a thousand years ago by a man possessed by the devil. It was called the Mask of Ashes, and if you put it on you’d be given a vision of the future.

The only time he mentioned this mask though was after a night of heavy drinking on Christmas Eve, 1987. When I asked about it the next evening at supper, he dismissed it. “I had a lot to drink last night,” he said. “I probably got on a roll and started embellishing a bit. You’ll have to forgive me, Andrew.”

I believed him. After all, who hasn’t exaggerated a point or two after a bottle of whisky? “No worries, grandpa,” I remember saying to him. “You just spoke about it in such detail I thought it must be real.”

“Details are easy to fake when you're making it all up anyway."

My grandpa’s health began deteriorating not long after that. At first it was small things. His memory began to fade. Names escaped him. Then, it was his balance. Walking became a challenge. Soon, he was confined to a wheelchair and only able to do the most basic of activities with his hands. His skin turned sallow and pale, and the bright blue of his eyes faded to a shade above grey.

Once an avid gardener, his flowers withered and died without his attention. Soon too did his lawn. It wasn’t long until his lovely red house looked more like a condemned property, covered in dirt and worn out from the weather and years. As a family we tried to keep up with the maintenance as best we could, but still the floorboards would rot and the wallpaper would peel. It got to the point where even being in the house felt draining.

To ensure grandpa got the best care when he needed it, we hired a live-in nurse to look after him. Unfortunately, the nurse passed away shortly after from a heart attack. We hired another. She quit, citing respiratory issues. Then we tried once more, this time ensuring we hired a young man with no prior health concerns. He wasn't even thirty years old yet. Not long after though, he quit too, complaining about a deep pain in his legs. It became clear that without the upkeep the house needed, something toxic had taken root.

After consulting an inspector (who couldn’t locate the source of the toxicity), we decided to have grandpa moved into a nursing home and have the house torn down. We agreed to pack grandpa's belongings as a family. After all, it seemed risky hiring a moving firm when there were so many valuables laying about from his archeology digs.

We picked a date and showed up armed with respirator masks, rubber gloves, and more cardboard boxes than an Amazon warehouse. We decided the easiest way to get everything packed was to split the house into rooms and have a different person pack one each. After a brief discussion and some heated coin-flips (and games of rock-paper-scissors), I drew the short straw and was left with the toughest room of them all: the attic.

Truthfully, I didn't mind so much. Like I said, my grandpa was an interesting man and I was certain he'd have some curious knickknacks squirrelled away up there. So I headed upstairs and pulled down on the dangling ceiling cord. The attic's wooden steps drifted down with a haunting groan. A moment later and the smell of old books, parchment and rat droppings greeted me. Given my grandpa’s condition, I couldn’t be certain the last time anybody besides the inspector had been up there. If I had to take a guess though, I’d say it’d been well over a decade.

I ascended the steps into the attic and squinted as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. It wasn’t anything special. Very typical as far as attics went, complete with a low, sloped ceiling and plain wooden floors. Boxes had been piled anywhere they could fit, with a tight path winding between them that led to the far side of the room, where a dusty desk sat in the faint sunbeam of a dirty, cobwebbed window.

I made my way toward it, figuring working my way from back-to-front might be the best strategy. That way, as I became more tired the boxes would be closer to the stairs. I silently thanked my grandpa for already having just about everything already tucked neatly away and resolved to get to work.

As I came upon the desk at the far end, I noticed a book open on top of it, beside which was a plain mahogany box. Curious, I investigated. No doubt this was the last project my grandpa had attempted to undertake before his health failed him.

The book looked old. Older than any book I’d ever seen. Its pages were yellow and curled, and looked to have been penned by hand. It was bound with sinew between two thick, leather covers. “Creepy,” I said, softly brushing my hand over the surface to clear the thick layer of dust. It revealed a page littered with symbols. Whatever language it was written in used sharp, jagged characters to denote its alphabet. I’d never seen anything like it.

“Well, into the box with you,” I said, heaving a sigh. I closed the book with a poof of dust, and placed it into the packing box next to me. Then I turned my attention to the mahogany container on the desk. Its craftsmanship was excellent. The wood was smooth, a deep brown-red and even up in the attic, where the smell of rat droppings reigned supreme, the box had a rich and clean scent to it. It was plain though, save for a small metal clasp on its front that originally looked to have been for a lock.

I opened it.

Inside was a mask, one of plain design. It had two eye-holes cut out, as well as several sharp, uneven slits made for the mouth to speak and breathe through. I picked it up and took a closer look. The material the mask was made from looked a bit like dried skin. I pulled off a glove and ran my fingers over it. It certainly felt like dried skin. "Probably animal hide," I muttered aloud, not wanting to consider the alternative. After studying it for several more seconds, I decided there was nothing particularly special about it and put it down. It was just an old mask.

I consulted the inside of the box, ensuring that I hadn’t missed something. It was empty. For my grandpa’s last project, this felt oddly anticlimactic. I suppose after a life of so many fantastic stories I just expected something more significant. I picked the mask back up and tossed it into the mahogany container, then closed the lid with a gentle click of the latch.

A memory prodded at the edge of my mind. I bit my lip, staring at the plain box, recalling a legend grandpa told me many years ago. It had been Christmas Eve then. He'd spoken about something called the Mask of Ashes, an object he later insisted he’d made up. I drummed my fingers on the box and my imagination spun to life, recalling the wondrous tale he’d told of a mask that showed the wearer the future. This wasn’t that. It couldn’t be. He’d already admitted the entire story was a drunken farce, and yet…

I opened the box. I’m not certain why, but maybe it was a sense of nostalgia mingled with an inability to accept that my grandpa had really gone his whole life without any major discoveries. He’d always been such a clever man. I pulled my respirator off of my face and stared at the mask with mounting excitement. Reaching down, I flared open its bottom and brought it up over my head, and then slowly placed it over my face.

I blinked. In front of me I saw the dusty desk, my packing box with the book inside, and the mahogany container. Everything looked exactly as it had earlier. “Well,” I said, with a disappointed laugh. “I'm not sure what I was expecting."

I reached my hands up to my neck to remove the mask, but then the world began to bleed. I stopped, my heart thundering in my chest. The desk began to warp, and soon both it and the cobwebbed window bled away, pouring into a red soup on the floor. Around me, the high-stacked boxes did the same. Soon, I stood in a pool of blood up to my knees, warm and thick and rich with the smell of iron.

“Incredible,” I breathed, unable to contain my fascination. I took a step forward, and the pool of blood shifted, creating small waves and ripples upon the surface. For several moments I gazed around in stunned silence, hardly able to believe what I was seeing -- what I was feeling. After all this time, grandpa truly had made a massive discovery. His final project was also his greatest.

I had to tell my family. I had to tell the world. This was more than discovering some rusty sword or old treasure. This was something that would change the way we understood the world, history, and religion entirely. This was something unlike anybody had ever seen. I pulled the mask off of my face and, beaming, turned to leave the attic.

The blood shifted. It sent a wave cascading forward, and I realized the attic was gone entirely. The space around me was a pool of crimson as far as I could see. My smile faltered. I looked down at the animal-hide mask in my hands, and noticed it was gone.

I thrashed forward through the blood, moving toward where I knew the attic door ought to be. I held my breath and dived down, running my hands over the ground and trying to find the latch that would release the stairs and free me from this nightmare. The ground was entirely smooth. No latch. No stairs.

I emerged from the pool with a gasp of air, then shouted and screamed. I called for my father, my sister, my aunt. I called for anybody at all.

“Do you mind?” a voice croaked.

I wheeled around in a splash of blood. A great creature, twelve feet tall loomed before me. Its legs were curved with thick hair in the fashion of a goat, and its four eyes were made of fire.

“You're making a bit of a scene," it said. "We can hear you two circles down."

I swallowed, my panic both mounting at the sight of this monstrosity and waning at the indifferent casualness of its voice. “Err, who are you?”

It rose four eyebrows and reached out, clasping me on the shoulder with a long-fingered hand. It pulled me into a tight squeeze at its side. “That’s more like it. Name’s Lucifer, but you can call me Lu. You’re a little late, but we should be able to fit you in.”

He snapped his fingers and a piece of floating parchment appeared before him. He swiped at it with a finger and I noticed my name was crossed off in a rather dramatic line of fire. “That’s all four. We’re ready to go,” he said.

“Ready to go?” I squirmed away from him. This was turning into full blown acid trip territory. Nothing made sense. The attic, I decided, must have been the source of the house's toxicity problems, and now I was having some kind hallucination from direct exposure. “Sorry," I said. "All four of what?”

“Horsemen," Lucifer said with a serrated smile. “We’re already running behind though, so if it’s alright with you, I’d like to skip orientation and get this apocalypse started.”

[richardsphere]

Leverage Log: The Low Low Price Job

Ok so based on the name, we're either dealing with As Seen On TV products that are made so cheap as to endanger people, general "store discounts that are only affordable because its made in a sweatshop in china" shenanigans, or a Big box chain using an up front loss to drive the locals out of business and become a de-facto local monopoly before type of story. (did I mention that capitalism sucks yet?) --- Ok government inspector is looking round a store and is pulling lies out of their ass. --- I agree with Elliot, Composting is good but should not be done in a kitchen. That is a health inspectors nightmare. --- Oh its about the a big box store, thats bribing the inspector (and zoning comittee) into shutting down competition. Why is she talking about it as if its a small town? Since when is Portland a small town? Thats a major American city right? --- I stand corrected, just because she's currently in portland to talk to Leverage Inc, does not mean she's from Portland. She's from a (presumeably fictitious) small US town called Apple Springs (home of America's largest garden gnome) --- Ok it seems we're not even going to try and make the villain act like a human person. Just openly gloating to her intern about how she's gonna destroy the town. --- And once again Nate makes the point: The Food Industry is only thing scarier then Sterling. I like the premise of them going for a "smaller" target (a single store rather then the megacorp attached), but its sort of a suck that this episode promises to end with a "the real villain got away with it all in the end" sort of deal. (maybe the sequel series can do a call-back episode where they go after Corporate) --- Sophie starts listing Cadmium Poisoning symptoms. To a woman whose hotel room we have seen Parker and Nate break into already. This can only mean 1 thing: Its chemical warfare time! --- Oh so thats how corporate plays? Forging crimes onto Sophies Forged identity? Guess we might see Nate take the gloves off and take down corporate after all. (cause lets be clear, if this is a thing they know how to do it means they do it on the regular for non con-artists) --- I dont think Elliot is lying about his old man running a hardware store, like this could be an attempt to make the guy more sympathetic to his cause to aid the union, but this feels genuine.

Old man has diabetes... that is ominous, I feel like Elliot might be about to get himself a surrogate dad only to lose him. --- And she's met Nate. (only Hardison and Parker remain un-compromised)

Eliiot's dad is real. --- Oh she tracked them back to Portland. Now that either means our heroes somehow tipped her off deliberately or that she's got GPS tracking on her employees.

Oh she said the F word, (which means she can F off) also shouldnt the poisoning be kicking in right now? sure she prevented Sophie from telling the town about the "cadmium" but thats no reason to make her think she's not dying of cadmium poisoning. Making her think the thing she covered up is a genuine threat awaiting re-discovery is a great way for our heroes to get her on the mental back-foot --- "its not like we can make bad luck". Nate, im sorry to say that you're an idiot. Making it look like an accident is literally crimes 101. --- Sophie's bringing in the army. (oh the Kaki's and overall flashmob. Classic)

Oh Elliot's surrogate Dad just died and/or got hospitalised. --- Record sales? Oh we're so framing her for theft arent we. (rigged the cash registers to claim they're taking 99.99 for the TV's while still taking the full 999.99) And she even bragged "the TV's were my idea" so when the citisens sue Value!More over their fraudulent cash-receipts her bosses will pull out a recording from their phone conversation proving her guilt by her own admission! --- Wait it wasn't part of Nate's plan? Our team just accidentally pulled a loss leader? Goddamn it. Well the HQ guy is coming for the BBQ now. Which is probably on the parking lot that she thinks is cadmium poison... So poison HQ guy with cadmium and get her superiors to shut her store down? --- Wait we're only renovating her hotel room now? In literally any other episode we would've seen Nate and Parker break into the store, and then had a greyed out flashback of the things they did while there to poison the ever loving heck out of this woman. --- I dont like that, now that we're finally getting to the "drugging her by putting chemicals in her make-up and sleepmask" sequence we took out her shower. (I get it, its to make her more anxious over meeting HQ guy for her promotion by not letting her take care of herself. But we literally had an entire Poison story right there with the Cadmium and this is breaking from that narrative, it feels like the broken shower is an unnecessary risk. Im not saying she deserves a shower it just distracts from the Cadmium Poisoning story) --- And we got ourselves the classic "broadcast their conversation over the intercom". Last shot of her seeing Leverage Inc lined up so she can connect the dots of her being played somehow. Strong end to a rather weak episode. --- Our heroes are turning the not-really poisoned big box store into a theatre. (nice place for Sophie to Own instead of Rent, plus a good back-up now that the Frame Up Job compromised their new Portland residency) --- there's something really weird about the way in which Elliot keeps getting in short-term relationships with female clients.

Elliot is off to reunite with dad, but it seems that time will do what time will do. (whomever owns the home now has excellent taste in windchimes though. Love the little dolphins) --- This episode was generally sub-par as far as A-plot goes, every twist and one-up by Caroline felt like it came from right up a writers behind, and the final conclusion of "our battle shut off the one store but Evil Incorporated continues to win the war" leaves this episode overall unsatisfying in its climax. The Elliot sub-plot was good though. Just not enough to fix a broken episode.

[lord-cazador-szarr]

"we are mere home inspectors, we are not obligated to have a warrant as much as Baldurian guards would. We are also not obligated to inform you who may have given us complaints due to confidentiality laws. Now, downstairs, gentlemen." And the inspectors end up finding the underground ritual area. The inspector hummed, taking out his clipboard and writing notes on it, muttering, "unauthorized... Mmhm... Damp... Unsafe..."

"mmhmm, just as suspected. Sir, did you get a permit from the Baldurian courts to have an underground ritual room in your home? If not, we will have to fine you a sum of 600,000 including taxes and we will have to shut the area off and take it all down due to several safety violations. I take it this room isn't 'child friendly'? A new Baldurian law has been set in action after several complaints from parents. I'm sure you're aware of the 'Mothers against unsafe establishments,' association, also known as, 'think of the children,' yes? It is required for all new buildings, new rooms be safe enough for a child to wander in. That means no torture chambers, no unauthorized dungeons, no traps, no violence, no weird symbols or rituals, no inappropriate activities, etc etc. a clear inspection shows you have violated about... Let's see....... 69 codes in total with this room alone. If you have any issue, you must take it to the Baldurian courts and have this issue cleared with a magistrate of your district."

"I- I beg your pardon??? This palace is centuries old, I inherited it! Do you think that any of the building underground was done without a whole team of hired help? Of course it got a permit, one cannot undertake such a task without one! And the building is far from new, I must be exempt from this law regarding 'new' buildings- I'm fairly certain the entire structure is older than even you!"