#open starter // hail; your attention i pray!

[blotiisms]

“ ... please do not call me that. “

[whatisiteryn]

Beauty and the Galra

I wrote a Beauty and the Beast AU for a class and switched up a few things to cater to Klance! 

The story of a beautiful woman being forced to live with a horrifying beast is one that has been told across the span of time. The common tale goes that a father is saved by a young beauty from a castle inhabited by a beast who has been exiled and feared for much of its life.  While most of this is true, there are a few details that seem to be lost in the continual recollection of this fable. You see, this beauty was a son, a son who went by the name of Lance. His father and mother were both captured by this beast, leaving behind a family of three sons and two daughters – Lance being the oldest. His family owned the best bakery around and would often deliver food to neighboring towns. While this was common place, they were always home before dinner to take care of their family of seven. Upon receiving an order in a further part of the country, Lance’s parents gathered their belongings and headed out to make their delivery. As always, they said their goodbyes to their five children and set off, promising a return by nightfall. Nightfall came quickly, but Lance’s parents did not. As the sky darkened and time began to pass, Lance grew anxious that something abysmal had happened to his parents. Fear and daunting thoughts began to creep into Lance’s mind. His mind being overwhelmed with the thought of his parents being ripped from his family by tragedy in union with the uncertain future that lay ahead. He could not bring himself to settle on the possibility of losing anyone he cared for, so without hesitation, he to set out to find them.  Before leaving, he entrusted the next oldest, Hunk, to take care of their younger siblings. Lance warned that if he, nor their parents returned in three days, to not search for them but rather to travel to the neighboring village to their aunt and uncles house. Having peace of mind that his siblings would be safe, Lance hurried into the woods to find his parents. 

Having explored the woods since he could walk, he knew the area by heart. He traveled seamlessly until he reached an area of the forest that he was unversed in. It felt as if there were a wall created by his fear of entering the unknown, but he knew that he had to push forward. Proceeding with extreme caution, Lance followed the route in which his parents had mapped out before they left, as they always did. Concentration and concern kept Lance homed in on his route, until a loud snap had whipped him back into reality. He froze and surveyed his surroundings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright glint of white that disappeared as soon as it appeared. The feeling of danger ripped down Lance’s spine, causing instant panic. Before he could act, he was on the ground, being pinned in place by an enormous wolf. He shouldn’t have been as ignorant to think a pack did not follow. Fear began to blur Lance’s vision and reason. He knew his life would be torn from him swiftly if he did not think of something and fast. Adrenaline, being a comrade in instances of panic, took over Lance’s body causing him to grasp for a sizeable rock. With brute force, he slammed the chunk of earth into the wolf’s skull, prompting a yelp, but more importantly a fighting chance. He scurried to his feet with his trusty rock in hand, ready to face death head on. Quickly, he surveyed the situation, recalled the nagging his parents did when he was a kid about this very situation, and made a rough plan with svelte survival.  He slowly began to recede into the forest, collecting rocks with the feeblest of movements. His arsenal of weapons grew slowly as the wolves moved in conjunction with him. Lance, having the aim of a hawk began to launch rocks, making solid contact with the wolves’ face. A brief moment of disorientation provided Lance the perfect opportunity to abscond from the scene. The forest turned into a blur as Lance sprinted away, direction being inconsequential. Surprisingly, he spotted a large burrow, and quickly dove into it. On high alert, he looked for any signs of the wolves. As his heart began to settle, he noticed warmth spilling down his face. He wanted more of whatever it was, so he lifted a hand to find the source. Delayed realization caused instant anxiety when Lance retracted his hand to see it covered in thick crimson blood. He had a gnarly gash reaching right above his left eye, back towards his ear. Exploring the bag he packed for his journey, concern took over. He soon realized that he had left any kind of first aid he intended on taking, on the table while giving instructions to Hunk. Muttering a few choice words under his breath, Lance knew he had fire starters and small pot to prepare food with. If he wanted to find his parents, he needed to stop the bleeding. Lance created a fire as the pan dangled over it; he filled his time by removing his belongings from his satchel to create a gag. As soon as the pot was ready, Lance sank his teeth into his bag and slowly moved the searing metal towards his gash. Grunts and cries were muffled as his wound was seared shut. Fighting off the urge to let his vision go black, he hurried his process, finishing quickly. 

After replenishing his energy with food and rest, Lance gathered his things and found an alternate route to his destination. As what seemed like forever passed, Lance began to think he was walking in circles, until he heard a muffled sound in the distance. Being his only lead, Lance rushed to the source in fear that he would lose it. It grew louder and louder until Lance was met with one of the horses that belonged to his parents. With an absent rider and partner, Lance thought two things: his parents had to be close by and they might be dead. Pushing the latter from his mind, he checked the horse for injury and scrambled on. 

A daunting structure began to grow as Lance rode closer, reaching what seemed to be his destination. He dismounted his horse and cautiously opened the gothic gate that stared back at him. This house, rather castle, was dark and dismal. All life that once lived here, fled and died after what seems like tragedy struck. Lance ventured forward into the large courtyard that stood between him and the doors. After climbing the stereotypical grandiose staircase, he was finally face to face with the unknown. 

He went to grab the large knocker adorning the door, but as his hand loomed, the door creaked open. Knowing that he should not go in, Lance did what anyone would do in this situation and passed the threshold anyway. Light was scarce but not absent as the door ghosted shut behind him. Tempted to yell to see if anyone even lived in this skeleton of a house, his common sense begged him not too. So, he listened and mutely treaded forward

searching for any sign of his parents. Spending an abundant time searching and finding nothing, his hope began to falter. That is, until he heard a faint voice hailing from the top of the staircase he stood in front of. Bolting up the stairs, he began to recognize the strained voice as his father’s. He soon reached his parents, tears threatening to stream down his face. He began to ask if they were okay and what had happened to result in their incarceration, but was soon interrupted by his parents’ voices dripping with worry. They began to warn him that they were taken by a large beast that had the silhouette of a man, but surely was not. They pleaded him to leave, but Lance incessantly refused until he knew they were leaving with him. Scrounging the cold ground for a key, he felt a small tug on his sleeve. Glancing over to see if he was actually going crazy, he thought he saw a small, red toy lion. Pushing aside the thought that this was the object that touched him, he returned his attention to finding a key. He felt the same light touch, only to see the lion standing in his lap. Startled, Lance asked his parents if they also saw this lion, and they did. He then heard a voice, one that did not belong to him or his parents. 

“You must leave here immediately. Your parents will be relatively safe but you must leave here hastily. If master finds you here, you will share the same fate.”, the lion whispered. 

A small, concerned yelp escaped the lion’s snout as it quickly hid behind Lance. Before he could react, a large figure loomed over him, freezing him instantly. His body left the ground and was dangling in the grasp of a beast tinted purple with piercing yellow and violet eyes. Struggling to breathe, Lance attempted to warn the beast, that if he did not release his parents, he would do whatever it takes to ensure their safety. The Beast grunted and began to tighten his vice around Lance’s neck. Realizing he was losing any chance he had for his parents’ escape, he squeaked out a plea to let his parents go and to keep him instead. At this, the Beast’s grip loosened. He begged  to the Beast that he could do whatever he wished with Lance, if only to let his parents free. Lance crashed to the frigid ground as the Beast turned to the small prison cell. Lance’s parents still prayed for him to run, but he refused. 

The Beast growled that Lance’s parents leave quickly if they did not want to see their son dead. Lance yelled at them to leave, reminding them they had a family still waiting them at home. They quickly exchanged their final words and disappeared down the staircase, promising they would be back for Lance.

Focusing back on the Beast, Lance was thrown into the cell as the metal bars slammed shut behind him. The Beast left without saying a word, leaving Lance alone in the shadows. The small lion was no longer in sight, truly leaving Lance by himself. Time passed with no sign of life. The ache of the wound on his head was dull, and was soon overwhelmed with a throbbing pain in both of his legs. His body was reacting to the extreme trauma of his head wound and emotional strain of this endeavor, but he was ignorant to that. This pain became unbearable, resulting in screams crawling out Lance’s throat. The agony persisted, leaving Lance clueless as to what was causing this. The extreme discomfort allowed black to steal Lance’s vision. Allowing the darkness to take him, if only to relieve him of his pain, he gave in. 

Lance awoke to the sound of thuds outside of his cell, only to be reminded of the intense pain inhabiting his legs. He wondered how long he had been out - if hours, even days had passed. He looked up at what seemed to be a humanoid clock settled in front of him with a plate of food. Relieved that someone or rather something, was here to help him, he began to spew words describing pain and worry that something awful was soon to happen to his legs. Voicing his fear of his limbs rotting off, he grew more concerned for his wellbeing. He rambled that this pain would soon spread to his entire body if something was not done quickly. Hoping that this thing could help him, he waited for a response. It stared at him, a bit startled but also curious, it began to speak. 

“Umm, please take a deep breath, everything will be okay. The name’s Pidge, I am a clock as you can see. I brought you some food by order of Master. I will send our nurse, Allura, down immediately to come check you out. Also, I wouldn’t recommend all the screaming, you’re annoying Master.”

Lance protested that some inhuman thing would not be able to understand or help the excruciating pain he was feeling. Pidge ignored this protest, waddling away knowing full well Allura was one of the best medical specialist in this part of the country. As soon as Pidge soon faded out of view, the pain began to spread to other limbs. Feeling the pain infest his arms, his screaming became louder. He did not care about Pidge’s cautions, the pain he was feeling was like no other. He knew that this would spread, infecting the rest of his body until it took over entirely. He screamed for help, but no one came. He soon came to realize he could no longer move or feel his legs. Gasps and cries escaped his mouth at the realization that he was immobile. His sobbing continued until he heard familiar heavy thuds growing louder. Scared, he stifled his cries into his shoulder knowing the Beast was the one approaching. Before he knew it, the Beast was hovering in front of his cell, annoyance written all over his face. Lance knew this was his end, only to be comforted by the fact that his pain will decease just as he would. Tears streaming down his face, he pleaded for medical help other than that of Allura’s. The Beast began to open his cell door and told Lance to get up. Lance blinked at him, confused. He informed the Beast that he could no longer move his legs, so the Beast picked him out of the cell and began carrying him up the stairs. 

Movement only worsened his pain, causing him to let out an overwrought scream. The Beast stared at him, warning that if he does not stop screaming, he would return him to the cell. So, once again, Lance stifled his screams until the Beast stopped in front of a large wooden door. He pushed open and proceeded to a great bed in the in the center of the area. The Beast, to Lance’s surprise, gently placed him on the bed and strode over to a chest in the corner of the room. Lance’s pain grew quickly and spread slowly. He bit his lip to choke the scream writhing in his chest. The Beast returned with what seemed to be medical supplies. Lance looked up at the Beast, and for the first time, saw a soft expression on his face. Lance then insisted that he needed to see a medical professional and would not be fixed by a dinky first aid kit. The Beast ignored his plea, annoyance finding its way back to his face. After the Beast had done examination and odd tests that could only be explained as supernatural, he began to speak.

“I can see that you are in unimaginable pain, but after doing thorough tests and examinations, nothing can be medically traced to your pain and lack of feeling in your legs. While I am not dismissing the pain you are feeling, there is nothing that I can do to biologically fix your problem.”

Lance could hear the sympathy in the Beast’s voice, something he never thought possible. Lance returned to the notion that nothing was biologically wrong. That did not make sense. How could he lose feeling in his legs and feel this much pain if something was not truly wrong? 

Lance responded, “Are you sure? I think you should do more tests. You should definitely do more tests, or maybe get a second opinion. I don’t know something, this can’t be right.”

As the words spilled from his mouth, his breath became shallow and his heart rate shot up. Thoughts were racing, concentration was fleeting, and panic was settling. Lance began to sob slipping into instant anxiety and panic. The Beast was trying to speak to Lance, but the anxiety turned his words into blurred mutters. Pain and anxiety were overtaking Lance until he noticed the pain receding in his arms. Confused, he noticed the Beast rubbing some kind of cream onto them. Lance steadied himself enough to slip out a question between gasps.

“What are you doing? What is that? The pain is manageable right now, I don’t understand how?”

The Beast stared at him, contemplation in his eyes. 

“It is a mixture of herbs and quintessence that relieves extreme pain. While it does not drive it off, it does keep it at bay.”

In awe, relief began to spread over his body. While a sharp pain was apparent and his legs still numb, the insufferable pain he felt earlier was a bit manageable. He mentioned to the Beast that his legs were still numb, but everything else seemed better. He thanked the Beast profusely. Silence filled the space between them. A question hanging on Lance’s tongue, he began to speak.

“Why did you help me? You could have let me scream down there until the pain eventually became too much.”

“I couldn’t bear the screaming anymore.”

Lance knew a lie when he heard one, and gave the Beast a questioning look. 

With a sigh, the Beast responded, “Believe it or not, I used to be a doctor. People would come far and wide to seek out my help. It was something that I loved to do. Eventually the fame got to my head and I could no longer recognize who I was. A patient approached me one day with a peculiar request. She wanted me to help her gain movement back in her joints, but she was a ghastly woman. I refused to help her and before I knew it, she threatened that my fame became too much and that I had lost sight of my true goals. As soon as she finished speaking, I became this thing. People fled and never came back. Since then, I have lived out my days with objects that were once my staff, being feared by all. Ultimately it is better that way.”

Lance stared in disbelief. It was hard for him to think that this beast was who he said he was. With that Lance was grateful that the pain had lessened but was curious.

“So, if you have something that can help me, do you think you can cure me?”

The Beast responded annoyed again. “No, were you not listening earlier, I told you there is no traceable issue for me to fix. I just went out on a limb with the cream.”

Defeat washed over Lance. The Beast spoke again. “I can offer you something though. You can’t move obviously and I have a way for you to live with your pain, but you have to stay here for me to help you.”

Lance felt like he was punched in the gut. The offer entailed that he would never be able to see his family again. His eyes began to well up at the thought, but began to weigh his options. This pain would persist if he went back to his family, the thought of being an overwhelming inconvenience to them broke him. He made up his mind and agreed to stay with the Beast. 

Months had passed and Lance still dealt with his pain and immobility. He had found a life and routine in his time here in the castle. He learned about the people who are now objects and the Beast (whose name is Keith), he explored with the help of the Beast, and was relatively happy. He noticed a change in the Beast, he was softer with his touches, kinder in his words, cautious with his care and intensely protective of those he cherished. Lance soon found his place in those cherished people, not realizing that he too, began to cherish the Beast and the time spent with him. What Lance did not realize was the shift in the Beast was not only care, but also love. After months of taking care of Lance, the Beast found himself falling deeper in love with this man. Now, whether or not the Beast would ever tell Lance is something for future debate. While Lance’s condition never had a source or a cure, he could live a life he was proud of. He was with someone who would didn’t know he needed, rather than someone he wanted. 

And that is the true tale of the Beauty and the Beast.

[fanfic-phoenix]

Have you been wicked Mr Holmes?  Part 3

Hello!  This is the cutesiest one so far, but still has a smut warning so... what can I say?  I have lost all my moral high ground over my beta (the ever awesome @ebdaydreamer who, of course, fixed my grammar for this part too) for this story!  Enjoy!

Sherlock grimaced dramatically as decorations began to encompass his living room.  The tree, the tinsel (why must they pick the one that shed all over the place?), the general air was sickening.  The urge to divulge sentimental thoughts seemed to overwhelm the entire populace at this time, and even the criminal population seemed to succumb to the spirit of goodwill.  He turned to Watson, sighing as he saw the latest mistake.

“Yet again you fail to connect actions to their consequences, Watson.  You must understand that to me the world is an open book, and if you - as your mind is still undeveloped - wish to do well you should listen to what I say.  Now, for the last time,”  He picked up the plush Santa and handed it back to Rosamund Mary Watson,  “If you wish to keep the toy, do not throw the toy.”  He ended the sentence with a fond smile, a fond smile that dropped as the plush Santa connected with his face.  He sighed and placed it beside her.

Rosie was, despite his protestations to the contrary, the only good thing in Baker Street at the moment.  With John and Mary insisting on decorating (Oh God, was that… mistletoe?) and Irene away (goodness knew where, it was business, apparently.  And no, he was not in the least jealous, thank you very much, John), he was relying on the bright eyes and smiling face of the new Watson to raise his spirits.  She was immensely curious already, very keen on experimenting on how far she could pull Sherlock’s curls before he was unable to hold the forced smile, and equally fond of drooling over herself and requiring changing.  Whenever John and Mary fell asleep on the couch (basically half an hour into any visit) the duty fell to him and he, as the doting godfather, was obliged.  

The moan of Irene Adler sounded tinnily from the phone on the side table.  He jumped up, ignored the glare of the new parents (“That is not a noise for children, Sherlock!”), and grabbed the phone in record time.

Hang in there, Mr Holmes.  I’ll be home soon.  We can have dinner.

-IA

He smiled, perhaps Christmas wouldn’t be a complete waste.

I look forward to it, Miss Adler.  Baker Street isn’t as lively with your absence.

-SH

Sherlock picked up Rosie, hoping to stop her wails waking her parents.  It had been an hour at last since Irene’s text.  With a sigh, he looked quizzically at her.

“What is the problem, Watson?”

He was thankful as ever for the power of deduction.  She wasn’t hungry, nor was she tired, nor was her nappy full.  Which meant…

“You just want attention, don’t you?”

He shook his head, holding her carefully and rocking her slightly.

“Would you like a story, Watson?”

She made no reply, as babies were known to do, but he took the end of the cries as a positive.

“Once upon a time lived a pirate, the most fearsome pirate on the whole seven seas.  His name was Captain William, and he travelled with a retired knight who was his First Mate Hamish.  First Mate Hamish was never without the beautiful Princess Mary and the even prettier fairy Rosie.”

John and Mary woke at the sound of their baby's cries through the crackling monitor.  But they also heard them stop, and the deep voice of the detective beginning his story.  They smiled blissfully at each other, eyes still blurry with sleep, and settled down for Sherlock’s story time.

“First Mate Hamish and Princess Mary were very much in love, so much that poor old Captain William had to watch them kissing all the time!  Blech!”  Sherlock smiled at Rosie, watching her relax and giggle at his newly animated face.  “But one day, Princess Mary went missing, and the pirates knew she was in danger.  Well, they weren't about to let Princess Mary get hurt, not when the Fairy Rosie needed her (as did they, not that they'd ever admit it) so they went to the Apple Tower to save her.”

Mary and John looked at each other.  This was Sherlock telling Rosie about Appledore.  Surely they shouldn't let it happen.  And yet, there was something in his voice, something soft, and they knew it'd be fine.

“The Apple Tower was a thousand feet high and guarded by a fearsome dragon with a nasty habit of licking people and taking them prisoner.  And there, in his power, was Princess Mary.”  Sherlock paused, tickling Rosie softly on her stomach and letting his deep laugh mingle with her giggle.  “Captain William didn't know what to do, which, mind you, was a very rare thing.  He and First Mate Hamish were stuck, but the Fairy Rosie hovering by encouraged them.  Still, the dragon was winning, and they didn't know how to slay him.”  

John and Mary listened to the silence for a moment.  Clearly, Sherlock hadn't figured out how to baby proof this part quite yet.  They entered the room silently, John chuckling as Sherlock jumped at Mary's voice.

“Of course,” she said, “Princess Mary was more resourceful than anyone thought.  She too was a retired knight, and when the silly pirates got captured, she slayed the evil dragon herself with Captain William's cutlas.  Then she picked the lock and she, William, Hamish and Rosie all lived happily ever after, especially when, not long after, William got his own princess, a woman called Irene.”

Sherlock handed the sleepy John his baby.

“How much did you hear?”  He asked.

“All of your story.”  John smirked, “First Mate Hamish?”

“John isn't a very pirate-y name,” came the haughty reply.  It didn't take long for all to laugh.

Rosie was placed in her cot, newly exhausted by the action, and the adults adjourned to the living room.

“You're better with kids than I'd have thought,”  John admitted.  He had assumed Sherlock would think babies boring, or perhaps show them crime scenes as he has Archie.  And yet he was fine, telling fairy stories and rocking her to sleep, and he has definitely caught him blowing a raspberry on her stomach when she was fussing, letting her get away with tugging his hair and biting his hands.

“I've always been fond of children.”

Perhaps that was a slight lie.  He'd hated them when he was one.  He was different to them and it was clearly visible, so they avoided him.  But now, children were fascinating.  They were curious and unspoilt, not having quite learned to stop asking questions.  He adored that; the curious people always learnt most.  And even babies who couldn't talk to ask were agreeable.  They weren't particularly noisy if you kept them happy, and they were perfectly good company in silence or if one required a monologue.

Mary and John left at six, promising to be back at eleven in Christmas day, ready for the blasted party Mrs Hudson insisted upon.  Sherlock prayed Irene would be back for it, he wasn't sure how he'd survive the festivities without her.

He smiled to himself, thinking of Mary's contribution.  Princess Irene.  She was certainly regal enough, and definitely able to dance as one would at court.  He stretched out on the couch as he remembered dancing with her the last day before her trip, the feeling of flying and total contentment he'd never known before.  He remembered it, the way he'd decided to do the traditional thing, just this once.

Sherlock tugged awkwardly at his tie.  He'd always loathed them, but he'd YouTubed how one should dress for a date and it specifically mentioned the tie, so he was stuck.  He checked his watch.  The reservation was hours away, so they had time for the other things he'd planned, thank God.  He'd been irrationally nervous when asking Irene to go on a… date… with him, considering their already intimate relationship, but she had laughed and agreed.  She'd dress up for him, like a real date, and then he'd escort her wherever.

The dress was… completely her.  Tight fit, short hemline and dipping neck, the black and white material showed off her best parts, the belt emphasising her thin waist.  He tugged slightly at his jacket and offered her his arm, leading her to the car had hired.  He didn't want to waste time hailing a cab, not on their last night together till who knew when.  They chatted gaily the whole journey, but he never let on where they were going.

“Oh!  Sherlock…”

Irene had been lost for words when she saw where they were.  She kissed him square on the lips, a short chaste kiss of gratitude and excitement, before looking again with shining eyes.  She'd told him months ago about this, about how she'd wanted to come, and he’d actually remembered.  He handed her the tickets.  First rate seats for Gypsy at Savoy Theatre.

The show was lovely.  Both of them enjoyed it, the music flowing over them and enchanting them.  They left the building with reluctance, even before they saw the rain that was falling.  Sherlock had cursed quietly, before taking off his jacket to hold over Irene.

“Such the gentleman, Mr Holmes,” she'd said as they reached the car.

“But of course, Miss Adler,” he'd replied.  

They were right on time for the reservation at Angelo's, walking in to be greeted by the man himself.

“A candle for you and your date, Mr Holmes?  More romantic,” had come the joke.

“If you'd be so kind,” he'd replied, deadly serious.  

The man seemed disappointed it wasn't John.

He pulled out the chair for her and tucked her in, handing her the menu.  He even consented to order something more substantial than a starter, though he didn't eat more than a quarter.  Spaghetti for both, and ice cream for the Woman's afters.  Payment was waved off, as usual.  He received a twenty pound tip without noticing, as usual.

Back at Baker Street, sat together on the couch.  They were close, each with a glass of wine (the Woman's insistence) and the bottle between them.  They'd had more than a glass, he knew that, as they were both laughing more freely and louder than often.  The radio played random songs on a random station - they'd turned it on when they came in, not bothering to change channel.  A slow song came on, Sherlock didn't know the name, and without noticing his own actions he had offered Irene his hand.

“May I have this dance, Miss Adler?”

They swayed together, spun round the room together, her hands behind his neck and his one her waist.  They didn't notice when Mrs Hudson popped her head in just in time to see them rest their foreheads together and smile at each other, neither needing to say the words that hung in the air around them.  She pressed a kiss to his lips, both of them smiling in it.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”  She'd whispered.

“You're welcome, Irene.”

She'd taken the lead then, placing his hand on her zip and telling him to pull it down whilst she'd tugged him into a deep kiss by that ridiculous tie of his.  She'd taken it off him, mercifully (he really hated the damned thing), and it was terrific aim in her part that had it hook on the horn of the headphone wearing skull.  Both hastily defrocked they'd tumbled into bed together, equals in the game.

They gave each other as good as they got, both marking each other as their own, returning every move with their own.  They extracted moans and begs from each other and held them like prizes.  They relished in making the other writhe in pleasure and gasp at their next attack.  Their hot skin pressed together and limbs tangled as they worked at each other, finding each other's weak spots and exploiting them mercilessly.  They fought for the handcuffs, sucking on each other's neck to try and deter them, trying to reach behind the other as they straddled them.  Sherlock finally took them, having found that entering her was an extremely good distraction.

When she surrendered he connected her to the bed, not quite sure what to do but knowing instinct would kick in as he experimented, stroking here and pressing kisses there, finding out how to make her to weak.  She still fought back, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration to strike.  She recorded the moan he gave out as her trophy, set it as her text tone one handed, but didn't let him notice.  He recorded her, too even though the last one was still quite new.  The sweet sounds she made were too good to waste, especially when he got her in just the right place and she clawed at his back with her free hand, begging him to carry on, to give her everything and more.

He was a gentleman, he always gave the lady what she wanted.

Eleven in the morning on Christmas Day came quicker than expected, and soon enough Baker Street was packed full of excitable visitors.  Molly was there, chatting to Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.  Gavin?  Gary?  Greg!  Greg was by the tree talking to someone he couldn't see.  John and Mary spoke to the neighbours, Mrs Turner's married ones, and their pained look suggested they were full as dishwater.  Sherlock sat in his chair, watching Rosie play with her new blocks, forced to wear his new ear hat.  He'd sent his present to Irene with her, in case she hasn't got back in time for Christmas.  A necklace, a thin golden chain with a bright ruby rose hanging from it.  She'd not made any reference to anything, so he waited to see if it would be given when she returned or by text.

The party fell silent at the orgasmic sigh of Miss Adler (different to the one they'd heard last time) coming from Sherlock's phone.  They'd watched him snatch the phone in an instant before composing himself, realising he’d been perhaps slightly too eager.  He cleared his throat slightly, made a show of reading his emails before the text, even though everyone could see he was counting the moments before he could look and keep his reputation (a little bit) intact.

Chimney.  It's too big for the mantlepiece.

-IA

He moved in silence to the fireplace, aware of the eyes following him, reaching an arm inside.  His hand soon brushed against the wrapping.  Taking it out, he looked at the paper.  The same colour as her lipstick, just like the phone’s wrapping had been.  Perfectly neat and near impossible to deduce, blast her.  He opened it, the room still silent and watching.

He looked at the gift, turning it in his hand, chuckling slightly at the anti-climax.  An envelope.  Trust her to double wrap.  It smelt of her perfume, the one she wore on their date.  He opened that and took out the paper.

He froze, staring at it.  He had dropped the envelope, clutching the picture with two shaking hands, slightly pale but clearly happy.  John could only remember one similar incident - when asked to be best man.

“Sherlock, mate, are you alright?”

Still silence.  John sighed, telling the room to give him a minute, he was just buffering.

“Well well,”  came a silky voice, “I expected more of a welcome home, Sherlock.”

Irene Adler stood in the doorway, her face breaking into a smile at Sherlock’s shocked face.  Ah, how she’d treasure that look, the fact that she’d shocked Sherlock Holmes.  It wasn’t an easy thing to do.  He reached her in three strides at a speed no one else could ever hope to match, lifting her off her feet to twirl her round and kiss her.  

“That good enough?”  His voice was ringed with amusement, but he still held the look of disbelief.  His hand trembled slightly as he reached forward, placing it hesitantly on her stomach, where he knew their child was growing.

At this, the room finally caught up and exploded into a cacophony of congratulations and other sentimental things, Mrs Hudson smiling tearfully and Mrs Turner consoling her.  John clapped him on the back and Mary embraced Irene, promising all the good tips.  The father-to-be cursed as he thought of the phone calls he would have to endure with Mycroft and Mummy, earning a tap on the arm from the expectant.  They looked blissfully happy, happier than they had ever looked.  They didn't mention that their baby wasn't exactly planned, they didn't care.

Happy Christmas indeed.

Boxing day.  The day where their guests were no doubt regretting their alcohol consumption from the night before and the day Sherlock had decided to tell his family of the newest Holmes.  Mother and Father would be too exhausted to talk for long, and Mycroft too busy to lecture him on sentiment and it's dangers.  Still, he wouldn't do it quite yet.  He'd prefer to stay wrapped up with Irene, one arm draped protectively round her shoulders and one resting atop the hand she lay on her stomach, smiling slightly as she slept, waiting for her to wake.

Midday had come and gone before he decided to call Mycroft.

“Is this a social call, Brother Mine?”

“That would depend on what you considered social, Mycroft.”

Sherlock knew that his brother would detect the slight nerves and excitement in his voice and go through the options in his head.  He estimated twenty seconds for the realisation.

“Sherlock!  What have you done now?”

Twenty eight.  He was getting slow.

“I believe I have provided Mother with that grandchild she wanted so.  A congratulations would suffice, Brother Mine, but I really can't chat.  I haven't told mother yet, and-”

“She dragged me to Scotland, Sherlock.  I put you on speaker as soon as I realised the truth.”  He could almost see Mycroft’s smug smile.  “Happy Christmas, Sherlock, and congratulations.”

He debated hanging up before Mummy took the phone.  He looked to Irene for advice and only saw her laughing at his sullen face.  It was too late to hang up by the time he'd quit pouting.

“Hello, Mummy.”

He held the phone away from his ear as she alternated between joyous exclamations and annoyance that he'd called Mycroft before her.  Still, the happiness won out and he endured five minutes of her rambling before his father took pity and took the phone.  Nothing overly emotional there, a quick congratulations and chat and they were done.  He was free, finally.

He joined Irene on the couch.

“So…”

He couldn't find the words.

“Agreed.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't need to.  I can read you like a book, Mr Holmes.  You don't need to speak for me to know you're both excited and terrified of this.”

He nodded slightly.

“Mostly excited.”  He pointed out.  She nodded.  He grinned.

“Any ideas for a name?”

[kadobeclothing]

After Ulrika Jonsson’s furious letter to her breasts, five Sun writers pen notes to their own boobs – The Sun

THESE writers have something to get off their chest. After Ulrika Jonsson penned a furious letter to her breasts, five Sun writers want to share their thoughts on their bosom. 9 ‘Seriously, t*ts. You get on my t*ts’, said Ulrika JonssonCredit: Rex FeaturesUlrika, 52, took to Instagram last week to complain about the fluctuating size and shape of her assets. She told how she had a breast reduction in 2009, to flatter her shape,  but the menopause had caused them to inflate. And having unexpectedly lost weight recently, she has watched her bosom shrink and lose “volume”. The mum-of-four ended her blistering rant: “Seriously, t*ts. You get on my t*ts.” Here, Page 3 girls Rhian Sugden and Peta Todd, and writers Bella Battle, Samantha Brick, and Luce Brett reveal what their breasts have meant to them over the years. 9 The Sun’s story on Ulrika’s rant at to her boobs’While you’ve still got it, flaunt it’ Rhian Sugden says: Hey Girls,  You’ve had many names over the years, chosen by boyfriends, instagrammers and Page 3 fanatics, but to me you will always be the Girls. I am forever grateful for the opportunities you have given me in my life – you have opened up more doors for me than any man ever has. 9 I love the fact that you are a pair of show-offs. No matter how much I try to cover you up, you always, somehow, manage to let the world know you existMy glorious boobs, thanks for being such troupers and going with the flow when I decided I wanted to flash you to the general public. Twelve years and counting you’ve done me proud, Girls. What with your late arrival into my life I felt the need to show those bullies, who called me flat-chested, that good things come to those who wait. I love the fact that you are a pair of show-offs. No matter how much I try to cover you up, you always, somehow, manage to let the world know you exist. I’m sorry for threatening to slice you off to a smaller cup size but your endless fluctuations can be quite stressful at times. Some days you make it difficult for me to run up the stairs, and my dance moves are no longer my own – you certainly know how to steal my thunder. 9 I am forever grateful for the opportunities you have given me in my life – you have opened up more doors for me than any man ever has.But I just want to say thanks for always being the front of house and shaping my clothes nicely. Most of all, thanks for giving me the opportunity to forge a career where I have been able to earn a living and become one of the longest-standing Page 3 girls. Without you this would have been impossible. I’m forever grateful for your existence and my femininity exudes because of you. I promise to be more supportive in our ups and downs, and I dread the day that gravity takes over and you have to stare at the ground. Until then – while you’ve still got it, flaunt it. Love, Rhian Sugden ‘Girls, you were my suit of armour’ Peta Todd says: Ahhhh boobs, My dear old not-quite-as-gravity-defying-as-you-once-were boobs. For almost a decade you paid my wages and became a suit of armour, protecting me from the judgments of who I was because of my Page 3 job. 9 I have both loved and loathed ‘the girls’ over the years but I am not them and they are not me.Credit: Alison Webster – The SunI found it easier to brush off the stereotype when people made assumptions about the type of person that was behind the bra. At school, I knew I was the same person I was before puberty hit but now I needed bigger shirts that fitted properly. When you developed almost overnight, it prompted girls at school to snipe that I “stuffed my bra” and boys to suddenly care what I had to say. I found it confusing that the size of my crop top could change how people thought of me. I quickly learned it was about them, not me or my bra size, and I couldn’t let it affect how I viewed my body. Do I sometimes wish you were smaller so I could wear nice tops and pretty bras? Yup. Or at least lighter so I didn’t get huge dips in my shoulders from their weight? For sure. 9 I found it confusing that the size of my crop top could change how people thought of meCredit: Stewart Williams – The SunI certainly do wish society didn’t define our intelligence or worth by a cup size. But when I think of you, my boobs now, I don’t think of the magazine covers or the dirty looks from girls thinking I had them “on display” on purpose, when I had actually tried to hide them. I think of my babies tucked in, close to my heart as they took their first breath. I can feel a clammy hand of a restless toddler inside my top for comfort and them shouting out “boooobies” when I’m getting dressed. I have both loved and loathed “the girls” over the years but I am not them and they are not me. But together our story certainly hasn’t been boring. Love Peta Todd ‘Your small size pleases me greatly’ Samantha Brick says: Hey Girls! I am celebrating my 49th birthday next month and I want to say thank you for getting me this far. When I admire you in the mirror, you please me greatly. You haven’t headed south. You don’t droop. You haven’t a single stretch mark. You certainly haven’t given me any back pain, either. Granted your 34B size swells a bit just before my period, but if anything, I like you even more then. 9 When I admire you in the mirror, you please me greatlyI know I wasn’t always happy with you and for that I am sorry. In my late teens, when I was stuck with a tiny cleavage, I was dead frustrated. Back then Samantha Fox had glorious D cups. That’s why I toyed with the idea of tinkering with your size. In my 20s I wanted Baywatch-sized boobs, but thank God I didn’t get them. The ease with which we were booked to go under the knife put me off for starters. That’s why, in my 30s, I visited another – more sensible – surgeon, who advised me to pop bags filled with rice into each cup of the bra size I thought I wanted. When I did, I was horrified – I was Dolly  Parton-esque. That was 15 years ago. Since then I’ve been very happy to say “I’ve got small boobs”. Small boobs are Mother Nature’s best kept secret. You look perfectly perky braless in a vest top, string bikini or boob tube. That’s why I bloody love you girls. Love Samantha Brick ‘Even when I dieted you’d stick around’ Luce Brett says: You two, You exceeded expectations (and regular sizes) from the start. You were easy to hate, wobbling, heavy as others wore pretty crop tops. You always upstaged me, entered rooms first and restricted my choice of wedding dress. 9 You gave me a view I’ll never forget – a little head, feeding, my sons bobbing and snugglingI resented it when people stared or spoke to you, not to my face. When strangers gawped – or worse – groped you I wanted to shout, “This is my body, not a fashion choice. They aren’t who I am”. But life went on. I accepted that even when I dieted you just stuck around, belligerently buxom. You shone when my babies came. Midwives helped you to feed. Pumps increased supply. And soon you were my resilient “lucky t*ts”, the good news after a long and gruelling delivery. You gave me a view I’ll never forget – a little head, feeding, my sons bobbing and snuggling. Sagging, and still needing some support, you emerged a monument to the ups and downs of womanhood. Like me, a little broken, stretch-marked from ambition and hard work but still hanging on. In mid-life you are a reminder, too. We all know too many who have lost a boob – had them removed, cut up, rebuilt. We’ve seen too many women in that medical nightmare after a cell went rogue.You had another lesson for me last year, when we lost a friend. Whatever shape or size you are, you are at least still here. And I am grateful, very grateful, for that. Love Luce Brett MYSTIC MEG January 31: When you meet a friend for coffee your new love should be there too SO RAD Cleaning fans hail tip of using your radiator to make your house smell fresh MAGIC CARPET B&M’s selling fluffy rugs for £2 and they come in Mrs Hinch’s favourite grey TESC-NO Furious mum demands Tesco remove their ‘weird’ Valentine’s Day card for kids SEX ED Love Island sex positions lowdown – the Mermaid, Candle, Butter Churner and Turtle CROWNING GLORY Kate Middleton can borrow Queen’s jewels after ‘befriending Angela Kelly’  ‘You’re actually a pair of riotous smashers’ Bella Battle says: Dear Funbags, Oh how I hated you when I was young. Longing to be girlish and slight, I prayed for a neat handful so I wouldn’t need a bra in summer. Instead, you bounded on the scene like two ungainly terriers squabbling over a squeaky toy. Poring over magazine articles on “his biggest physical turn-offs”, I was convinced you were all wrong. Boobs that were “right” resembled plump little peaches with a tiny cherry on top. You were like a very drunk version of that. 9 My friends may mourn the perky boobs of their youth but I secretly, guiltily, welcome them to my clubCredit: Olivia West – The SunYou wobbled too much, you couldn’t be bothered to stand to attention, and (your worst sin) you played merry hell with the nipple-to-breast ratio. I quite liked that you were big but I was otherwise deeply ashamed of you. Years later, I see what a waste of energy all that misery was –  you’re actually a pair of riotous smashers. I give less of a toss about perfection the older I get. So where once I wanted a refund, now I’m pretty chuffed with you. You make me feel powerful and sexy. I know what clothes flatter you and men seem to love you. Even better, I love you. Of course, it helps that gravity and children have levelled the playing field around me. My friends may mourn the perky boobs of their youth but I secretly, guiltily, welcome them to my club. I’ve also seen women I love wrestle with breast cancer, forced to rebuild the jigsaw of their femininity after mastectomies. So I know how lucky I am to have you. I buy lingerie that flatters and hugs, rather than tortures you. I recently weighed you on some kitchen scales at a party. I intend to cherish every single second you remain perched higher than my navel. Yours gratefully Bella Battle Ulrika Jonsson ‘goes back 30 years’ as she does the weather on GMB  Source link

source https://www.kadobeclothing.store/after-ulrika-jonssons-furious-letter-to-her-breasts-five-sun-writers-pen-notes-to-their-own-boobs-the-sun/

[yahoo-shutdown-corner-blog]

Is Matthew Stafford worth the richest contract in NFL history?

Welcome to the Wednesday War Room, where Yahoo Sports’ football minds kick around the topics of the day. Want in? Email us with your questions. Today, we’re talking Matthew Stafford and fast food. Onward!

1. Very simple: Is Matthew Stafford worth the most valuable NFL contract in the history of recorded time?

Frank Schwab: Of course he was. Let’s get this out of the way: There’s no option in which you can offer Stafford half of what he got and he accepts it. The price tag was $135 million over five years. Pay or let him go. Don’t bring some fantasy-land third option where Stafford accepts less to me. And there’s no chance the Lions are better off without Stafford.

Stafford isn’t great, but it’s really, really, really hard to find a quarterback better than Stafford if you don’t have one. Ask the Jacksonville Jaguars or Denver Broncos or Houston Texans or … you get the point. What the Lions need to do is help Stafford out. I’ll grant you Calvin Johnson, but who is the best offensive lineman, running back and tight end Stafford has ever played with? (Sad but true: The Lions have not had one Pro Bowl player at any of those positions over Stafford’s eight seasons … not one!) The one time the Lions gave Stafford two competent offensive teammates – Johnson and Golden Tate – they went 11-5 in 2014. The next year Johnson broke down and then retired. There’s no way you can look at the Lions and ascertain that Stafford is the problem. He’s practically the only reason they have any hope at all. And the price tag to keep him was $135 million. Not paying it and then praying to find a replacement as good as Stafford would have been the most Lions thing ever.

Zach Pereles: Yes, Matthew Stafford is worth it. First you have to look at the stability: Between 2000 and 2010, the Lions started 12 different quarterbacks. Since, only Stafford has started. To further this point of ineptitude, remember 2008? The Lions went 0-16, which led to their top overall pick of Stafford. Three years later — Stafford’s first fully healthy year — they were in the playoffs, and they’ve been to the postseason twice more since. Sure, you can point to his sub-.500 record as a starter, but the systematic failures around him are undoubtedly the leading cause of his underwhelming win-to-loss ratio. Case-in-point: In the five years when Stafford was fully healthy and had Calvin Johnson, only once did the team’s defense finish higher than 15th in the league in points allowed.

If you thought Stafford was simply a byproduct of Johnson’s greatness, 2016 proved you wrong. He posted the second-best completion percentage of his career and the second-best interceptions percentage of his career, and he led a league-leading eight game-winning drives. In Stafford’s six healthy years, he’s 48-48. The Lions needed the entire 11 seasons previous to Stafford’s starting streak to hit 48 wins. No, he’s never won a playoff game, and no, he’s not the best quarterback in the NFL. But the turnaround that franchise has experienced with a healthy Stafford, his age (29) and his ability to win with what little around him makes this contract worth it. Detroit has its quarterback locked up, and that is invaluable.

Jay Busbee: This is one of those moments where I wish I’d paid more attention in Econ class. There’s a term for this, sunk cost or opportunity cost or cost-benefit analysis or something involving cost—whatever, this is Shutdown Corner, not the freaking London School of Economics. Point being: the Lions couldn’t afford NOT to overpay Stafford, at least not without expecting to consign themselves to years of hopelessness (as opposed to now, where they have flickers of hope). There are 32 starting quarterback slots in the NFL and only about 10 decent quarterbacks; supply-and-demand being what it is, if you’ve got one in your barn, you’re gonna have to pay up to keep him there. Sorry, Detroit. And start saving those pennies, Green Bay and Atlanta.

Shalise Manza-Young: Can I just say no? Just, no.

Look, quarterbacks get a disproportionate amount of the glory and the blame in the game these days, but they also get absolutely the biggest salaries. And I get it; it’s harder to find a standout quarterback these days than it is to find nuance on Twitter. Stafford isn’t terrible – but “isn’t terrible” should not equate to “highest-paid in NFL history.” The Shutdown Corner Superfriends discussed this virtually this week, and it was noted that Stafford has never had a top running back to help take the pressure off him, which certainly would help at times. But he did have Calvin Johnson on his side for the first seven years of his career, and how many other quarterbacks can say that?

Anthony Sulla-Heffinger: Yes*. Is Matthew Stafford capable of winning a Super Bowl? Yes, so that alone makes him worth $27 million a year, but there’s one big catch. The Lions aren’t close to hoisting the Lombardi trophy. If a team like the Broncos or Texans (sorry to open old wounds Houston), would have signed Stafford to this huge contract, it would have made perfect sense because they’re a quarterback away from being a perennial contender. Does anyone outside of Detroit believe the Lions with Stafford are better than Green Bay and Aaron Rodgers, who will surpass Stafford’s deal eventually? No. This kind of deal will make it difficult for the Lions to build a true contender around Stafford – just look at Baltimore’s struggles in recent years – but unfortunately, Detroit’s front office really had no other choice.

Jordan Schultz: It is hard to justify such a rich contract for a player who has yet to win a playoff game and one who boasts a 5-46 all-time record against winning teams. Make no mistake though: This is a deal that had to get done. Matthew Stafford is a fine quarterback and certainly one that you can build a winning team around. Last year alone, he captained an NFL-record eight come-from-behind wins in the fourth quarter. Detroit started its entire rebuilding project around Stafford in 2009, and the Lions can’t run the risk of one day losing their franchise quarterback to free agency. Remember too that last season, the 29-year-old posted career bests in both interception percentage (1.7) and QBR (70.5). The NFL salary cap will ensure that Stafford won’t be the owner of the highest paid contract in league history for long. In the past, that title has belonged to Joe Flacco, then Derek Carr and will soon perhaps belong to Jameis Winston. For now, though it seems like a crazy move by Detroit, it is actually a sound business decision.

Podcast: The ultimate fantasy football guide with Yahoo’s Andy Behrens

2. If NFL quarterbacks were a fast-food restaurant, which restaurant would they be?

Matthew Stafford: Chipotle Constantly hated on but typically good enough and often comes through in the clutch. -Schwab

Matt Ryan: Wendy’s Of the three biggest burger chains, Wendy’s to me has the best burgers. But their fries, meh. That’s Matt Ryan: in many ways, very good. In some ways, he’s missing just a little something. -Young

Aaron Rodgers: Waffle House You can debate whether Waffle House counts as fast food because of the presence of waitresses, but I defy you to find faster food than here. Similarly, I defy you to find a better quarterback in the NFL on a week-to-week basis. Sure, every so often you’re going to get a dud Rodgers game, just like you’ll get a pile of hashbrowns that augurs its way through your gut, but even in those worst moments, you’ll come away with a hell of a story for later. And at 3 a.m., a Waffle House meal is every bit as transcendent as a Rodgers Hail Mary with three seconds remaining. -Busbee

Russell Wilson: Subway Like the world’s biggest fast food chain, Wilson is incredibly versatile. He runs. He throws. Heck, he even has three career receptions to his name. And like choosing all the toppings at Subway can be overwhelming, the multitude of formations in which Wilson can function — out of the shotgun, under center, off play-action and even in the option — overwhelms defense. Along those lines, Wilson improvises incredibly well, often turning a snap over his head or a botched exchange into a positive play or at least a throwaway. With Subway, you can pile the toppings high and things may get a little hectic, but no matter what the odds look like halfway through creating your meal, you’ll usually come out with something solid. –Pereles

Blake Bortles: White Castle Think about the only time you really eat White Castle, when nothing else is open late at night and you’re either inebriated or are feeling nostalgic about the one time it really hit the spot. That’s Jacksonville with Bortles right now. It’s 2 a.m. (end of the preseason), Doug Marrone may or may not be drunk, Chad Henne isn’t the answer, and the Jaguars are reminding themselves of that one season where Bortles threw 35 TDs and more than 4,400 yards. Sure, since it’s the only option, it seems like a good idea to start him, but once you digest his play and wake up in the morning (0-3 heading into October) you’re probably going to be sick to your stomach, too. -Sulla

Joe Flacco: Dairy Queen Both have one really good product. For Flacco, it’s his 2013 Super Bowl ring. For Dairy Queen it’s the Blizzard — seriously, has anyone ever ordered something other than the Blizzard from Dairy Queen? Fans of Flacco and DQ cling to that one product, but most people see that outside of that one ELITE offering, it’s just another run-of-the-mill option on the whole. -Pereles

Tom Brady: Five Guys Five Guys is consistent, and consistently darn tasty. Their burgers are great, their fries are great (even cold, which is a flat-out miracle), their employees are usually great. When you’re allowing yourself a cheat day and searching for something to nosh, Five Guys is clutch. Just like Brady. -Young

Brian Hoyer, Captain D’s I don’t know that I’ve ever eaten in a Captain D’s, and I don’t know that I’ve ever actually seen Brian Hoyer play. Yet somehow both have hung around for years, so there’s got to be something useful they bring to the table, right? Right … ? -Busbee

Dak Prescott: Burger King Sure, there are pricier, fancier burger joints out there (Five Guys, Shake Shack) but you can get a sandwich that is just as good for half the price from BK. After being picked in the fourth round, Prescott helped lead the Cowboys to the NFC’s top seed with as impressive a rookie campaign as we’ve ever seen and it cost Dallas less than $550K, more than can be said for top picks Jared Goff and Carson Wentz. If the Cowboys are America’s team, Prescott is the Whopper. –Sulla

Drew Brees: Chick-Fil-A Not only is his product on the field great, but he is well liked, both by players and fans. He possesses a world class ability to make those around him better – like how the fried chicken sandwich complements the waffle potato fries. Brees’ rare versatility is what really separates him though. He can tuck it and run when need be, or he can drop back and throw the long ball. Chick-fil-A meanwhile, offers up a wide range of products, like their “superfood” side and yogurt parfait. Whatever your palate desires, they will make sure you’re satisfied. –Schultz

Eli Manning: Whataburger Sure you probably remember some great moments with Whataburger, but when you really look at the full body of work, is it really that good? Still, some people think it belongs in the Hall of Fame. –Schwab

Matthew Stafford in action. (AP)

____ Jay Busbee is a writer for Yahoo Sports and the author of EARNHARDT NATION, on sale now at Amazon or wherever books are sold. Contact him at jay.busbee@yahoo.com or find him on Twitter or on Facebook.

More from Yahoo Sports: • Browns make stunning cut, release Pro Bowl star • McGregor nemesis offers winner-take-all fight • Thomas on Celtics-Cavs trade drama: ‘I am not damaged’ • The ill-advised tweet that could sabotage De La Hoya

[blotiisms]

- and on one of many chairs strewn about in the music room, the brunette’s hands begin to work their magic on the acoustic guitar she previously tuned, a beat and tune echoed throughout the quiet room as her voice eventually joins in.

ooh, baby, don’t you know i suffer? ooh, baby, can you hear me moan?

you caught me under false pretenses; how long before you let me go?

with the tapping of her foot against the tile, she pays no mind to the outside world. what mattered was her own entertainment, it seemed.

[blotiisms]

now i know they’ll never leave me, even as they run away.

they will still torment me, calm me, hurt me, leave me - come what may...

wasting in my lonely tower, waiting by an open door.

i’ll fool myself; they’ll walk right in, and be with me forever more.

[blotiisms]

“ see the pyramids along the nile ... watch the sun rise from the tropic isle. just remember, darling, all the while, you belong to me ... see the market place in old algiers ... send me photographs and souvenirs. just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me ... “

[blotiisms]

“ so tell me how you’re sleepin’ easy, how you’re only thinking of yourself -

show me how you justify telling all your lies like second nature

listen; mark my words, one day you will pay, you will pay -

karma’s gonna come collect your debt. “

[blotiisms]

.. this wasn’t good.

heading back to her dorm, she took a second to glance down at her mage pen out of boredom - her brow furrowing and her heart sinking when she noticed the jewel symbolizing her dorm. the jewel wasn’t clear at all. instead, there were tiny grey splotches scattered across it. at first, avery thought her mind was playing tricks on her, and thus she went to wipe off what she thought was dirt or grime... a second time, and a third time, before the sinking feeling worsened. that wasn’t dirt. 

it was blot.

there had to be a way to prevent another overblot like this, right? everyone at night raven had already dealt with so much... overblots, events and the like. there just had to be a way... and though avery was grateful she was given time off from her studies to properly grieve... what if it wasn’t enough? what if it made the blot accumulation worsen? the thoughts alone scared her.

it wasn’t easy for her to ask someone what she could do to prevent it. perhaps it was for the better that she focus on other things - like not running into this student she almost bumped shoulders with.

“ ah. sorry... guess i got lost in my thoughts, huh? “

[blotiisms]

“ can’t get me if they can’t see me. “

looks like tsurumi’s found herself a nice branch to perch on for the time being.

[blotiisms]

“ one down... the rest of the farmers to go. “

[blotiisms]

... she’s holding her bean gun close to her, looking left and right before scurrying to hide somewhere out of sight. perhaps she can shoot at the monster team before she would inevitably be caught.

[blotiisms]

... and there she is, having crashed at her desk. regardless of how long she’s been out like a light for, was it really a good idea to be asleep all hunched over like that?