#whats better than sherlock holmes its

[abstractfrog]

SILVER BLAZE PART THREE - happy jonkday everyone. one of these days i'll draw a scene that doesn't take place at night

[changewingwentz]

It’s chaos up in my head, my demons are my best friends

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The reincarnate album...pretty good from a new fan pov🎉👍

[mostlysignssomeportents]

It all started with a mouse

For the public domain, time stopped in 1998, when the Sonny Bono Copyright Act froze copyright expirations for 20 years. In 2019, time started again, with a massive crop of works from 1923 returning to the public domain, free for all to use and adapt:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2019/

No one is better at conveying the power of the public domain than Jennifer Jenkins and James Boyle, who run the Duke Center for the Study of the Public Domain. For years leading up to 2019, the pair published an annual roundup of what we would have gotten from the public domain in a universe where the 1998 Act never passed. Since 2019, they've switched to celebrating what we're actually getting each year. Last year's was a banger:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/20/free-for-2023/#oy-canada

But while there's been moderate excitement at the publicdomainification of "Yes, We Have No Bananas," AA Milne's "Now We Are Six," and Sherlock Holmes, the main event that everyone's anticipated arrives on January 1, 2024, when Mickey Mouse enters the public domain.

The first appearance of Mickey Mouse was in 1928's Steamboat Willie. Disney was critical to the lobbying efforts that extended copyright in 1976 and again in 1998, so much so that the 1998 Act is sometimes called the Mickey Mouse Protection Act. Disney and its allies were so effective at securing these regulatory gifts that many people doubted that this day would ever come. Surely Disney would secure another retrospective copyright term extension before Jan 1, 2024. I had long arguments with comrades about this – people like Project Gutenberg founder Michael S Hart (RIP) were fatalistically certain the public domain would never come back.

But they were wrong. The public outrage over copyright term extensions came too late to stave off the slow-motion arson of the 1976 and 1998 Acts, but it was sufficient to keep a third extension away from the USA. Canada wasn't so lucky: Justin Trudeau let Trump bully him into taking 20 years' worth of works out of Canada's public domain in the revised NAFTA agreement, making swathes of works by living Canadian authors illegal at the stroke of a pen, in a gift to the distant descendants of long-dead foreign authors.

Now, with Mickey's liberation bare days away, there's a mounting sense of excitement and unease. Will Mickey actually be free? The answer is a resounding YES! (albeit with a few caveats). In a prelude to this year's public domain roundup, Jennifer Jenkins has published a full and delightful guide to The Mouse and IP from Jan 1 on:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/mickey/

Disney loves the public domain. Its best-loved works, from The Sorcerer's Apprentice to Sleeping Beauty, Pinnocchio to The Little Mermaid, are gorgeous, thoughtful, and lively reworkings of material from the public domain. Disney loves the public domain – we just wish it would share.

Disney loves copyright's other flexibilities, too, like fair use. Walt told the papers that he took his inspiration for Steamboat Willie from Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks, making fair use of their performances to imbue Mickey with his mischief and derring do. Disney loves fair use – we just wish it would share.

Disney loves copyright's limitations. Steamboat Willie was inspired by Buster Keaton's silent film Steamboat Bill (titles aren't copyrightable). Disney loves copyright's limitations – we just wish it would share.

As Jenkins writes, Disney's relationship to copyright is wildly contradictory. It's the poster child for the public domain's power as a source of inspiration for worthy (and profitable) new works. It's also the chief villain in the impoverishment and near-extinction of the public domain. Truly, every pirate wants to be an admiral.

Disney's reliance on – and sabotage of – the public domain is ironic. Jenkins compares it to "an oil company relying on solar power to run its rigs." Come January 1, Disney will have to share.

Now, if you've heard anything about this, you've probably been told that Mickey isn't really entering the public domain. Between trademark claims and later copyrightable elements of Mickey's design, Mickey's status will be too complex to understand. That's totally wrong.

Jenkins illustrates the relationship between these three elements in (what else) a Mickey-shaped Venn diagram. Topline: you can use all the elements of Mickey that are present in Steamboat Willie, along with some elements that were added later, provided that you make it clear that your work isn't affiliated with Disney.

Let's unpack that. The copyrightable status of a character used to be vague and complex, but several high-profile cases have brought clarity to the question. The big one is Les Klinger's case against the Arthur Conan Doyle estate over Sherlock Holmes. That case established that when a character appears in both public domain and copyrighted works, the character is in the public domain, and you are "free to copy story elements from the public domain works":

https://freesherlock.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/klinger-order-on-motion-for-summary-judgment-c.pdf

This case was appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, who declined to hear it. It's settled law.

So, which parts of Mickey aren't going into the public domain? Elements that came later: white gloves, color. But that doesn't mean you can't add different gloves, or different colorways. The idea of a eyes with pupils is not copyrightable – only the specific eyes that Disney added.

Other later elements that don't qualify for copyright: a squeaky mouse voice, being adorable, doing jaunty dances, etc. These are all generic characteristics of cartoon mice, and they're free for you to use. Jenkins is more cautious on whether you can give your Mickey red shorts. She judges that "a single, bright, primary color for an article of clothing does not meet the copyrightability threshold" but without settled law, you might wanna change the colors.

But what about trademark? For years, Disney has included a clip from Steamboat Willie at the start of each of its films. Many observers characterized this as a bid to create a de facto perpetual copyright, by making Steamboat Willie inescapably associated with products from Disney, weaving an impassable web of trademark tripwires around it.

But trademark doesn't prevent you from using Steamboat Willie. It only prevents you from misleading consumers "into thinking your work is produced or sponsored by Disney." Trademarks don't expire so long as they're in use, but uses that don't create confusion are fair game under trademark.

Copyrights and trademarks can overlap. Mickey Mouse is a copyrighted character, but he's also an indicator that a product or service is associated with Disney. While Mickey's copyright expires in a couple weeks, his trademark doesn't. What happens to an out-of-copyright work that is still a trademark?

Luckily for us, this is also a thoroughly settled case. As in, this question was resolved in a unanimous 2000 Supreme Court ruling, Dastar v. Twentieth Century Fox. A live trademark does not extend an expired copyright. As the Supremes said:

[This would] create a species of mutant copyright law that limits the public’s federal right to copy and to use expired copyrights.

This elaborates on the Ninth Circuit's 1996 Maljack Prods v Goodtimes Home Video Corp:

[Trademark][ cannot be used to circumvent copyright law. If material covered by copyright law has passed into the public domain, it cannot then be protected by the Lanham Act without rendering the Copyright Act a nullity.

Despite what you might have heard, there is no ambiguity here. Copyrights can't be extended through trademark. Period. Unanimous Supreme Court Decision. Boom. End of story. Done.

But even so, there are trademark considerations in how you use Steamboat Willie after Jan 1, but these considerations are about protecting the public, not Disney shareholders. Your uses can't be misleading. People who buy or view your Steamboat Willie media or products have to be totally clear that your work comes from you, not Disney.

Avoiding confusion will be very hard for some uses, like plush toys, or short idents at the beginning of feature films. For most uses, though, a prominent disclaimer will suffice. The copyright page for my 2003 debut novel Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom contains this disclaimer:

This novel is a work of fiction, set in an imagined future. All the characters and events portrayed in this book, including the imagined future of the Magic Kingdom, are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. The Walt Disney Company has not authorized or endorsed this novel.

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250196385/downandoutinthemagickingdom

Here's the Ninth Circuit again:

When a public domain work is copied, along with its title, there is little likelihood of confusion when even the most minimal steps are taken to distinguish the publisher of the original from that of the copy. The public is receiving just what it believes it is receiving—the work with which the title has become associated. The public is not only unharmed, it is unconfused.

Trademark has many exceptions. The First Amendment protects your right to use trademarks in expressive ways, for example, to recreate famous paintings with Barbie dolls:

https://www.copyright.gov/fair-use/summaries/mattel-walkingmountain-9thcir2003.pdf

And then there's "nominative use": it's not a trademark violation to use a trademark to accurately describe a trademarked thing. "We fix iPhones" is not a trademark violation. Neither is 'Works with HP printers.' This goes double for "expressive" uses of trademarks in new works of art:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rogers_v._Grimaldi

What about "dilution"? Trademark protects a small number of superbrands from uses that "impair the distinctiveness or harm the reputation of the famous mark, even when there is no consumer confusion." Jenkins says that the Mickey silhouette and the current Mickey character designs might be entitled to protection from dilution, but Steamboat Willie doesn't make the cut.

Jenkins closes with a celebration of the public domain's ability to inspire new works, like Disney's Three Musketeers, Disney's Christmas Carol, Disney's Beauty and the Beast, Disney's Around the World in 80 Days, Disney's Alice in Wonderland, Disney's Snow White, Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame, Disney's Sleeping Beauty, Disney's Cinderella, Disney's Little Mermaid, Disney's Pinocchio, Disney's Huck Finn, Disney's Robin Hood, and Disney's Aladdin. These are some of the best-loved films of the past century, and made Disney a leading example of what talented, creative people can do with the public domain.

As of January 1, Disney will start to be an example of what talented, creative people give back to the public domain, joining Dickens, Dumas, Carroll, Verne, de Villeneuve, the Brothers Grimm, Twain, Hugo, Perrault and Collodi.

Public domain day is 17 days away. Creators of all kinds: start your engines!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/15/mouse-liberation-front/#free-mickey

Image: Doo Lee (modified) https://web.law.duke.edu/sites/default/files/images/centers/cspd/pdd2024/mickey/Steamboat-WIllie-Enters-Public-Domain.jpeg

CC BY 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed.en

[txttletale]

If we're asking about games on your list of favourites, as someone who adored Paradise Killer, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it! I always enjoy your analysis.

so first of all the aesthetics of paradise killer are really good. usually games that were written in english but read like translations from japanese irritated me, but here i think it is very much leaned into and embraced as an aesthetic and set of cultural signifiers in its own right, which i really enjoy. the character designs are outlandish and charming. but what i really like about it is like, the way the core premise works

in most detective games, there is a correct answer, and not getting it is a failure state. you can't end a case in ace attorney with your innocent client being convicted, you can't get the wrong guy in the frogware sherlock holmes games. and this invariably, even if the game is critical in other aspects, tends to come around to a fundamental faith in the legal system and authority, right--something that's kind of baked into the detective genre at a fundamental level.

paradise killer upends that by simply saying "you are the detective. get the facts you need, make a compelling argument, and if the authorities above you believe you then you get to distribute justice as you see fit." you arrive on the island you're investigating and you're immediately told "hey, this member of a disenfranchised underclass did it, we've already arrested him, here's the evidence." and absolutely nothing stops you from taking that evidence and walking into the trial room and presenting it and saying "yep, he did it!" and beating the game! it's not a 'bad ending', you don't get a big popup saying 'you're wrong', the powers that be just accept the convenient narrative you've been given to present and everything moves on.

i like this from both, like, an ideological perspective, and also from an interpersonal stakes perspective. in most detective games, you can't miss a crucial piece of evidence, either because the game will not proceed until you pick it up or because you'll be forced to restart the 'trial' or 'deduction' segment when you game over because you're missing it. in paradise killer, whatever argument you put forward, if enough evidence supports it--even if you know for a fact it's wrong!--leads to the person you're accusing being executed. so the stakes are much higher, right, because instead of a game over screen and trying again, getting it wrong means that's just... how the game ends, with an innocent person being executed.

and more importantly i think it does a fantastic job--better imo even than something like disco elysium--at deconstructing the fantasy of justice. a constant theme of the game and something that the protagonist repeats often is "there is a difference between facts and the truth". you can withhold evidence at trial because it implicates your friends, or misrepresent it to implicate that bitch you hate. nothing in the system exists to stop you getting wrong, in fact your superiors encourage you to make the easy completely stritched up conviction and move on with your life.

and at the end, even if you get it right, if you catch all the criminals--all the time you spend investigating this island shows that, like, the society you're part of is fucking evil! you're all deranged immortals making constant human sacrifices to your evil gods! and you don't change that by solving the case, the whole thing just packs up and moves on. you don't get any comfortable resolution to that or to your role in it. you can play lady love dies as a diehard true believer or as a dissident rebel but either way she's ultimately just another cog in a machine, dispensing an alien and uncaring justice that is only attached to any real morality or truth by your decision to do so. a genuinely incredible game.

plus i like how whenever you open it a voice says 'paradise killer' so you know you're playing paradise killer

[fancyfeathers]

zainiscompletelydone333 asked a question

omg but imagine william's potential darling to be like agatha christie? a mystery writer whose mysteries are almost impossible to solve. whether or not they are as smart as the masterminds or detectives in her books, her stories do come close to confusing even sherlock or william a bit. if you've read her "and then there were none" SPOILERS its about a judge killing people for being evil and that is so william coded. anyways i'm straying far what I mean is william could be a quiet fan, and as the lord of crime, even replicate some of her stories as part of his crimes. watching his darling's face pale at the unknown criminal doing such a thing.....ASDKSHD an when he finally does officially meet her, he wonders if she'l ever base a character off him. a hero, or perhaps a villain?

For some reason this isn’t showing up in my tumblr inbox but thank god for my email cause this is a gem! Thank you @zainiscompletelydone333 for this!

Okay I love Agatha Christie, an actual icon! Fun fact she actually faked her own disappearance in 1926 and the police couldn’t find her for over a week and she just took a vacation to London after her husband threatened to leave her and she said fuck it and decided to treat herself. Then also Arthur Conan Doyle the author of Sherlock Holmes was hired to find her.

Anyway I am getting so off track but I love this lady so much so here we go!!!

But yes William would absolutely adore a darling like her. Imagine him first finding her works for the first time, perhaps one of his brothers or Sebastian or Fred was reading her work and just out of curiosity he picks up one of her books and is just immediately enthralled. Whenever he is not busy he is reading or even rereading one of her books and even begins to be teased by others for his slight addiction to her works.

Then when he and Sherlock is on the train investigating the murder that is when he gets an idea from both this and one of her books.

Weeks later an aristocrat who had been acting as a loan shark was found dead on a train in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside, just like a murder from one of her most famous book…

But what William did not know is that she was on that same train…

And of course she found the body…

As William was making his way back to his seat to join his brothers, he hears a blood curdling scream and he simply chalks it up to someone finding the body. Then the panicked woman is brought to her seat by the staff and she looks a mess, pale faced, tears rolling down her face, hyperventilating, all things someone should be after seeing a dead body.

She is being asked questions when she finally calms down enough and William’s ears prick up as he hears words he never thought he would hear…

“Oh god… this is my fault…”

He turns his head to the booth next to him and sees her in absolute terror as she speaks to the train conductor.

She is right next to him…

She is terrified, horrified even…

And she is beautiful.

After everything from that incident had settled and she is off at home, trying to work on her next work for the life of her but being horrified by what she just witnessed…

Then more deaths come to surface all with the same pattern…

They are based on her books…

The author is absolutely horrified, she is loosing sleep, not eating as she should, and has rarely left her house in weeks…

Then she gets a knock on her door from a certain detective who was hired to look into one of the deaths, Sherlock Holmes. While he may like her books, he has noticed the pattern like she has and has one request for her…

“I want to help you to solve these cases. Who better to solve murders based on books better than the author herself?”

At first she refuses and dismisses him, but then when she is laying in bed that night she realizes he was right.

Her drawing room becomes a mess of her old notes that she had tucked away from when she wrote her book, copies of her her books with dozens bookmarks in them, newspaper clippings all around, and evidence she had Sherlock get access to with his connections that she doesn’t have.

After days of pure investigation and nights of no sleep she finally was able to figure out where the next murder will be, just by what books are left…

But that’s the thing…

There is not a single work of hers left that this murderer has not take inspiration from…

The only thing left is the author, and she can only assume that she is the next target. So without telling Sherlock, she packs up her bags and fakes her own disappearance, to fool both the police and the murderer.

She spends so much time in the shadows, watching and waiting to see who looks into her disappearance, seeing how people react to it, but nothing, not a thing…

It frustrates her even further…

Then she finally decides to return home, feeling like a failure. Her house if just how she left it, even the papers in the drawing room that look like the work of a madman that she will have to clean up after her failure so she can go back to what she is good at, fictional murders not really ones…

No she can’t do that, that would only give the murderer ideas…

So she quits.

No one hears from her for months as she nods herself taking up a librarian position at a local library, at least she is doing something with her literature. She says goodbye to Mr. Holmes and tucks away all her old books and works in progress that will never be finished on the shelves to collect dust for the rest of her life.

At her time working there she gets a frequent visitor at the library, a Mr. William James Moriarty. He had a fascination with murder mystery novels and the two form a quick friendship over their shared love of them. Everything feels like a new start, a clean slate but then he had to ask…

“Will you ever write again?”

That question has her heart hurt because she adores writing, but to sacrifice lives just for what she enjoys, she would never. She shuts down his question quickly and excuses herself, but then avoids the scarlet eyed man as to not be asked that question again.

But as she is laying in bed one night…

She hears the sound of footsteps in her study downstairs…

She feels her heart stop…

She closes her eyes and prays whoever is there will just go away, but they do not. So she musters whatever courage she has left and slips out of bed to see who is there in her study that has been collecting dust for almost a year…

And she approaches the closed door she realizes whoever is behind them must be the person behind the murders that gave plagued her and-

“William?”

The pangs of shock she feels in her chest when she sees the face of William Jane Moriarty looking through her unfinished works that she shelved away what felt like years ago. She must have looked like a deer in headlights as the Lord of Crime looking up at her with a smile, his red eyes staring into her soul…

She is terrified, horrified even…

And she is beautiful.

“Your unfinished work, will it have an ending? Or perhaps will we have to write one ourselves? What do you think, darling?”

The weeks go by and the next time the author is seen in public again she has an engagement ring on her finger and the announcement is being made about their upcoming wedding. The talk of the aristocracy says that she finally has a husband who is willing to deal with her crazied ideas that ended up killing so many people, not knowing that she is on the arm of the man who killed them…

Just for her.

(I could kinda imagine it ending up as a situation like the book Misery by Stephen King where he has her finish her work even if she doesn’t want to, but what differs is that while he doesn’t necessarily keep her locked up physically he does mentally. Sure go run off, he isn’t going to stop his darling, but just watch the bodies stack up pin ways she imagined, he is using her own mind against her which is the most terrifying of prisons. Then soon fear turns into dependency, she becomes terrified of him leaving her because now she has no where else to go but him so he has no need to hide her away when she clings to his arm like a terrified and wounded animal.)

[moonyswritinq]

conflicted bodies — sherlock holmes x male reader

❝ CONFLICTED BODIES ❞ — PART ⅠⅠ

PART Ⅰ — ❝ conflicted feelings ❞

SYNOPSIS ➢ After a drunken night of revealing one's feelings, Sherlock cannot go back on his words however much he'd like to. When you turn up to his flat, in need of his help, Sherlock is forced to face the consequences. However, the consequences aren't all that bad when it might lead to another night spent together.

PAIRING ➢ top!sherlock holmes x bottom!male reader

CONTENT WARNING ➢ 18+ SMUT, switch/dom!Sherlock, switch/sub!reader, edging, teasing, restraints, orgasm denial, fingering, p in a, handjob, rivals to lovers, mentions of alcohol & drinking, physical affection, romantic affection, cursing, slight gore and blood, mentions of needles and stitches, slight fluff at the end

WORD COUNT ➢ 5.3 k

AUTHORS NOTE ➢ this is my first and last time writing smut, cause i hate writing it. i’m sorry if it sucks, but at least it’s something? enjoy, you horny Sherlock whores! this is the last part.

MASTERLIST

non-male and minors DO NOT INTERACT !

Sherlock was pacing again.

He walked back and forth. Thinking. Contemplating. Deducing.

His eyes jumped between the clues hung up on his wall to the papers scattered across the floors. He tried to piece it together, to connect the dots. But… It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Who could be behind it all? Who could continue to effortlessly outwit him like this? He was convinced there were a simple answer to it all; an answer that laid right beneath his nose. 

A forgotten cup of tea stood on a table close to him, its steam already gone cold. Beside it, was the sofa. His eyes jumped to it, immediately averting when his thoughts rushed to you. To the way you had felt in his arms. To the way you had kissed him. You were so soft and so warm against his skin. Warmth had pooled in the pit of his stomach.

He ignored the way his heart seemed to skip a beat, instead returning his focus to the case at hand. It had plagued him for quite some time, and he was no closer to solving it than before. It was the whole reason he had gone out to drink last night, at all. He just wanted one night of not having to think constantly. And ironically, it was what caused his thoughts to now be messier than ever before.

The memory of you was so fresh in his mind, still; he had to shut his eyes and rubbed them with the soles of his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get you out of his thoughts. And it wasn’t exactly pure thoughts, per se, either. Every time he remembered how your hands had felt against his skin, he felt warmth pool in the bottom of his stomach and cheeks began to burn. 

Why?

That was the big question, wasn’t it? 

Why?

He had loathed you for all of his career. It wasn’t exactly because he disliked you as a person, no. You were clever, funny, and, he could admit it, handsome. You were also very skilled at your job, something he often admired. It was just…

Sherlock sighed at the thought.

You were too good. Too clever, at times. You were a competitor to him. A rival. He saw you as someone he had to be better than, someone to beat.

Sherlock stopped his pacing, gazing out the window, the low afternoon sun shining in.

However, he supposed that his competitiveness stemmed from that he admired some part of you. Your cleverness. Your humour. Your handsomeness.

His drunken self maybe hadn’t been so far off from the truth, after all.

“Fuck.”

The second the word was uttered a noise rang throughout the flat, haunting his ears with it’s sound. The ring clock. Sherlock’s eyes turned to the direction of the door, waving it off without a second thought. Probably Lestrade or Mrs Hudson waiting to disturb him with something useless.

He didn’t have time for this!

Whoever it was had now turned to knocking on the door, forceful enough to make it rattle in its hinges. The sound made Sherlock stop in his tracks. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was adamant on disturbing him, and therefore, annoying him. With a defeated sigh he walked over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to berate whoever stood before him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sight of you.

Your tired form rested against the doorframe, barely being able to hold it up. Dark splattering of blood spread across your face, as well as reaching from your hands up to your arms. Sherlock’s gaze raked over your body, noticing the dark pool on your abdomen, to where your hand was pressed in a futile attempt to stop the flow. You could feel the stabbing pain of your wound slowly fading into a faint throb. The lids of your eyes threatened to droop closed from exhaustion and you had to force your gaze into meeting Sherlock’s.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sherlock considered you, mind still occupied of the night before. Ultimately, he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze softening. At your wavering step he instinctively reached out, hands steadying you against him. It was his turn to support you into his flat, mindful of not putting pressure on your injury. The flat was as messy as you had left it that morning, if not more so. Sherlock helped you lower into the same sofa you had spent the night on, and you couldn’t keep the thoughts of the feel of him against you from invading your mind.

You groaned, leaning back against the soft cushions, still keeping pressure against your wound. Sherlock dared lift your shirt, peering at the dark red glistening in the golden candlelight.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What does it look like, detective?” You sucked in a breath.

His unamused glare pinned you to the spot. “It looks like you’ve been a fool.”

You rolled your eyes. “I got stabbed, genius. And now I’m bleeding. Need I explain further for you?”

Sherlock stood up without another word and made his way towards the kitchen with hurried steps. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting your head fall back against the cushions. Sherlock was right. You had acted foolishly and irrationally — probably because your mind was still fully occupied by last night’s events — which had led to your injury. And now you had turned up at the last place you wanted to be found at. Despite your better judgment, Sherlock had been the first person to come to mind.

He came back to your spot on the sofa with medical supplies in hand, and a bottle of whiskey. You were mildly surprised he actually possessed those things in his flat, but you guessed looks could be deceiving. With a careful hand, he lifted the ends of your shirt and fully exposed your flush skin to his eyes, and gave him access to the bleeding wound. Sherlock began to wash the area with a clean washcloth and water, and then with rubbing alcohol. You winced at the stinging sensation it caused you, and he poured some whiskey into a glass, handing it over to you with a curt nod.

“Cheers,” you said, downing the thing in one swipe. The alcohol burned in your throat, but numbed the pain a tad.

Sherlock pinned you with his observative gaze, letting the washcloth soak in a bowl of now bloody water.

“Good news, it wasn’t a very deep stab wound and you’ll recover quickly.”

“Reckoned as much,” you nodded.

“You’ll still need stitches.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at your abdomen, before shifting to the needles beside Sherlock. You cocked your head, extending a hand with the palm up. Sherlock removed them from out of your reach, settling you with a glare. You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Can you even stitch wounds back together?” you asked.

Sherlock started prepping the needle, hands as steady as ever. “As a matter of fact, I can. And I reckon I could do a better job than you could ever do in a state such as this.”

You rolled your eyes again, but let him have access to your abdomen. Sherlock leaned closer, needle in hand, and his observative eyes jumped over your face as his fingers danced across the skin of your stomach. It made shivers crawl up your spine and you had to fight against your own mind to not think of how good that felt. You could still feel the remembrance of his touches the previous night and it was strange to now be pinned underneath his gaze in such a vulnerable state.

With a sharp pain that made your face contort into a wince, Sherlock started sewing your wound together. His eyes kept jumping between his work and your face, watchful of every change in your features. When he noticed no danger, his whole focus turned to stitching the wound. You took the opportunity to watch him, eyes glazing over every detail of his face. The nearby candlelight highlighted his sharp features, and maybe it was the loss of blood, but it presented him in an almost ethereal way. His hair was in better kept curls than how he had woken up that morning, and it fell perfectly to frame his face. You could only imagine how you looked in contrast to him: your disheveled hair, the bruises already forming on your skin, the blood splattered across your whole body, and your dirty clothes. Despite yourself, you felt the urge to reach out to him; to caress his chin and jaw; to trace the lines of his mouth and lips, wanting to drag him closer.

“It’s considered rude to stare.”

“A lot of things are considered rude, but that doesn’t stop you from doing them,” you said, but averted your eyes.

Sherlock blew out a breath in answer, choosing not to reply to your bait. His eyes flitted up to your face, before his hands stilled, removing them from you. You glanced at the wound, seeing rows of perfect stitching sitting securely in your skin. He took hold of a bandage and rolled it over your whole abdomen, securing the wound against further strain and harm. You nodded to him as thanks, hoisting yourself further on the cushions. A surge of pain shot from the wound and you winced, feeling the dried blood against your face.

“Are you in danger?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Not anymore.”

Sherlock’s unyielding gaze stayed on yours, trying to coax an explanation out of you. When your eyes strayed across the flat and avoided his glare, he finally cleared his throat.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” He didn’t quite manage to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

You turned your face to his, letting your gaze meet his. Sherlock’s eyes were hard in their stare, and his mouth set in a straight line. Sherlock’s leg kept jumping up and down, and his hands twisting with anxiety. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was nervous. Why?

You shook off the thought, taking a deep breath.

“You’re the first one I thought of, Sherlock.”

A frown formed on his face. “What?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. Did you really have to spell it out for him? He was a detective, for God’s sake.

“I got injured, and I immediately thought of you.”

You could see the moment he understood. The way his eyes widened, frown fading into raised eyebrows, mouth gaping, and leg stopped jumping. Despite your better judgement, you considered him safe, someone you could trust. And you hated your body for relaxing in his presence, your heart for beating so fast.

This was the moment you had been dreading. He would cast you out, shouting and swear words following your steps. He would never want to see you again, never to be near you again, even if it were only to taunt you. All you had built the previous night would come crashing down in a vicious mess as you desperately tried to crawl your way out of it.

When you realised he still hadn’t uttered a word you dared meet his eye. They were deep pools of emotion, swirling with their usual secrets. There was something else there, too. A softness that had never been there before. It was possible you had just never noticed it before, though.

He closed his eyes as a hand dragged across his face. When he met your gaze he released a breath and said, “Fuck it.”

Before you could gather your bearings, Sherlock’s lips met yours.

In less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock had kissed you twice. In less than twenty-four hours, he had caused you to question everything you knew about yourself and the man across from you. Sherlock brought forth feelings you didn’t know you had, and was an expert in making you show them.

The sudden kiss made a moan escape your lips, muffled by his soft lips. They felt the same as you had remembered them yesterday, but this time you could feel the emotions behind the kiss. It was like Sherlock wanted to convey all he wanted to tell you with a press of his lips. You wouldn’t let him. You demanded more.

You pulled away from him, falling back onto the sofa. His brows furrowed and eyes widened. He began to throw out a desperate explanation, his words a tangled mess. His voice died to nothing when your hand landed against his cheek, bringing his attention to your touch.

“Sherlock.”

His eyes met yours at the sound of his name, almost afraid to do so. “Yes?”

“Are you going to throw me out again?”

Sherlock winced as if the words had physically struck him. The morning was all too fresh in his mind, as hard as he had tried to forget it. All day, he had bargained with himself, trying to justify what he was feeling. However much Sherlock tried to convince himself, it was pointless. He admired all of you. He fancied you.

“I won’t throw you out again.”

“You didn’t show any signs of throwing me out last night, either. And yet…” you trailed off, letting him finish the sentence himself.

He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

He settled you with a hard glare. You could barely take him seriously, though. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with his breaths, and pupils were blown wide. He wasn’t drunk this time, but it might be the next best thing. Drunk off of me, you mused.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead he turned to the side, pressing his lips against your palm. You could feel his breath tickle the skin, the sensation sending shivers down your arm, allowing heat to rise to your ears. Such a simple gesture and it still managed to make you flustered.

“I was afraid,” he said.

A laugh almost escaped your lips. “The great Sherlock Holmes, afraid of me?”

His eyes were steady, humour gone from his voice when he spoke, “Yes. Afraid to confront my feelings for you. Feelings,” he rushed out to say, “that I very much have.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

You tugged his face forward, crashing your lips together. His tongue danced against your own, fighting for control. Not again, you thought. Carefully, you bit down on his lip, drawing a groan from his chest. He leant closer, encasing you between his arms as he lowered himself.

Sherlock’s hand pressed against your chest, making you sink further into the cushions. He pulled away, ever so slightly, to allow room for breathing. His lips brushed yours, barely touching, and you felt his breath fan across them, prickling your skin. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach as his hand ventured lower, tugging at the ends of your shirt.

The fingers that had earlier stitched your skin together now danced across it, tentative, and made shivers spread through your spine. With a frustrated sigh, you took ahold of his waist, digging your nails into the skin there. He moaned into your mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

“Wait,” he whispered.

You hesitated, scanning his face for any signs of regret. Instead, his fingers brushed against your bandaged side, his eyes flitting between it and your face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You huffed out a laugh. So that was what all the fuss was about.

“I think that ship has already sailed.”

Sherlock’s gaze stayed on yours, still serious. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept jumping to your lips, his pupils blown wide, and breath ragged. He looked almost as intoxicated as you felt.

You settled his worries by pushing his hand further down, closer to your abdomen. You could feel the strain of your pants, pressing against a too sensitive area, waiting to be released. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt the bulge, before pressing firmer against it. You had to fight a moan.

“I have suffered worse,” you rasped, “Like your attitude.”

Sherlock only huffed a breath before crashing your lips together. It was frustration, a clashing of teeth, and a pulling on lips that made you submit to him with a moan. There was that fiery passion that made you weak in the knees. It was alarming how eager you were for him to take control over you.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, hm?”

His low murmur reverberated through your joined limbs. You nodded with a jerk of your head. He pulled you to your feet by your hand, pressing you closer by your waist. The journey to Sherlock’s bedroom was a short one, but a difficult one as neither of you could keep your hands to yourself for very long. His tongue pressed against yours, as his hands travelled over your skin.

Sherlock removed your shirt, throwing it on the floor. You huffed, sending him the best glare you could muster at a moment like this.

“What?”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“I don’t have such a dirty floor.”

You meaningfully eyed the shirt laying against the mess of other countless items of clothing. To be truthful, you couldn’t care less about a dirty shirt when Sherlock was looking at you with those eyes. It only managed to rile him up, bring that flare you adored so much. Nonetheless, Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought you closer by your neck, pressing his lips to your jaw. Then to your throat. Then across your collarbone.

Gods knew he felt glorious against you, almost making you delirious with every touch of his lips. You couldn’t admit it to Sherlock, though. His ego would never recover.

He came back up to your face for air, breath fanning over your lips. Carefully, he pushed you against the bed so you laid against it, gazing up at him. His hair was dishevelled, eyes heavy lidded with dark pupils blown wide. He stretched to take off his own shirt and undid his belt, throwing it across the bed. He crawled against you, skin meeting skin. Sherlock’s warm breath prickled yours as he brought his face closers to yours. He looked divine, and felt it, too. His arms held himself up so he hovered over you, his muscles clearly defined in the streetlight coming from the window.

“My Gods,” he rasped.

You let out a chuckle against his lips. “I’m not faithful, but I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Again, Sherlock’s lips closed over yours. You couldn’t notice anything further than the feel of his mouth, his warm skin flush against yours, and the locks of his hair prickling your face. You could only imagine how he looked right now, so you did the next best thing and travelled your hands to his head. Sherlock’s hair was soft against your fingers, grabbing hold of it and eliciting a deep moan from his chest.

You grinned, yanking his head back. Sherlock gasped against your lips, before smiling down at you. Of course the bastard would be into harsher play. And you would be lying if you said you weren't also into it.

He kissed you again, letting his hand trail the side of your stomach, inching closer to the band of your trousers. You felt yourself getting impatient by the featherlight touches, yearning for him to touch you properly. Sherlock knew it, too, by the way his hand hovered over the visible pressure in your trousers. Instead of indulging you, he dropped his hand to let his fingers graze up and down the inside of your leg. It only added to your discomfort and you bucked impatiently.

Immediately, a sharp pain shot through your body, making you wince. The wound was too recent for you to move much. Sherlock noticed, stilling instantly. His eyes jumped between your face and your bandages.

“Are you sure you’re okay for this?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, drawing his lips to yours again. And again, you tried to move your hips for any sort of friction. Sherlock pulled away, sending you a stern glare.

“You have to keep still or you’ll wound yourself even worse.”

“Then stop being a tease and touch me.”

Sherlock considered you before smirking. “I’m not sure I can refrain from that.”

Without any hesitation, he took hold of your wrists and pinned your hands above you. Your eyes widened, feeling the tight grip of his fingers that wouldn’t allow you to move your arms. He glanced around, before reaching over you and tying something over your wrists. You tilted your head, seeing his belt holding your hands together to the bed frame. Tentatively, you pulled on it, feeling the leather dig into your skin. Sherlock’s hands grazed yours as he met your shocked gaze.

“You’re serious?” you asked.

He cocked his head, giving you a meaningful glare.

“It wont’t keep me from moving my hips, y’know?”

Sherlock smiled. “No, but it might teach you to stay still.”

His hands kept travelling south, making their way to your jaw and lifting it closer to him. You were rendered defenceless, your only option to meet the touch of his lips. You felt the flutter of your stomach, fully realising the control he now had over you. It was incredible.

As if he could read your thoughts, Sherlock’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, and you could feel the warmth of his fingers close over the skin of your throat. There wasn’t any pressure, but just the feel of it brought shivers up your spine and the strain of your trousers became impossibly tighter. You gave Sherlock a meaningful stare, cocking your head.

Sherlock shook his head, chuckling. “Let’s take these off, huh?”

Finally he allowed his hands to fall to your trousers, unbuckling them and dragging them down your legs. You lifted your hips for him, allowing him to take off your underwear, as well. The relief was immediate and you gasped at the colder air around your skin. You were now completely naked, wholly at Sherlock’s mercy, and the thought seemed to thrill him by the way his mouth hung open. His eyes jumped all over you, speechless, not seeming to be able to get enough of the sight. You smiled with smug pleasure.

Quickly, Sherlock removed his own trousers, hurrying to get closer to you again. He was more careful with his touches, allowing the feel of his skin warm yours and send your mind spiralling. Not in a million years could you have predicted to find yourself where you were right now — who you were with, and who was currently grinding his hips against your unclothed ones. The feeling made you see stars, so desperate for release.

Sherlock’s lips met yours, drawing your focus to how you couldn’t bring your hands to draw them through his hair. The thought frustrated you and you groaned into the kiss. Sherlock’s hand lowered, closing over your dick. You let out a gasp, tugging at the restraints. Sherlock’s lips danced against yours as his hand tugged, spreading the precum over your dick.

It was all you could do to not cry out in relief. Finally feeling some friction made you moan, pressing against Sherlock’s lips even harder in appreciation. He smiled into the kiss, allowing his thumb to press against your tip. You could feel the pressure in your stomach building, making you impatient and wanting.

Just then, Sherlock drew away his hand, leaving you wanting for more. You bit his lip in retaliation, letting him feel every part of your frustration. He sighed, lowering his hand to your bottom, the pad of his finger probing at your ass. He entered one finger, carefully feeling you out. He watched your face for any reaction and you closed your eyes, sighing.

Sherlock entered one, and then two, more fingers into. It felt amazing when he started stretching you out, carefully curling his fingers. His lips met yours, swallowing any sounds and moans you let out. It allowed you to just bask in the feeling of him. Every shift of his muscles, breath of his chest, and moving of his hips made you want to embrace the man. But you couldn’t, due to the cursed restraints. Still, that didn’t keep you from trying and from moving your knee to graze his growing arousal.

Sherlock moaned with you, pressing against somewhere sensitive inside you. Again, you could feel your orgasm coming, dick twitching, clenching around his fingers and biting Sherlock’s bottom lip. Your hips lifted against them, shooting pain through your body again. You cringed, but pairing it with the pleasure Sherlock’s fingers were doing made you moan. Soft words of praising or pleading left your tongue, the meaning of them so slurred to the point not even you could make out. You wanted him impossibly closer.

You groaned when Sherlock, once again, drew away. You were getting real tired of his behaviour. The man finally got you into bed, and you were starting to think he wanted to get you out if it. Sherlock was playing a dangerous game with you, and you swore to get him back on it.

“Please,” you whispered.

You didn’t care about your pride at this point, just that you would get what you wanted. The only thing you could think about was the absence of his touch. Sherlock seemed to realise what he was doing, a cheeky smirk forming on his lips.

“Please what?” came his coy reply.

“Please fuck me or I swear I’m going to punch you in your smug face.”

His eyebrows raised. “You can’t punch me.”

You glanced up at your restraints and then down at where his hands rested beside your legs. A smile tugged at your lips. “I could kick you.”

Sherlock breath fanned over your face, his lips grazing yours before pulling into a lazy smile. “Then I better give you what I want.”

He sat up to pull of his underwear, drawing your eyes to every detail of him. He was breathing heavily, his muscles pulled taut and hair in a dishevelled mess. Sherlock sank back close to you, embracing you closely. The warmth of his skin spread to yours, creating a sheen layer of sweat between you. You were way too aware of every part of you touching, every sensation turned tenfold.

Carefully, Sherlock hovered over you, his elbows holding himself up as he guided his hips to yours. You could feel the long awaited moment of his cock probing at your entrance, careful as he watched your face. You nodded, smiling.

Sherlock sighed as he sunk into you, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck. You moaned at the feel of stretching you out, trying to move him closer. Your hands were still restrained, but you could roll your hips into some resemblance of friction. Sherlock kissed your jaw, trailing his lips across your neck. It was messy but so full of passion you couldn’t seem to care.

“Please,” you muttered again.

Sherlock’s head lifted from your neck, tilting to look you in the eye. “You’re already getting what you want, what is it now?”

You tugged at the restrains, yearning to be able to run your hands over his back. “Just let me touch you.”

“You gonna stay still?”

“Can’t promise anything,” you smiled.

He glanced up at your wrists, before leaning over to set them free. The second you could move, your hands shot to take hold of his jaw, drawing his face to meet yours. The warmth of his skin was finally under your touch. You couldn’t help but to pull him closer, settling him even deeper inside you, and drawing a moan out of his chest. The sound made you crazy, bringing your arms around his shoulders, the defined muscles feeling glorious beneath your fingers.

As Sherlock continuously pulled in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you, your nails raked over his warm skin. You were sure deep marks were left behind, but you weren’t sure if Sherlock was just ignoring the pain, or enjoying it. By the way his face turned to mark your neck with moans leaving his tongue in mutterings, you suspected the latter was true.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it either, the mixing of pain and pleasure. Your wound was still sore, and every grind of Sherlock’s hips reminded you of some sort of phantom of that pain. It left your mouth agape, left to just keep still underneath Sherlock, every touch of his lips sending goosebumps over your skin, and every sting of your wound adding to the surreal feeling.

For a third time this night, you felt yourself getting close, clinging to every movement of his hips, feeling the shift of his muscles as he held himself up. You muttered so, kissing the shell of his ear. Sherlock sped up, hitting your prostate even harder and faster, chasing his own release to match yours. The pain and pleasure became too much for you and your dick twitched in anticipation.

He dipped down to connect your lips, before drawing a deep moan from your chest as you climaxed, clenching his dick in the process. Sherlock almost fell against you in the relief of the feeling but caught himself as to not burden your wound, and stayed still as his own orgasm powered through.

Only when both your heartbeats had slowed and your breathing returned to normal did Sherlock meet your eye, kissing you slowly as he pulled out, the sensation feeling like too much for your oversensitive body. Every little movement was too much, and now that the pleasure had begun to subside the pain in your stomach was more prominent than ever.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed along your body, carefully bringing your mind back to him, to your body, and all the places you were touching. It was grounding your mind, allowing you to fully relax. He touched your bandages with a tender hand, trying to feel for any faults.

“You’re still good.”

“No thanks to you,” came your witty answer.

Sherlock sent you a deadened glare, trying not to quick back a no-doubt clever reply. Instead, he moved away, making you shiver in the cold air, and returned with a fresh rag to wipe down the sweat and fluids between the both of you. You accepted it gratefully, sitting up against the bedpost when finished. Sherlock’s hands surrounded your shoulders to steady you, still a careful air around him.

You brought his lips to yours in a sudden kiss, allowing him to relax. “I’m good, Sherlock. Don’t worry.”

He forced himself to take a deep breath and to sit down beside you, pulling the covers over your shoulders. You watched him with an amused glint.

“What?” he asked.

You shrugged your shoulders before smiling. “Nothing. Just not used to seeing you this nervous.”

“I’m always nervous around you.”

Sherlock met your eye with the most sincere expression you’ve seen on him. An eyebrow raised in his direction.

“You sure have a peculiar way of showing it. Throwing me out and tying me up—”

Sherlock huffed and scooted down to lay down against the bed, avoiding your amused gaze. “Will you ever let that go?”

You bent down to lay against him, your head by his shoulder, your breath fanning against his ear. “I don’t think so.”

Sherlock turned his head so that his lips grazed yours. “Careful, or I’ll have to tie you up again.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you whispered, pressing your mouth to his in a deep kiss. “Maybe next time you’ll be the one tied up.”

Fuck, Sherlock thought. There was no way in bloody hell he could ever go back to being just colleagues again, not after having known you so close to him. It was done. He was falling for you, and you both knew it.

© 2023 all rights reserved to ❝ moonyswritinq ❞. do not plagiarize, steal, repost w/o credit or use for your own gain.

[emrowene]

Webserials and Why You Should Read Them

Welcome to a short primer on webserials! The concept behind them is pretty simple: webserials, also called webnovels or webfiction, are serialized online novels. If you read long fanfics OR webcomics, you're probably already familiar with the concept. Authors release new chapters on a fixed basis, usually one chapter a week (but sometimes more, sometimes less).

You can find webserials in several places: on big platforms like tapas and royalroad, on individual authors' websites or patreons, or on newsletter platforms like substack.

So now we know what webserials are, but why should we support them?

Because webserials are fun. Because webserial authors are sharing amazing works online for free! Because the publishing industry is disproportionately hard to get into for queer and marginalized folks, and those are the people writing webserials.

To climb a little higher onto my soapbox, I believe webserials are the future of accessible and diverse publishing. There's been more and more discussion about the problems with traditional publishing: how publishers are turning it into a "fast fashion" industry, spitting out books while overall book quality decreases. Regardless of whether you believe that, it's true that the industry prioritizes "marketability" over anything else. Experimental books, passion projects, books that have a lot of heart but no pithy "tropes" -- they stand little chance in the world of traditional publishing, and self-publishing is incredibly inaccessible for most of us. It's expensive, but more than that, it takes an incredible amount of time and effort. It's a business, and at the end of the day, some of just want to share the stories we love with people we hope will love them too. And that's the beauty of webserials!

One complaint I've seen about webserials is that "you never know what the quality will be like" - and I've seen this from people who regularly read fanfiction! Like fanfiction writers, we have our beta readers, we have our editors, we pour our hearts into developing our stories. So give us a try!!

Some recs and places to get started under the cut:

My webserials:

Fractured Magic - A queer epic fantasy series about a broken hero’s hunt for redemption and an elven prince’s quest to rescue his kidnapped king. The two estranged friends are racing against time - and dead gods - to achieve their goals. Will they make up and work together before it’s too late? (This story is currently ongoing)

The Case Files of Sheridan Bell - An old-school detective mystery set in Tamarley, a fantastical city with magical murders and doors to other worlds. Basically (queer, autistic) Sherlock Holmes but with more faeries. The first mystery is complete; the second will be published soon!

Some other webserials I follow/followed from start to finish:

What Manner of Man by @stjohnstarling - a queer gothic romance novel about a priest and a vampire.

The Warthog Report by @warthogreporter- this substack contains a selection of nonfiction writing, misc. fiction writings, and Battles Beneath The Stars, a serialized story about a tournament in a fantasy world, styled like a fighting game script/walkthrough.

Kiss it Better by DogshitJay - A (definitely 18+) queer adult romance about the messy endings and messier beginnings of love.

Warrior of Hearts by Beau Van Dalen - a queer slice of life romance following an online friendship that blossoms into something more. (Beau has lots of other great webserials as well!)

More places to look:

Tapas (Community novels page)

Royalroad (mostly known for its litrpg scene, but you can find other novels and genres here as well!)

The ao3 "Original Works" tag!

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 3 || Masterlist || Chapter 5

Chapter Summary: Sherlock fulfils his husbandry duty and desires to play some more with your weak resolve.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Period Sex, Blowjob, Bondage, Pet Names, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pubic shave, Humiliation.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This chapter involves description of period blood and sex, please be warned!!

Inspiring Song: "Copy Cat." Billie Eillish classic cover

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:39pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You had no choice. Not really...he was your husband and you were his wife. His threat of infidelity brought a great fear to your mental strength than your threat to murder him without a solid plan.

Oh how you hated him for this. You despised him with every sense. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to forgive him.

You knew he wasn’t a good or kind or even gentle husband, but a husband is meant to be faithful. And if humiliating yourself to pleasuring him with your mouth kept him straying in sin; by god you would obey.

You crept closer to him and slowly lowered yourself on one knee, then the next. Your eyes could not leave his face. A sick and twisted smile spread over his rosy cheeks.

In his palm was his half hard cock. His large hand made it appear smaller. The memory of its violent entrance had not been forgotten however.

It stared you back in the face. The pink head peaked up and out of his pale skin. His thumb rubbed over the pink head.

You felt cold and strange in comparison to your usual jitters. You fluttered your eyes closed. Your hands sat in your lap on your thighs.

‘He just wanted a kiss. I can kiss it...’

You leant forward and puckered your lips. His skin was feverishly warm. You pulled back fast and blinked up at him with wet eyes.

He chuckled meanly and touched your damp cheek in his other hand before moving his fingers under your jaw and guiding you closer to his cock.

“Lick the top with the tip of your tongue.”

Your lips trembled nervously. You weren’t sure if this was worth it. The thudding of your chest made you forget what he had asked.

Visions of the lewd novel in his chest flashed in your mind.

“P-pardon?”

His thumb pressed against your mouth, forcing its way past your lips and teeth. You knew better than to bite him. You weren’t an animal...you didn’t want a repeat of the night before where you had bitten his tongue.

“Stick out,” he pulled your tongue out with his thumb, “this little tongue.”

He pulled you closer by the chin and held his cock upwards.

“Lick.”

You whined softly and batted your eyes. Did you have the guts to do this? To truly perform fellatio? You didn’t really have the choice. You had to do this.

He let you go and waited patiently. He undid his cuffs and rolled the shirt off his shoulders.

“Are you so dim witted?” he gruffly asked, his fingers grabbed at your jaw after you took too long,

“Need I repeat myself once more?”

You shuddered and shook your head side to side. It was just so scary. Why did you have to have such a cruel husband!?

“No,” you licked your chapped lips, “I am sorry Mr Holmes.”

His eyes widened, his face softened but his lips smirked, “So polite, little lamb...”

Your lower half tingles with delight at the warmth of his sudden praise...

‘Little lamb, how do I despise it...yet feel warmth within?’

You pushed your face closer. You stuck out your tongue again and this time, glided it over his hot red tip. The gleam of your saliva and his desire shone in the soft candle light of a kerosene lamp on his bedside table.

You tucked your nose quickly back to your chest. You flushed.

Fluttering his eyes, Sherlock clenched the covers. His gasp on his breath was a sound of pain you originally believed.

“Again,” he said clearing his throat, “Come now, I grow tiresome to your reluctance.”

You wanted to spit at him. He knew you didn’t want to do this and yet still made you do it. You licked him again. His hand clapped on the back of your neck, forcing you closer and blocking you from pulling away.

You fell into him slightly, forced to need to grab his pant covered knee and thigh. Your fingers squeezed his trousers to stabilise your balance on your knees.

You looked back up into his eyes. Perhaps it was easier to look him in the eye instead of looking at the brutal beast between his thighs.

You opened your mouth and licked his cock little by little...his thumb pushed up your nose, opening your mouth wider. He pushed his cock into your mouth. His eyes were glued on you. He appeared relaxed.

His skin lacked any flavour. It was like licking your palm...but after a while there was a hint of salt in the taste buds.

You kept your mouth open, you kept your tongue out as he moved his hips in and out. His hand pushed you down and pinched you back up.

Your eyes remained only on him. He was grunting and sighing. A twinge of triumph tickled your heart. You were pleasing him! He would not want to seek out the unsavoury company of whores or any other woman overall.

He paused and leant down. He grabbed at your wrist and picked up his hand and rested your fingers around his length of his cock.

Your blinked and stared at the placement.

“Squeeze, and rub me up to the tip, down to the sack.” You nodded, his cock still rested on your tongue.

He chuckled and rested back on his hands. He waited for you to take over.

This was it. This is what would bring him pleasure. You cupped his shaft and moved the way you were instructed. You did it at a pace where he appear to struggle how to breathe. His words were nothingness under his breath.

He looked to the ceiling and moaned.

The skin was hot and twitched under your finger tips.

He let out a choking groan. The back of your mouth felt that harsh slapping squirt of his release.

You pulled back in horror. Your bottom slid across the rug. You weren’t sure what it was really. In fact you feared he had the audacity to piss in your mouth. You spat on the floor and coughed.

“Ugh!”

He cackled at the mortified look you had written over your sweet face.

He sighed and chewed his bottom lip. He slowly clapped his hands.

“Well done... Forgive me, I had intended to finish myself over your sweet breasts, little lamb.”

He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Take off my shoes.” He lifted his foot to your direction.

You thought he was entirely despicable! You wiped your mouth with a growing glare. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, in fact, he took glee in your narrowing look..

“You wish to be a wife? Act as a wife. You want my loyalty? Well, you must be my whore...and whores suckle their johns cream with pretty smiles on their painted faces. Wives help their husbands undress from long days of work.”

You felt...weak and disgusting. You felt like an idiot. In your grumpy defeat you crawled back to him and began to unlace his shoes. In the corner of your eye you saw his hand reach back to his front and touch his thick meat. The looser the laces, you lifted your hands and rocked his heel out of his shoe.

Demurely you sat both his shoes aside. His socks smelt of his sweat and the filth of London street ways. You gagged and pinched the wool socks away from his calves and flung them from his toes.

A cramp waved through you and forced a grimacing groan out of your quiet misery.

Sherlock stopped laughing, his smugness dissipated. His face fell. He tucked his cock away with an annoyed sigh.

His hands unexpectedly tucked beneath your armpits and lifted you off the floor. He pushed you lightly onto his mattress onto your front. You felt your breath hitching, worrying what he would do to you. It wouldn’t be right for him to have sex with you during your menses.

He palmed his giant hand over your bottom. Hoisting your night dress up your thighs and over your back. He slapped one cheek lightly and chuckled at your cry and hiss. He grabbed your shoulder and held you down slightly. Your fingers gripped the covers of his top blanket. You had washed and changed this set. They smelt of a sweet lemon citrus.

His lips touched your bare shoulders. His hot breath tingled in your ear.

You flushed and squeezed your eyes shut. God it felt strange and ticklish.

“Look at this perfect little arse,” he admired, groping at the flesh, “Plump and ripe for a needed disciplining. Your grandparents let you get away with far too much.”

He slapped you harder. A scream bellied from you. Your spine curled up and you desperately reached back to scratch his bare arms.

“Stop it! Or I will bite you again!” you shouted.

The detective smacked his lip and hummed, “Ah that reminds me, thankyou little lamb.”

In two fingers he held in front of your eyes his cravat. He stuffed the material deep into your mouth and slapped you swiftly when you tried nipping his hand. Tears poured like boiling water.

He tied the rest of the fabric tightly behind your head. You violently shook your head and fought against him, you tried pushing away only to be shoved down by his strong hands.

He rolled you into your back and used your nightgown to tie your wrists together, over your hands. Your claws were contained from clawing his eyeballs out.

The bonds were pushed above your head. He attached a loose part of the arm of your clothes to the headpost.

He smacked your thighs apart hard. You shrieked behind the gag.

He tore the sanitary apron away and tossed it across the room. You turn your nose into your arm, too embarrassed to look at your husband who played with your body.

You twitched and tried to kick at Sherlock as his hand tickled down your side and between your thighs. The wicked man smirked as he watched your pleading eyes water. He pushed two fingers inside your red hot messed cavern. You felt ill. This was an abomination! He fingered you and held your upper body down, watching you like a hawk as you struggled.

His digits within you flexed and curled. You felt them touch along the top of your walls while his thumb rubbed down into your forbidden button. You whined and shook your head. He removed his hand all together. You clenched your legs back together.

“Oh my, Mrs Holmes,” he purred, glancing down, “You secret slut...this isn’t blood,” he held his fingers up to the light, “Why...this is arousal...”

His lips curled, flashing those pearly white gnashers.

Your eyes widened with horror. You were humiliated. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be enjoying this? Why did he have to be so handsome. Why did your fear mix in with attraction so easily.

With the clear gleaming on his hand, with little pink streaks, he kissed your cheek and pinched

your nipples.

You shook your head and whimpered. Your legs were buzzing at the pain inflicted increased a desperate certain warmth within you.

“My was that a moan? Interesting,” he whispered cheekily.

“and if I...do this...” he asked as he shoved his hand back onto your snatch, rubbing in fine circles ontop of your clit. Your hips lifted and your thighs trembled. Your toes curled hard and your head rolled back. God it felt delicious and evil.

Amongst your lustful whines, Sherlock chortled happily, “How perfect you might be dear wife...I had no little hope for this morning, but now,” his nose shoved into your ear, “...oh you’ve just gone and damned yourself for good.”

He tugged at your pubic mane lightly, it didn’t matter, it made you squeal and howl in pain.

Your husband sat up and left the bed. Your arms were still bound above your head. You lifted your knees protectively to your chest.

“All this hair...” He tutted, “it shall not do.”

You heard him wonder across his bedroom. Out of his personal drawers he found a straight razor. He also brought forth the basin of water he had near the door way. With a cloth napkin and tiny sliver of soap, he returned and forced your legs down on to the bed. He knelt on your spread ankles and lathered your nether curls.

It was when the soap started to foam that you realised what he was intending to do. It was impossible to word the begging but he knew...you knew he knew what you were pleading out.

You knew how sharp a razor could be. What if he mutilated you!?

He glided the cold metal over your wet sensitive skin.

He licked his bottom lip as he scrapped away your mass of pubic hair.

“Hold still wife or I will cut you,” he scolded sarcastically as he went through the white bubbles.

Cleaning the razor in the water before returning it back between your thighs he hummed, “I am displeased you didn’t confer with me about the states of my accounts before deciding to pay them all off yourself. That dowry was meant for dresses, and necessary accessories such as calling cards...” he tapped the razor on the basin bowl, “now we must both rely on Mycroft and my cases for wages...stupid girl.”

The way he stared into your eyes as he held the blade up to the light...was he threatening you...was this...a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. Tied to his bed and at his whim you were significantly helpless.

His hands took the towel and wiped your cunt clean of the hairs and soap still left behind. He whistled dramatically and smirked.

“My, my, what a pretty pussy you have.” He mused as he tossed the razor into the basin and moved the water bowl under the bed, out of the way.

His middle finger pushed inside. You gasped. The stretching intrusion took you off your guard.

“So tight still. I might need to train you to take me.”

He tore it back out and touched your naked clit lightly.

You gasped and choked behind the cravat. With deep moans, you wept pathetically.

“Oh look at that reaction,” he cooed condescendingly, he caressed the skin with his knuckle, “and all I’m doing is touching your clit. So sensitive.”

He licked his bottom lip and smirked, he pulled his hand back and slapped his palm across your labia. You squeal as the hot fiery pain rose up under your skin and spread out a dark shade with the rushing of your blood.

“Splendid responses to the nerves,” Sherlock noted before running the stinging flesh, you whined and turned your face into your arm.

“Bit sore I gather?” The man mocked, “Poor Lamb. All mine and bloody for sacrifice.”

A horrid in taking sound came from him. He spat on his fingers and pushed the wetted digits against your labia, dragging them down before sliding in home.

“There we are, squeezing so tightly around my finger, feels filling?”

He paused and listened to your heavy breathing behind the man made gag he had over your mouth. Listening to your ragged gasps and wheezes made his cock stir. You were so innocent and confused, he could see through your prudish and proper demeanour so easily. He fingered you until you were on the brink of insanity. Your eyes were becoming hazy, strained and almost crossed.

He thought it incredible...a true virgin. Not some pretender whore that his friend Miss Adler supplied. You were the authentic innocent.

“Now that you are properly tied up and without risk to harm me,” he whispered wetly, “-And decently groomed... I will complete our union.” He removed his fingers slowly out of you.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You needed to compose yourself. You wanted to pretend you were back home with your grandparents. You imagined yourself in the gardens with your cousins playing balls. Oh back then life was a struggle but comparing to this...it was truly childsplay.

You yearned for your girlhood once more before you felt him move off the bed a moment only to shove your thighs wider apart and sit the head of his cock on top of your naked hairless lips.

Here the devil had come to steal all girlhood for good and inflict the agonising curse of

womanhood.

He entered slowly. Clearly he had learnt from yesterday that this task would only be accomplished with patience.

Indeed yesterday would’ve been considered a consummated marriage...so why he cared so much to refer to this as a completion of union alluded you.

You whimpered softly and peaked through your wet lashes to see his invasive entrance breaking into you.

To say you were full was placing it lightly. This man stole all possible space inside. He left no pocket of air as he pushed along and settled within.

His hands were tightly holding each ankle apart.

You now understood why he touched you with his hands before...your slickness welcomed and slid him deeper into you.

“Oh, my poor little lamb, taking in her masters thick cock so bravely,” he praised and then laughed as you struggled against your own nightgown binded to the headboard, “unable to nip or kick back at him.”

You grew silent in defeat. You submitted to the chance of zero hopelessness. Your legs fell limply.

He released your ankles.

You were plagued in your own paralysis.

You felt like he was pausing before pushing more inside. He was huge. There’s not many you could compare it too as a recently deflowered woman but you were confident his size must’ve been abnormal. Even he winced every so often at the tight squeeze.

When his pelvic bone pressed against your cunt, he sighed, “There...truly man and wife...at last...” A small scoff was heard.

You said something behind the gag that caught his ear. It was too muffled.

He pulled the gag harshly down your chin.

“What was that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him and huffed stubbornly, “Hu-husband and wife. Not man and wife.”

You wanted to remind him exactly who he was doing this to and why he could do it...because you allowed it.

“Correct you are, my darling,” he let a laugh escape him before he moved back, “Now if I just pull and twist my hips like this.”

He re-entered and this time he put his thumb on your clit as he went inside. Your eyes blew wide and you began to babble.

“Oh oh oh! Wh-what wait, please!” You started to moan and whine.

Your husband cackled proudly, “It feels good doesn’t it?”

You foolishly nodded in truth. Something sparked a flame that flooded your insides.

He did it again and again. He repeated and rubbed down into you. The filling of his member rubbing against all parts of your inner skin made you clench and groan.

You felt increasingly needful to collect the same high feeling he had delivered on you before. You were climbing an imaginary hill. The urge to release your bladder made your eyes widen.

Desperation took you into the most needful begging, “N-no! I need to use a bedpan please

Sherlock, please, I am going to make a mess! Stop! I’ll do anything.”

Your little gasps and desperate moans spurred your husband on.

His hips were making a fast speeding pace that made you dig your knees into his sides.

You wanted him to stop. You were scared of pissing over him, especially in his bed.

“I want you to let go,” he moaned and shoved his nose against yours. His breath entered your mouth as he raggedy groaned, “Release, trust me...it will feel good.”

You didn’t trust him. You didn’t know what he meant. How could this behaviour be acceptable.

“No, no, no, no, ugh, ugh, stah-, Sher-, ugh, pl-please!”

He slammed himself harder and licked at your chest, “Such a pretty beggar, dear lord, I predicted you to be a homely creature, I have been proven wrong. In this light, you are rare gem of the seas of Venus. Oh sweet lamb, give me your release.”

You couldn’t hold yourself in containment any longer. You let your lower half go. You clenched hard down onto him.

You found your spine curl and your mouth wordlessly wailing.

“Breathe dead, breathe,” you heard Sherlock call above your silent choking before unleashing a brutalising scream. It was like taking your first breath, being reborn.

When the air released, your chest burned. You gasped and cried out as some mighty string was torn within and drowned you in a flooding dam of pleasure.

Sherlock followed your desirable agony and let his mind go. His grunting was feral and full of need.

Your muscles released and you cried with the feeling of warm melted gold ran through you.

You weakly called out, “Sherlock...”

His hot lips kissed against your sweaty skin. He kissed your neck up to your chin and cheek and engulfed your own mouth in a sloppy sensation of saliva and soft lips.

When your eyes focused and found a semblance of sane sight, you beheld a pleased man. You felt his fingers touching along your arms and wrists.

“I am going to untie you, hush you are safe...”

You shut your eyes. The last tears to come derived from pleasure and a overwhelming sense of joy that was foreign to you. You trembled, still drinking in the vibrations of your body.

You were stuck in a blanket of bodily pleasure. You had never been so relaxed and warm in your entire life.

You enjoyed what he had done and you didn’t know why especially since you heavily disliked your own husband.

Was this what Mrs Hudson referred to? Screaming followed by smiles?

‘Oh’, you thought, ‘never again will a woman have what I just claimed. This is mine and always shall be.’

“I...need...um...I...words...I...you’ve...I can’t think...I am spent,” you mumbled dumbly.

A part of you wanted to thank him and have him leave you alone to wallow in sleep. Another wanted him to do it all again.

“Pretty Lamb,” he cooed in your ear as your hands limply fell to the mattress, “I am going to carry you now.”

He had tucked himself away and scooped his hands under your legs. He moved your arms around his shoulders and pushed you to sit up before clamping his arm beneath your back. His nose tucked into your neck where he left another kiss.

Carefully he lifted you off his bed and stepped out into the dining parlour where he turned and took you to your room beside his.

He pulled the blankets and sheets away before sliding you down beneath them.

He pulled the cover up to your chin and you whimpered, “I...am sore.”

His hard face softened, he pressed his lips to your cheek and asked, “You are?”

You nodded your head, “I...feel...light...tired.”

He left your side to shut your door. The light disappeared completely. Only the moon that casted light over his face helped you see as he faced you again. He wondered over and invaded your bed space.

He climbed in along side you. The wood creaked with his added weight. You were slightly alarmed he was coming into your bed and not returning back to his room.

You were drowsy and moaned.

“Sleep, in my arms,” He said as you weakly tried rolling away.

You turned back and stared at the shadows of his face. His eyes were black with only small specks of the light reflecting.

His skin was sticky and hot... But tonight it was cold and windy...you needed him...he wanted you...you succeeded.

In the darkness, you decided to reclaim some small pride...you pushed your face up and kissed his lip. Breathing him in you could finally smell him and taste him. Chalk, blood, and tobacco.

You shut your eyes and imagined the joy of your grandmother if you could tell her how you finally became the wife of Sherlock Holmes before the rites of Godly flesh.

He was silent and still. He said nothing. Did nothing.

When you pulled back from the kids he rested his head softly back on the pillows with a light hum. His fingers tickled up your naked back, holding you close. You rubbed your cheek into his bicep and listened to his heart beat and breathing until you passed into the dreamlands of sleep.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:04am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You dreamt of your father and mother. Two people who never married, but at some point were in love. You never had the chance to see them together in happiness.

They were well dressed and strolling in the park pushing a perambulator. And as you followed them it had not struck you that this was a dream. Inside the baby carriage was nothing at all...it was odd.

Yet your parents smiled and both leant in to kiss each other....their hands both held wedding bands.

If you had never been born, you suddenly thought, would they have been able to marry and be happy?

Your mother as she loved upon your father shoved the perambulator away. It rolled fast down the path and you followed it for a moment before hearing a terrible wail of a baby inside. A baby that wasn’t in the carriage before suddenly appeared, pulling back a blanket that covered it.

You chased after the carriage as it sped up and went down a hill. Your heart ached with terror. You struggled to keep up and reached out your hand to the handle bar. It was rolling just out of your reach!

You sobbed as the carriage crashed into Tree and fell to its side. Out rolled...a bleating lamb...the creature rose up on its four wiggly legs and bleated again. It’s long wagging tail flickered around anxiously.

You landed on your knees before the lamb and kept crying. Not even you knew the reason for your tears. You held the small animal to your torso, checking it over for any broken limbs. The baby sheep was fine.

A tap on your head made you look up and standing above you was a dark faceless shadow of a man. The shadow sucked you in and you screamed at the darkness before waking up.

Above you was a face you did know...your husband’s. His eyes danced around your features. His lips curled into a smirk, “Good morning Mrs Holmes, how did you sleep?”

You blinked and peered up at him warily before slowly you sat up and away from him. His hand touched your shoulder, your hand grabbed his wrist.

What was he doing in your bed? Why were you nude!? Ah the revaluations if the previous evening re-established back into your memory. He had fully fucked you. He had claimed you...and in your drunken sleepy state, you kissed him. You flushed.

“I slept fine...” you lied, “Please let me up,” you glanced between him, the door of the bedroom and your wardrobe, “I need to start my day.”

You swallowed hard as you looked over his broad chest.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock stated before dragging you closer to him by your waist, his hands were huge and warm, it would be too much to say even comforting.

“We have plenty of time before Mrs Hudson climbs up the stairs.” His lips touched your jaw and peppered down your neck..

“Mr Holmes...please,” you cleared your throat as your hand pushed his chest to force a pause. You flushed with embarrassment. He noticed very quickly at your strained tone.

“Oh...I see...you recall the events of last night...your self deduction?”

His hands under the blanket slid downward to your thighs. He touched the soft shaved skin of your pubis. You felt twice as sensitive...

“H-humiliated, st-stupid and angry,” you shuddered.

You had let him hurt you again...and yet this time it came to a pleasant conclusion. You were disgusted in yourself for obeying him so quickly, so willingly I’m regards to giving him fellatio.

His fingers pressed your clit and he smiled at your gasp.

“And now?”

You gulped and turned your face into the pillows away from his eyes.

It was hard to deny how much you enjoyed the jumping buzz in your lower belly.

His laugh was crude to your ears, “See how easy it is to feel that sweet entrapment?” He rubbed his hand between your legs and marvelled at your heightened reaction, “My goodness look at you, your cunt is pulsing against me, hot and hard in my palm.”

Your breath hitched and your hips accidentally rolled into his touch. Your body craved the addictive buzz. Your thighs parted for him...he accepted the invitation and moved a finger inside while he ground his palm against your bundle of nerves.

“Oh, are you going to release again?” he whispered proudly.

He chuckled at your shaking head. Your pathetic attempts to mentally deny it. You were close by how tightly you fluttered around just his lone finger. Your knees shook and clamped together. His finger continued jerking in and out.

“Oh ride the sweet death, come to be me, come, come, come to me little lamb.”

His mouth ducked down to your nude chest. He licked across your nipples and suckled them into his cheeks loudly.

Your hand grabbed the blankets and his wrist. You rolled your head back and sighed as whatever that spell was took over you.

“Did you know,” he smacked his lips across your breasts, before tonguing a single nipple, “you’ve the most delicious teats?”

You groaned and blushed. You were trying to catch your own breath.

He pressed his cock against your leg before taking your hand and forcing you to hold him.

“Touch me, hold it and slide your hand up and down like a silk pole.”

You did as he asked while he kissed your mouth openly. Your eyes fluttered shut and jerked him off until you felt a wetness glide down your hands, he moaned.

This is the kindest he has ever been to you presently.

You pulled your hand away and up to the light of the morning. Your eyes widened at the white goop stuck on your fingers and back of your hand.

“Wha-what is this?”

He chuckled and kissed your cheek proclaiming, “My seed.” Seed...to make children...but it was so...

“Its...liquid,” you disagreed, “and wet and sticky...it’s like mucus.”

He raced his fingers along your hip and patiently explained, “When drained inside of you,” his hand touched your lower belly, “it goes up and impregnates. But you are still bleeding so it washes out and won’t catch in your womb.”

You blinked and let your dirty hand fall back on the top of the covers.

“Oh...”

You felt him sit up and you mirrored him. You slid out of the bed as his warmth left you. Watching him pull his trousers properly back up over his hips and waist made you fluster from the sight of his bare arse.

It was such a plump bottom.

He pulled away your blanket, unveiling your nude self to the cold morning.

He turned around and brought back your water basin and a cloth. He soaked the material in and pressed the wet cloth to your thighs.

“Stay still,” he said softly, “I’m just washing you.”

You paused before you spread your legs for him and awkwardly nodded, “Thankyou...husband.”

Surely you could’ve cleaned yourself. You hissed as he scrubbed the dry blood and release from you thighs. The cold water on your hot dirty skin was soothing.

You stood out of your bed finally and hurried to your dresser to find either some padding tubes or a sanitary apron.

Your rolled the bandage up quickly and turned away from Sherlock as you inserted the material.

You felt...strange doing this in front of him. A part of him you were sure might be repulsed at the sight.

Except he had his back turned to you, he was washing himself in the basin while he asked, “How did you find the carnal pleasure?”

You froze and felt your mouth dry up. Had he forgotten that he had tied you up?!

It was hard to meet his eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your husband turned to you.

You felt the need to cover your privates with your hands.

“Strange, it...felt correct...but...wrong...” you cleared your throat, “forbidden, despite our vows.”

He smiled and nodded to the bed while he passed you to your wardrobe and investigated the contents, “Many young ladies new to it have expressed the same condolences...that is sex. That is coitus. That is what husband and wife do. To make babies, and to feel pleasure.”

Your nose wrinkled. Sherlock was significantly older than you. You trusted this wisdom. He was clearly an experienced man from the prices spent at Mayfair.

“Why did it hurt so much the first time?” you asked.

No one had prepared or explained why having sex with your husband would hurt. He was so brutal the first day. And last night it hurt but not as much...

He sighed and pulled out dark navy blouse and a skirt to match. You felt the urge to correct his choice as he held them up. It was an outfit for outside outings. You weren’t meant to leave the home during this delicate time.

He asked over his shoulder, “Have you ever ridden horses?”

“I have,” you answered honestly.

“Side saddle?” His left brow raised.

“Sometimes,” you pursed your lips and watched him lay out your clothes on your bed, “It was easier for balance when riding as men do.”

He nodded and went to collect a pair of your boots, “And that hurt your thighs the first time?”

“First few ride like that yes,” you agreed, huffing impatiently, “Where is this conversation leading?”

He pulled you closer by pinching your hip. He pushed a chemise over your head. Your eyes widened, this wasn’t his role...to help you dress. It was your responsibility and Mrs Hudson if you were inclined to ask for her assistance.

“How did the pain go away?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes and answered the obvious explanation, “Because my body accommodated and my muscles for the riding evolved to accept the saddled position.”

He passed you a pair of open crotch bloomers. You pulled the material over your legs and tied the strings to your waist over the corset.

He smiled and pinched your chin, “The same is said for sex. The more you practice, the better it will be for you and...your health.”

You flushed and turned your face away from him...you felt foolish with the way his eyes ran over your bare body. He turned you around and helped pull a corset over your head and began fighting the strings in the back.

“I...it hurt and felt good...I felt...suffocated...I thought I saw a bright light,” you grunted as he tugged.

Your husband shut his eyes and with a smile he hummed pleasingly, “La petite mort.” “The Little death?” You gasped.

He flicked his eyes open. He sounded amused, “ah you know French little lamb?”

“of course I do,” you scoffed lightly, “any self respectable lady must learn French.”

Not his sister, “I suppose so.”

He pulled more of the ties closer. The corset grew taunt and supportive of your chest. His fingers tugged down further.

“Why did you go to Scotland yard yesterday?” You asked him as he finished tying the laces together.

“And who did you have a fight with?”

You tapped your face with a soft finger. He passed you a hose suspender belt. You clipped the hooks behind your back while the belt sat on your waist.

“There’s now a bruise under your chin that I most certainly did not cause Mr Holmes...” A part of you wished you had. He would’ve deserved it from you. He rubbed the dark spot and smirked.

Your husband sat on your bed and plucked your stockings. He pat his thigh and opened the stockings up. You lifted your leg and rested it on his thigh. You clenched the wooden canopy pole to steady your balance.

You were embarrassed. At this angle he would be able to see your cunt stuffed with the white fluff soaking up your menstruation.

He showed no care or disgust. He slid the soft cotton up your leg and kissed your knee cheekily.

He clipped your stocking to the suspension strings.

“I inquired upon the Pennicott case,” he claimed,” his thumb rubbed dangerously over your thigh...

God, you felt a spark at the touch.

“I thought you said it was obvious,” you stuttered, “He ran out from his wife.”

“I did, and...I rethought it,” he admitted, he slid the other stocking up your other leg, “Pennicott is a Baron and a owner of many warehouse factories. His wife comes from a well off family too and she is pregnant last heard, baby number six now. Why would he disappear off the face of the earth?...”

He stood up straight and forced your arms above your head before he slid a petticoat across your waist.

“A lover?”

He smiled as he tied the strings at your waist and shook his head, “No, men like Pennicott would just keep their arm candy and refer to them as a niece of a distant cousin. And if he was attached so lovingly, he would just move to another country but to completely eradicate and leave all his finances? To leave his wife in her state? It makes not much sense. He was making a fine quarter profit! So why is he missing?”

He passed you the blouse and skirt.

“Well,” You pulled the skirt over your arms and buttoned the buttons up to our neck “Perhaps he’s been kidnapped, for ransom?”

Sherlock hummed, “Maybe Watson, but I do wonder still.” You blinked...

“Pardon?” you gawked.

He raised his brows to your exclamation.

“You called me Watson.”

“Oh dear god,” he chuckled and passed you your skirt, “it’s already happening.”

You slid on the final layer and wrinkled your nose at him, “What is happening?” Sherlock stood up from the bed and clapped his hands.

“Come with me,” he softly begged, “Today I will be visiting his wife. The Baroness. I am investigating the case.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thoughts couldn’t keep up. You sputtered as you tried to find sensibility. “Sherlock, it is our honeymoon and I am bleeding,” you whispered, “It is improper. I need to conduct laundry. Both our bedding must be soaked in...” you cleared your throat, “the blood.” He winked at you and pulled you close to his nude chest by your covered waist.

“Isn’t it marvelous that we have a housekeeper for such things?”

You narrowed your eyes... “A housekeeper is not a maid and I would not subject Mrs Hudson to cleaning that. She has told me herself that linens is not of her department.”

The tall man bent down and offered, “Mrs Hudson will clean the laundry, trust me..”

Despite his assurance, It wasn’t right for you to be out and about in public like this.

“And what would I be doing,” you tested, “Running after you as you speak to the Baroness?”

“Sitting pretty,” Sherlock stated, “And looking for clues.”

Your eyes sharpened, “Clues?”

Your husband tapped your nose, “Yes, you seem to have a hint of talent in that department. You just don’t know where to deduce the end results for the clues.” You blinked....

With a soft mutter you stated, “I suppose it would allow me more insight to your profession and a chance to bond and learn about each other...”

Before you could continue anymore questions you heard a soft knock on your bedroom door.

“Mrs Hudson,” you both whispered, glancing to one another.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[myfandomrealitea]

That post you made about Harry Potter and how to not financially support and fund the franchise and put more money in Joanne's pockets felt like a lie because I swear I got the impression that even that wasn't allowed when the whole thing started

To be clear; I stopped. Completely. I compartmentalized it all and just stopped interacting with anything Harry Potter online whatsoever. But I always wished it would be fine to still be able to do certain fandom things without supporting her, but people were saying that even using the tag or reading the fanfiction or making fanart was still supporting the ip and not letting it die completely as a topic on the internet was indirectly putting money in her pockets.

It wasn't until I came across a post from a queer woman from somewhere in the global south with heavy OCD and intrusive thoughts or something like that, commenting on how hostile of a thing it became for someone of her affliction; the way people were treating it like do or die. Pointing out that no matter how much trans people and allys cut off their support of her, she has other large means of income that we won't be able to touch, and there will still always be transphobic homophobic Harry Potter fans that will continue to support her actively, putting that money in her pockets. Another thing she mentioned was the treatment of Harry Potter and Joannes bigotry in contrast to the treatment of FNAF and the creators bigotry. And lastly something about the USAmericanized nature of it? I don't really remember that part but I think I understood it at the time I read it (maybe it was something about all the other countries the IP is popular in who are probably more conservative and unaware or caring of the issues with her who will still put money in her pockets, or maybe it was something about American fans fixating and posing the support of her as the ultimate battlefield of Trans Rights to other queer and trans individuals trying to be quiet fans who are facing Much Worse in their countries)

Anyways after that I briefly started reading ao3 fanfic again, just put a filter for anything before 2019 or so, and then my interest more gently fizzled out.

I can't remember what my point is anymore, maybe just to bring these arguments to your attention(also I am not arguing against the financial boycott or ending of support for this woman through her ip).

Harry Potter will never stop earning money. That's just the flat reality of it; I mean, look at the likes of Elvis and the original Sherlock Holmes books and every other 'dead' media that's still earning money. Short of making Harry Potter an illegal piece of media, yes, there will still always be a number of people giving her money.

The goal is to give her less money. To turn Harry Potter from a prominent, profitable cashcow into a defunct piece of media that only select groups are still clinging to. To make it so that JK Rowling has to choose between paying her bills and funding anti-trans movements.

When something stops bringing in a certain amount of profit, studios start looking elsewhere. When a cashcow starts drying up, they stop trying to milk it as hard. Which in turn means less productions for JK Rowling to collect her pocketmoney from.

What would you rather; JK Rowling getting $100,000 or JK Rowling only getting $10,000?

Something is better than nothing. Damage reduction is better than open exposure. If everyone just rolled over and gave up because "things will keep happening anyway" the world will literally be a rancid, fetid wasteland of bigotry and violence.

I'd much rather watch JK Rowling fizzle out into a bitter old wench sustained only by the dogged support of other stubborn bigots than watch people willingly disregard and condone bigotry because its "easier" and "she'll be a bigot anyway."

I'd much rather JK Rowling only have $10,000 to donate to shitty movements over $72,000. Shitty movements can do a lot less with a lot less money.

[fairy-writes]

hello there i hope you have a great day today, can i request an albert x reader. the reader is holmes younger sister (could be an age gap but if you uncomfortable you can make the reader sherlock older sister). im kinda interested that the reader and albert is ike in a fake engagement but slowly they fall for each other. im sorry if its a lott or confusing 😖😖😖😖

FAKE… OR IS IT?

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Albert James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Fake Engagement, Reader is short

Notes: I wrote this with the reader being the Holmes’s middle child. So, in between Mycroft and Sherlock :)

Here are their ages!

Mycroft: 31 | Reader: 27 | Sherlock: 24

__________________________________________________________________________

“Sit up straight, Sister.” Mycroft chastises, and you roll your eyes, propping your heeled feet up on the coffee table, much to his chagrin. You can tell he’s less than pleased with the mud on the table by the tightness around his eyes. 

“Bugger off, Mikey.” You grumble and slouch even more in your seat. His frown deepens, but he knows better than to try and get you to obey. If anything, it would make you rebel even more. 

You had never been one for proper manners if you could help it. You had always been a rough-and-tumble type of woman, playing in the dirt with the neighborhood kids while Mycroft and Sherlock dealt with their studies. Sure, you also had studies of your own. But overall, you tended to ignore whatever your governess taught you in favor of learning how to handle weapons from your father. Mycroft sits back in his seat and sighs, 

“At least sit properly when the company gets here.” He mutters under his breath. 

That gets you to sit up straight.

“Company?! Since when?!” You choke and hurriedly set down your teacup before you can spill it down your front. Your elder brother had summoned you to his office that morning with a telegram. But he hadn’t explained why you were there, even with your pestering. Mycroft glares at you pointedly and is about to answer when there’s a firm knock on the door. 

“Come in.” He calls, his voice booming and loud in the quiet room. 

A tall young man, perhaps your age, enters the room. He’s attractive, almost devilishly so. With slicked-back brown hair and piercing green eyes, he’s dressed in the typical uniform of all soldiers. 

You recognize this man. 

Your younger brother wouldn’t shut up about his family. 

Lieutenant Colonel Albert James Moriarty. 

You glare at Mycroft, who ignores your look in favor of standing up and shaking Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s hand. Brushing off the front of your dress, you stand as Mycroft gestures to you. 

“This is my younger sister,” He says. Your name follows soon after. You plaster a bright smile on your face and extend your own hand. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty bows slightly and introduces himself before you turn to look at your brother. 

“I assume this is where I take my leave?” You ask, and he raises an eyebrow, 

“On the contrary, dearest sister, you’ll be taking part in this meeting.” Your face betrays your shock before you can school it into a facade of perfect calm. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty notices but doesn’t comment. 

Mycroft gestures for you to take your seats before his desk, and you do so, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. In contrast, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty sits back, relaxed in his chair, setting his hat in his lap and steepling his hands together. 

“So, mind telling me what this ‘important mission’ is about?” He says politely, and you look at him from the corner of your eye.

Important mission? 

Just what was your elder brother planning? 

Mycroft leaned his hands on his desk and then leaned his weight on his hands. It seemed he wasn’t taking a seat quite yet. 

That meant things were serious. 

“There’s a mission I am entrusting to the both of you. It’s of the utmost importance and must be handled immediately.” 

Wait…

“You’re what?!” You blurt just as Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty opens his mouth to speak. You don’t give him the chance to talk. You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. 

You weren’t about to be a pawn in your brother’s game. You weren’t even an MI6 agent or soldier of his! 

“Absolutely not! This can’t possibly be legal! I’m just a civilian!” You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. Mycroft stares down at you. He had always been the tallest of the three Holmes siblings. You were saddled with the hefty burden of being the shortest. 

“You know this as well as anyone that MI6 operates outside the law,” Mycroft says simply, and you grind your teeth. He had a point. But still… 

“What about Miss Moneypenny?” You ask, and Mycroft shrugs, 

“She’s on another mission with Colonel Moran. You two are the only ones I trust with this.” He says, turning his intense stare onto you and Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

You flinch at that. Mycroft never openly said he trusted you. It was sometimes implied, but he knew how fickle you could be! Was this mission really that important?

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty stands and accepts the papers Mycroft hands him. He then extends a hand for you to take. Begrudgingly, you take it and allow him to help you to your feet. 

At least your ‘mission partner’ was a gentleman. 

You accept Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s offer to take you back to the Holmes London estate and sit across from him in the carriage. He opens the papers Mycroft gave him and begins to read. 

“Oh dear…” He mumbles, and you look over from where you had been watching the scenery go by. He has a frown pulling at his lips and creasing his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, and he turns the papers around so you can read them. 

“It seems we’ll need to be engaged for this mission to work.”

Your engagement was announced within the next week. 

You had even commissioned an artist for an engagement photo of sorts. Granted, it was just for show, but still! You had to stand still for hours in a dress your mother picked out and that you loathed all for one portrait. 

You never understood how royalty could do it. 

Speaking of your parents… 

Part of the facade was to make sure everyone was in on it. Maybe ‘in on it’ wasn’t the right word. Because this was a top-secret mission, after all. So you couldn’t exactly tell your parents that this engagement was fake. But you did have to tell them you were getting engaged lest you incur the wrath of your mother. 

Wanda Holmes was a proper woman. She was everything you weren’t. Prim, proper, ladylike. The only thing you got from her was her height and her temper. She hated that you weren’t the little lady she dreamt of having. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

In contrast, Timothy Holmes was a bit of a rule breaker. He fostered your love for weaponry and often challenged you to a shoot-off to see if you let your skills rust over. You inherited his knack for getting under people’s skins, and it was a wonder that he was still married to your mother after thirty years. 

Telling them was an… interesting adventure, to say the least. As your carriage rumbled up to the country estate where they resided, they met you outside. Your mother had her hands clasped together, a newspaper crunched in her grasp. Her face was dark with disappointment. 

Like the light side of the moon, your father all but bounded up as you stepped out of the carriage. 

“Dearest daughter!” He bellowed, and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Dearest father!” You tease right back and step forward into his embrace. He squeezes you tight and lifts you up into a spin. You shriek with laughter and cling to him to make sure you don’t fall when he sets you back down. 

“Darling, at least let her get into the house before you bother her.” Your mother says, and you roll your eyes but don’t say anything. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty steps out of the carriage, and your father’s demeanor changes. His smile is still there, but it no longer reaches his eyes. He extends a hand, and when Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty takes it, you can tell he’s holding back a wince from how hard your father squeezes it. 

“Timothy Holmes. It’s a pleasure.” Your father says curtly, and you can tell Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty can tell he’s being judged. But he offers a polite smile nonetheless,

“Albert James Moriarty. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes.” He says, and it’s then that your mother approaches. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty shakes her hand,

“You must be the infamous Wanda Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Your mother’s face smoothes over, and she looks at you,

“At least you’re marrying someone with manners.” This is her only comment, and you can see that the newspaper in her free hand is the one announcing your engagement. 

Perhaps you should’ve informed them by telegram instead of coming to visit for dinner… 

No… That would’ve made her even angrier than she already was. 

She soon ushers you into the little cottage that served as your parents' retirement home. The minimal staff on site has already prepared and served dinner, but you don’t eat just yet because your father catches your shoulder. He has a knowing gleam in his eye, and you can’t help but get a giddy smile on your face. 

Of course, he wouldn’t forget. 

Your mother notices, and her face sours. 

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” She asks, and now your father scoffs,

“Of course not, my love! It’s tradition!” He crows, and you can see Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty start to ask, but you’re taken out back before anything can be asked. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty follows you out, and by then, your father is setting up targets with you, assembling the two pistols you always used for this little exercise. You brush off your hands on your dress and hand your father the revolver. You take your own and pocket it in the holster strapped to your waist. He does the same and looks to Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

“Mind giving us a signal?” He asks, his tone much more friendly yet still a bit frosty at the same time. 

Your ‘fiancé’ seems to pick up on what’s happening quickly and nods. He allows both of you to take a stance before calling out a signal. 

The game takes less than twenty seconds. 

You whip out your gun and unleash all six bullets in the cylinder and barrel. Your father does the same, and before you know it, both of your guns are empty, and your ears are ringing. Holstering the weapon, you wait for your father to do the same before approaching the targets. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty is called forward to inspect the targets as well. 

“I believe your daughter is the winner.” He tells your father, and you grin proudly. 

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch, Father Dearest.” You tease, and your father slaps his thigh in defeat,

“And I guess I’m losing mine!” He chirps, and your mother calls from the doorway.

“And it’s time for dinner!”

The carriage ride back is quiet. 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I’ve never seen someone so accurate in a quick draw.” Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty says, and you jolt lightly. The food you had eaten was sending you into a food coma, and you had been dozing until he spoke. 

“My father. He was known as “Dead-Eye” for a long time until he retired from the military.” You said, and he nodded in appreciation. 

“He taught you well.” 

You smiled and played with your fingers. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty.” You say genuinely, and he arches an eyebrow, 

“You should call me Albert. We are engaged, after all, my dear fiancée.” His tone is borderline teasing. But you can tell he’s being genuine.

And for whatever reason, it makes your heart race. 

The mission is kicked into gear three months after announcing your ‘engagement.’ 

The gala you are attending is only for married or engaged couples. Everyone was investigated to ensure no one single was sneaking in. Why they wanted to keep single folks out was a mystery to you. But you relented and accepted the invitation as the ‘Future Mrs. Moriarty’ with as much grace as you could muster. 

You produced the invitation from your handbag and handed it to the man checking said invitation. Your free hand was looped through Albert’s arm, resting in the crook of his elbow. He chatted amicably with the doorman until you were announced as a couple and ushered inside. 

The air was already alive with the sounds of music and dancing couples. The two of you make some rounds around the sides of the dance hall, looking for your target. Hell, you even danced the waltz to a few songs! All those lessons you thought were useless were sure coming in handy now… Perhaps you should thank your mother for forcing you to listen to your governess as a child. 

Albert leans down to whisper in your ear as he brings you in from a gentle spin. 

“He’s at the top of the stairs.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was whispering sweet nothings to his fiancée. But instead, he was walking you through the next phase of the plan. Seeing as your job was to kill your target, he was instructing you on how to get to his office, where he would meet you and find the documents he was looking for. 

Albert was to find the incriminating evidence. You were to kill the target if he tried to resist. 

The office was warmed by a crackling fire. There’s a large mahogany desk in front of the fireplace with documents and papers scattered across the surface. You clutch your purse closer to your chest, feeling the sturdy weight of the revolver inside. It was comforting. 

You had one job, so you would do it, and you would do it well. 

The doorknob turned, and you jumped, sneaking a hand inside your handbag to draw the revolver. The door opens, and the target spots you in front of the dying light of the fireplace. 

“Who are you?!” He bellows, but you know no one would be able to hear him over the sounds of music and talking. 

He doesn’t hear the door shut behind him until Albert slides the lock into place. He whirls and tries to push past your fiancé, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. 

“What are you going to do to me?!” The target demands, and Albert smiles a terrifying smile. It was nothing like the kind and even tender smiles he had been giving you as of late. This smile darkened his eyes. 

It was almost… Cruel…

“Nothing if you cooperate.” He says darkly and pushes the man to sit in the chair before his desk. You walk behind him and press the muzzle of your revolver to the back of his balding head. He freezes, a drop of sweat traveling down his temple. 

Albert rifles through the desk, and no one says a word for what seems like forever. 

At least… Until the target tries to run. 

The chair has a low back. It’s almost more of a stool, so he throws his head back and cracks it into your nose. You stumble back and fall, tripping over the hem of your dress. The only thing keeping you from firing your gun is the fact that your father had engrained it into you to not keep your finger on the trigger until you were ready to fire.

Albert freezes and reaches into his suit jacket coat, but you’re faster. 

Before the target can even make it two paces, you fire your revolver, and the bullet sinks into his skull. Brain matter and blood spatter across the carpet. The pain sets in as Albert helps you to your feet and hands you a handkerchief for your bleeding nose. 

There’s no way you could go back out into public like this…

And as always, it seems Albert reads your mind. 

“We’ll escape out the window.” He says and pockets a few documents. 

“Did you get what you need?” You ask, and he nods, his smile tender and warm again.

It makes your heart flutter. 

The two of you escape out the window like Albert had said. Luckily, the carriage was already waiting outside, so you were able to retreat without being seen. 

Mission accomplished. 

You scowl at Mycroft as he reads through your very first report from MI6. 

“It’s a bit lackluster, but everything went according to plan?” He asked, and you huffed. 

“Except for the part where I broke my nose.” You say, your voice slightly garbled from the bandages on your nose. Mycroft simply nods, 

“These things are expected to happen. Be glad it wasn’t anything more serious.” He says, tangles his fingers together, and leans his chin on them. “If you’d like, we can feed the newspapers a story about your and Lieutenant Colonel’s parting of ways. You don’t have to be engaged to him anymore.” He continues, and you freeze. 

Not be engaged anymore? 

“What about Mother and Father? They’ll be furious.” You say absentmindedly, and he cocks his head to the side. 

“Since when have you ever cared what they think?” He says, confusion coloring his tone. You avert your gaze. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t mind taking more missions from you from now on…” You mumble and stare at the carpet. But you can hear the smile in his tone when he speaks next. 

“If that’s what you desire, sister dearest. I’ll let Lieutenant Colonel know of your decision.”

[fullofbees]

Obey Me Brothers with an AroAce MC!

I know it's technically July 1st but shhhhhhhhh

CW: None!

»»----------► Reader is Gender Neutral

He would be the most nonchalant about it. When you first come out to him, he lifts his head from the desk, staring at you confused. You sweat, about to overexplain before he interrupts you with a question. 

“Will this affect our relationship as it exists now?”   You shake your head, “Of course not, I’m more than content.”  He nods, returning to the paperwork on his desk, the silence only broken by the scribbles of his pen. You remain in place, now the one staring in confusion.  When he notices you haven’t left, he raises his head, “Everything alright?”  “I’m just shocked. Most people have a few... follow-up questions.”  Lucifer shrugs, “Lust isn’t my department.” 

He would first ask a million questions trying to understand. It’s not that I don’t think Mammon couldn’t understand, I think it’s more that he genuinely does not care what you identify as, but he wants to learn about you so he’s going to pester you about it. So long as you remain his friend, and he gets to retain his bragging rights as your first demon, you’ll always be cool. 

You try to keep up as he drags you down the street.   “Mammon, why do I need to go the casino with you again?”  The demons rolls his eyes like you just asked the most ridiculous question in the world, “Pffft! You’re my lucky charm of course.”   “I am not playing the slots for you!”  You almost ram straight into his back when he abruptly stops.   “Don’t need ya to. I’ll be sure ta win with an ace up my sleeve!”   Now its your turn to roll your eyes, at least so you don’t have to look at his smug face. It’ll only encourage him. 

When you first explain your orientation to Levi, he is excited. You know Levi gets easily flustered when it comes to emotions, but he’s made great strides to let you see his vulnerability, so in the end you decided to show yours too. It still doesn’t mean you were expecting him to start on another anime ramble. 

“That makes so much sense!! I mean in My Whole Life I’ve Been a Cat but A Wizard Recently Made Me Human and Now I Have to Attend High School Where a Pack of Dogs Is Out to Get Me Because I’m The Adopted Daughter of Their Rival Gang Leader, the protagonist never receives a love interest! I totally thought they were retconning the manga when they had her turning down every declaration of love but her being aroace would fit the storyline so much better--” 

Already understands; you don’t even have to explain the terms to him. 

“Wait, you.. Know what I’m talking about?”  The demon glances up at you from his book, “That is what I just said.”  “Wha- from what- how?” You hate blathering incoherently, especially in front of Satan, but his reaction is not what you were expecting.  The demon raises his book so that you can see the cover, “Sherlock Holmes.”  You process the comical nature of this interaction before quipping back, “Yes, I suppose it is elementary.” 

Would probably go overboard in his support. Of course he means well, he’s just excited!! He goes out of his way to stay up-to-date on the tea news of the community; and honestly, he probably finds you the most obscure pride merch. 

“You should let me paint your nails the colors of the flag, hon!”  You stare down at your plain, dry nailbeds. They are definitely overdue some TLC.  “I don’t know if I want to be that on the nose about it...”  “Oh hush, I’ve never disappointed you before, have I?” He says with a giggle and a wink, “C’mon, chop chop! Off to my studio!”   “You mean your room?” You tease.  “Studiiiioo~”  

Finds out because he overheard you discussing the garlic bread and cake memes.  

“Aroace cake.... sound delicious, what’s in it?” The hungry demon asks just after his signature stomach growl.  “It’s not a real cake, Beel,” says Levi.  The poor demon’s face drops, now pouting as he looks down at his aching stomach.   “Beel, you okay?”  He dejectedly sulks out of the room and towards the kitchen, muttering to himself about the cake being a lie. 

I think Belphie would understand it to a startling degree. He has never had any serious relationships himself, finding that he already feels fulfilled with his friends and family. Perhaps you can help him explore this new revelation.  

“Mmm, it must be nice, actually. Less time wasted, more time for naps.”  “I never thought of it like that before... I should take more naps.”  He nods with a sleepy grin, patting the cushion next to him, “Who needs a thirst trap when you can have your first nap?” 

•••✦ ❤ ✦••• Submit A Request •••✦ ❤ ✦•••

A/N: Happy Pride Month from your fellow aroace author! Wishing you all the best <3

[somethingpersonarelated]

Akechi's taste in Literature

I've taken an interest in the books Akechi reads. Obviously from the first time you talk with him, you can already tell what he tends to: psychology, philosophy, and mythos. Also, I read at least a little bit from every text. One of my professors out there is proud of me. I hope. So: let's talk about it!

Ok, but why care? Quick Introduction

No particular reason. I simply want to tinker with his brain. I think it could give us insight on the character! And there's an easy way to dismiss this conversation: Akechi uses books as a way to appear intelligent. I don't think that's wrong per se, but he does express an interest in psychology and philosophy in his third semester Jazz Jin discussions. His thieves den conversations also point to interests in mythos. Use this as a "Annoying Person Bookshelf" if you'd like, I certainly will.

Aristole's De Anima (Mementos Mission - Chapter 3)

De Anima, or "On the Soul" [Leob Classical Library], is an examination of the soul and how it functions within the body. It's pretty dense but easily accessible. On page 15,

"There are times when men show all the symptoms of fear without any cause of fear being present. If this is the case, then clearly the affections of the soul are formulae expressed in matter."

Now, I'm not going to read every book, that would be a huge investment. And unfortunately I am still a university student, so I'll stick to the introduction/first chapters or so. But anyways, to the point of the quote, De Anima tends to get metaphysical. Theory time: Akechi has morbid fascinations with the soul. Not only because he well, kills people, but also messes with the restraints on their heart. I choose this quote because it's a good summary of the kind of body horror someone messing with you in the metaverse is like. It's fear and anger unchained, but it manifests in reality through subway accidents... for example.

Hegel's Dialectics (did Akechi misquote Hegel?) - Rank 1

Look, almost all of these texts are slogs to get through, so I wouldn't blame Akechi for not catching this. Or not reading the 2017 in-universe equivalent of cliffnotes. Note: Dialectics refers to the structure/strategy that Hegel uses, not a text itself. Looking at the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy we see that Hegel never makes mention of the thesis, antithesis, and synthesis idea. Rather, thesis-antithesis-synthesis is a pattern in his arguments. These are also projected by people reading his text, so we can't fully be sure he's using this to formulate most of his arguments. So not only has Akechi forgotten synthesis, the "unification", but also the fact that Hegel doesn't talk about this. Did he read Hegel? Probably. Did he retain the information? Questionable. Do I blame the writers for making the mistake? mmmm. Maybe. If you're asking me to guess which book he read, I would estimate it was The Phenomenology of Spirit [Google Books]. And yes, I'm going to say it was just because of this quote on page 9 that just, screams Black Mask:

"The force of the mind is only as great as expression; its depth only as, as deep as its power to expand and lose itself when spending and giving out its substance."

Maurice Leblanc's Arsène Lupin vs Sherlock Holmes (Herlock Sholmes) (P5A)

This book I read because my curiosity definitely got the better of me. Since I've gotten into Persona 5 again, I've been DYING to read this one, but never got around to it. I think this one is also interesting to look at based on how it was represented in the anime, a crow escaping a bird cage. I can say that this doesn't happen in the book, but this is why I think Akechi is self inserting on Holmes/Sholmes here. Holmes is much freer as a person in this text than Akechi, but also in a deep rivalry with Lupin. Their banter is also pretty reminiscent of what they [Joker and Akechi] have, but... with older language. Longer quote, so here's an image in its place:

Edit/Correction: Edogawa Ranpo's Kogoro Akechi Series!

As pointed out by a couple people, we can't leave out this series. (credits to @heavy-metal-papillon) I don't know why my mind blanked and left this out. Because when I was doing research for this post someone had mentioned it. Just by name, it should be obvious why this is here! Here is a part of the preface that explains Kogoro Akechi, Arsene Lupin, and their presence in Edogawa's novels (written by Ho-Ling Wong):

Literature he makes references but doesn't mention (note: headcanon/my opinion)

John Stuart Mill's On Utilitarianism

Because Akechi knows how to flirt, he recommends philosophy to Joker. [Early Modern Texts] In my eyes he definitely doesn't agree with this philosophy (in fact some quotes are definitely more aligned with Maruki's philosophy). Page 8:

"That’s because the utilitarian standard is not •the agent’s own greatest happiness but •the greatest amount of happiness altogether; and even if it can be doubted whether a noble character is always happier because of its nobleness, such a character certainly makes other people happier, and the world in general gains immensely from its existence."

Yes, Akechi reads Freud. Freud's essays: Beyond the Pleasure Principle & The Ego Principle

In an offhanded comment about Personas in the Thieves Den to Ryuji, Akechi says:

I love you Akechi. I will not read Freud for you. My love has limits.

Carl Jung's Two Essays on Analytical Psychology

Okay I'm NOT reading this (a lie, i did. [Internet Archive]) but this was the foundational text on the Jungian Archetype of the Persona as well as addressing concepts such as "the will to power." Going to leave this quote from page 78 for you to munch on:

"Logically, the opposite of love is hate, and of Eros, Phobos (fear); but psychologically it is the will to power. Where love reigns, there is no will to power; and where the will to power is paramount, love is lacking. The one is but the shadow of the other..."

There's a couple things here that point to Akechi reading this, but ultimately I just headcanon that he wants to reason through why Personas exist.

Generally reads about the casts Personas!

Similarly to how Joker can read about the other PTs Personas, Akechi does as well. Well, if his morbid discussion about Captain Kidd in the Thieves Den is an indicator. Does this mean Akechi is familiar with the Carmen stage opera? I think so. Besides, it's also the smartest move. Akechi (head)canonically reads lovecraft.

Conclusion

Akechi really enjoys psychology and philosophy, and while some of it seems like he's doing it for attention/to appear smarter, he DOES continue to show interest in third-semester/thieves den. I still can't forgive him for reading Freud.

The List (of ones directly mentioned here)

De Anima, Aristotle

The Phenomenology of Spirit, Hegel

Arsène Lupin vs Sherlock Holmes, Leblanc

On Utilitarianism, John Stuart Mill

Beyond the Pleasure Principle & The Ego Principle, Freud

Two Essays, Carl Jung

The Fiend with Twenty Faces, Edogawa Ranpo

Other notes and headcanons I can't justify giving sections to:

he probably read that fuckass billiards book

definitely stuff on justice. i was just lazy. Some of these texts do cover these ideas, but definitely not all of them

he likes detective novels. he's probably read a fair share of sherlock holmes.

he probably reads adjacent literature to some of the philosophers mentioned (for example: Nietzsche to Jung, Plato to Aristotle)

[writingquestionsanswered]

Switching Genre/Sub-Genre in a Series

Anonymous asked: I know the answer may vary, but do you think it would be annoying if a story's sequel was a different genre/subgenre? My book one is a fantasy murder mystery where people are disappearing, and eventually the MCs discover a cursed artifact is the cause. In the sequel, they take the artifact to have the curse removed and return it to its rightful owner. So the events of the first book lead into book two, but I'm still worried readers will be annoyed. I don't have the plot entirely planned out for the sequel, so I could technically also make it a mystery, or at least have some mystery elements. Do you think that would be a better idea?

[Ask edited for length]

Switching genre? Probably not...

Switching Sub-Genre? Depends...

People tend to gravitate toward books due to their genre and sometimes sub-genre. If I pick up a book promoted as a cozy mystery set in a quaint New England town, and then book two is a gritty Sci-Fi thriller with only the MC in common, that's going to be jarring and upsetting. However, if the sub-genre naturally evolves into a different sub-genre, that usually wouldn't be an issue as long as the emphasis stays on the original genre.

Having said that, your story's sub-genre is about much more than just the nature of the conflict. Having a fantasy story where the conflict involves a cursed artifact causing strange deaths and disappearances, which your MC investigates as part of the bigger story, doesn't really make it a fantasy murder mystery. Having a fantasy story where the MC is a Sherlock Holmes-inspired eccentric lord who investigates the day-to-day mysteries in his village and on his estate, that would be a fantasy murder mystery.

The one bit of advice I would say is that I don't think you should lean too far into the "murder mystery" element in book one. This book should not involve a lot of murder mystery tropes, themes, and stock characters. You want to keep the emphasis on the fantasy world and the fantasy characters... the mystery is just something they're trying to figure out.

Happy writing! ♥

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[victimsofyaoipoll]

Round 4

Joan Watson

How were BBC Sherlock shippers so rancid about a WOMAN who wasnt even in the SAME SHOW?????

Martin Freeman of BBC Sherlock insulted Elementary and specifically Lucy Liu in the press. He straight up called Lucy Liu a "dog" in an interview APPARENTLY as a joke, because calling female actors ugly is hilarious. Benedict Cumberbatch was more measured about it, but he still said he was cynical about Elementary because it would lose the "male friendship" dynamic, which of course Johnlock shippers used against Joan Watson fans. Even the lead BBC Sherlock actors got in on the yaoi victimization of Joan Watson... 😔

she wasn't even in the same SHOW as the yaoi I've been convinced she deserves to win the entire poll. I was a Johnlocker but I did watch the first season of Elementary and it was fine????? It was totally okay????? Especially in hindsight given how hard Sherlock season four flopped. Also Lucy Liu is a queen and deserved zero vitriol for *checks notes* playing a character???? A fucking fictional character???????? Oh my god we were all SO mean to this show and we (or at least I) thought it was like The Good Fight™️, like we were defending BBC Sherlock against copyright infringement and straightwashing and Jonny Lee Miller's bizarre scarf, (it wasn't a good scarf I do stand by that) but then Elementary didn't make Holmes and Watson a couple either???? And also it didn't insult its audience constantly etc etc we've all seen the Hbomberguy Sherlock is Garbage video. This is really long sorry hashtag justice for Joan Watson.

Misa Amane

she gets treated in-canon the way fandoms treat female characters that Threaten an m/m ship. it's like, "oh why don't you go sit in the corner and be pretty, misa, while the Men have intelligent conversation and pretend they aren't ten seconds from fucking each other, doesn't that sound nice?" it's infuriating. and MAYBE it's better now but i remember her getting treated the same way in fanfiction too, like we all need to do just as badly by our female secondary characters as fucking tsugumi ohba, but with the added insult of making her be alternately oblivious of the relationship between light and L or actively trying to sabotage it—incompetently, of course, because god forbid misa be allowed dignity or moments of cleverness.

she's one of the first characters I think of when I consider old school fandom misogyny. The annoying bitch and clingy crazy gf allegations were AFTER HER ASS. She's also a lot more intelligent than people gave her credit for, but most seem inclined to take the Very Biased word of our unreliable, narcissistic narrator and his homoerotic arch nemesis and claim that just because she's bubbly and into romance that she's also a complete moron. Which is blatantly untrue. Everyone was afraid of Misa girlbossing too hard. Killing people and devoting yourself to the deranged twink of your dreams even though you know he'll never love you back??? Having a hardcore goth aesthetic and being so Hot even literal Death Gods are into you?? God forbid women do ANYTHING!

Not only is she the victim of yaoi culture, she is the victim of early 2000s misogyny by an author that wanted to introduce a girl character because he knew his male rivals were getting too homoerotic. She is a goth bimbo icon who portrays what I think is one of the few callouts for stan culture and what parasocial relationships can do to both the stan and the idol. The fact that she is a toxic fan of Kira and also hot, funny, sociable is tragic in its own way, which I think the author did try to touch on but was too misogynistic too really get through. Of course, she was reduced to villain status by the fandom and anime alike because she got in the way of the supposed romance in their psychological horror anime.

[beekeeperspicnic]

What I've been getting up to without my computer

Since I don't have any game updates at the moment I thought I'd give you a look at my very analogue Sherlock Holmes related project!

As you probably know, the Sherlock Holmes stories were mostly originally published in the Strand Magazine which came out as floppy monthly magazines with hardback collections every six months.

A while ago I spotted a really beaten up copy of the July to December 1893 book on eBay for £8. This book can sometimes go for £200 in good condition because it's the one with...

I immediately decided to make repairing it a Project!

You can see here that the text block has totally come away from the boards.

Along the spine I was really excited to see something a little familiar being used to give some structural support! My initial thought was that this had to be a slice of a cover of one of the floppy Strand magazines.

But when I got it loose and studied it, although the paper and ink colour is the same, it doesn't actually follow the layout format of the Strand covers. It's lots of little ads, and they run off the bottom like this is part of a larger document.

Scrap of paper on left, a Strand Magazine on the right:

So yeah, that's still a bit of a mystery, but it's cool to see this scrap of paper the printers had lying around. I had to remove it, but I'm going to keep it safe.

I did some gentle cleaning of the cover using a putty eraser, just gently pressing and rolling, never rubbing. It picked up a little of the grime.

The cover had got some paint splotches on at some point in the past, and I tried to gently remove these. Part of me wishes I'd left them as I think I was starting to effect the blue colour in the area.

(Original on the right, my attempt at cleaning on the left!)

I also reinforced some of the parts of the bookcloth around the spine that were very worn with Japanese tissue, which is very thin but very, very difficult to tear.

Now here's a fun part, with some help from my cat Miss Malkin!

The spine of the book had a few problems.

The fabric which wraps around it and helps attach it to the cover/boards which is called scrim (or mull, I've seen it called both!) had totally decayed and turned into gross dust, I knew I'd need to replace it.

Although the sewn binding was sound, I could tell that the glue wasn't doing its job anymore. It was old 'animal glue' that had turned hard and brittle. I knew I'd need to replace it with something else, like PVA.

I needed to get that glue off, so I tried out a trick I saw online. I made a paste/gel out of methycellulose, which is a substance that gets used as a thickener in lots of food products. Of course I keep mine in a fancy little jar:

The gel softens the old glue without getting it dangerously damp, allowing you to gently scrape it away. I have a really satisfying video of me doing it, but Tumblr only lets you upload one video per post, boo.

Look at all this gnarly gunk!

But look at how good the text block looks with its new scrim and glue!

I got the black paper from Shepherd's in London which is a specialist Art & Conservation Paper shop (they have a book bindery too but it's closed at the weekends.) Buying it was so fun, I got to look through lots of samples and pick something which matched the original paper.

I then had to get it home half way across the country on public transport. Yaaaaay.

I was trying to think what I was going to use to replace the Strand Magazine page on the spine. In the end I decided to leave a little note, for some future person who might take the binding apart someday!

So, here it is!

I have to admit that this whole project has been a real challenge, emotionally more than anything! It's required me to be brave about messing with an old book, and to acknowledge that even where I've made mistakes, at least it's better off then it was when It arrived at my house.

[seaofreverie]

Sparkstember Day 11: Angst In My Pants (The Decline And Fall Of Me)

Album two of two in the series of Sparks' immaculate new wave releases! Iconic in every way imaginable from the music to the artwork to ONE music video. I think it's more musically (and lyrically!) varied and mature in tone (besides... a couple exceptions. Yes, an album called Angst In My Pants) than its predecessor, which is a very good development. These songs will leave you chuckling and bopping along and also pondering the intricacies of human existence. Ok, maybe that's a bit of a stretch, but it can't be denied that behind much of the earnestness and theatricality here, there's lots of quite emotional, introspective and thought-provoking stuff to be found.

Thematically, this album goes everywhere. One moment we are in Sextown U.S.A, the next we're visiting Disneyland, California where we make friends among people and animals. On a more serious note though, I think the biggest emotional whiplash one could experience between different songs on an album is between Mickey Mouse and Sherlock Holmes. And yet there's still a very prominent element of humour, even in those songs that are on the more serious or dramatic end of the scale.

I said a few days ago that I'd try to return to the topic of Sparks' brand of humour and how it works, but I don't feel intelligent enough to analyse that today. And I'm pretty sure that from what I've seen, Other People And The Maels Themselves (Said It Better Than Me). So instead, as a little send-off, please remember: if a mouse can be special, well, SO CAN YOU!!! 🫵

Favourite songs (and other highlights):

Angst In My Pants: literally no other song like this one in this world. I can't tell why that is but it's just. So great

I Predict: I had a weird kind of effect where I heard this song in my early days of Sparking and it felt VEEERY familiar to me. I think it was due to the genre / style here, it reminded me of something specific, at first I thought it was very glam rock but I'm pretty sure that this is not it but something else (and I don't know what to call it in that case!). Anyway, banger song

Tarzan And Jane: whoa wait, am I already skipping to the third-to-last song on the tracklist?? I guess I am. This one's great and one of my early favs too (I wonder how long it will take until I run out of things to say about my fav songs and it all just becomes this list of 'it's very good and I like it a lot. next.')

The Decline And Fall Of Me: it's great!! I like it!! And, of course, "check out my pizzas"

Eaten By The Monster Of Love: personal reasons that lead to a printed and framed mini-comic of my making appearing on my desk, which features some of the lyrics of this song, which caused me to have it permanently stuck in my head for a pretty long period of time. And this way I ended up liking it much much more than I did in the beginning, when it still seemed somehow pretty unremarkable to me