#yarn ball incident

[realitybitesyouknowit]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Character(s) Characters: Harry Potter, Original Characters, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Humor, Inspired by Fanfiction, Nundu Harry Potter, Creature Harry Potter, Short & Sweet Summary:

Do you remember feeling curious about the story behind the "yarn ball" comment on x_manga_Bleach_x's Manhunt story?

Well, here it is. Harry is stuck in his Nundu form and is quickly distracted by a ball of yarn.

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

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.

[tanoraqui]

thinking about my tags on this post, I'm pretty sure the best way to do an au in which Team Tadpole forms without tadpoles, pre-tadpoles, because Wyll keeps heroically saving the day partly by befriending at least one key henchperson per major enemy...is if Ulder disowned him rather than exiling him, so Wyll became the Batman Blade of the Gate. Living in the shadows, stubbornly alone, helping the people who even the Flaming Fists can't, or won't... He has a firm principle of only killing "monsters", so for pettier criminals, he usually sends them walking up to the nearest officer of the peace with a friendly Suggestion that they turn themselves in for their crimes. This makes Ulder's teeth grind like coffee beans. Their dynamic isn't so much Batman & Gordon as Spiderman & J. Jonah Jameson.

All that really needs to happen for him to pick up Shadowheart as a sidekick is for one person to ask the Blade for help because the Sharrans stole their child/are aggressively cult-recruiting their friend/other typical dubious Sharran thing; and then he unravels that whole temple like a ball of yarn - or at least, enough that Shadowheart leaves and becomes local secondary superhero...the Pale Priestess? the White Wolf? (In this house we stan werewolf!Shadowheart!)

Then the Blade notices a barely-noticeable pattern of disappearances that's been going on for over 200 years, and the bloody trail leads right to Szarr Mansion...

(Wyll does not deal with the slightly-under-7,000 vampire spawn in the basement. The Blade leaves a note for the Flaming Fists and their ducal commander, along with a pile of evidence of Cazadar Szarr's crimes, and a pile of dust that was once a vampire lord.)

(Possibly this attracts Raphael's attention, because it was a loss for Mephistopheles? Raphael would be almost as good a comic books-esque recurring villain as Bhaal cultists.)

Gale somehow becomes their Guy in the Chair - still living in Waterdeep, mind you; he communicates mostly via Scrying, Sending, etc. Typical archwizard aloofness. Until The Incident, in response to which maybe he asks the others to get him books from Sorcerous Sundries, which leads to Lorroakan turning himself over to the Fists :) on charges of Apprentice Abuse [I'm sure Rolan wasn't the first] and general Being The Worst.

All throughout this Wyll is angstily - while acting the confident, ever-optimistic hero - refusing to talk about how he has devilish magic or why he Needs to leave the city to go kill a random specific devil/demon/other monster once a month. His friends know he made a pact and that's it. They offer to help. Wyll refuses lest Mizora make his life and theirs a living hell.

They start looking into Enver Gortash and his numerous sketchy dealings. In this AU, too, the Blade tracks Karlach down through the battlefields of Avernus...to ask her some questions about her former employer. He doesn't have much hope for answers from a notorious battle-devil, but it's their only lead...

But then she's Karlach, so he offers to help her escape instead. They're nearly out - or they are out? - when Mizora appears and orders Wyll to stand down. Wyll does not stand down. Karlach tries to behead her, so Mizora leaves him alone...for a little while. She catches him alone later, back at his base, and drags his soul through the fires of hell and turns him into a devil.

They ally with Orin, possibly unknowingly, to attack the Bhaalspawn leader of the Cult of Bhaal! She betrays them, right after murdering her kin!

[insert something here that's like speedrunning the whole plot but backwards]

Lae'zel shows up at some point, bleeding and halfway through her own character arc which she's been doing solo, having been snatched and tadpoled, killed a Sharran to regain the Prism, nearly killed by her own people for being tadpoled, regained the Prism via a lot of murder... She's now on the run from pretty much everyone but she's determined to re-prove herself to...somebody...by singlehandedly killing the Netherbrain.

(She tries to kill our heroes because she assumes they've been tadpoled.)

Wyll breaks his pact for good and is willing to go down fighting for his city even without any powers; then Ansur with his final-for-real-this-time dying breath gives Wyll draconic magic, so he can be the sorcerous Dragon of the Gate.

Epilogue: the Heroes of Baldur's Gate answer a call for help from their neighbors in the Reclaimed Lands to deal with all the ex-cultist goblins who've still been running around kidnapping and, idk, eating people since the Netherbrain was destroyed. They arrive to find that the goblins are already being bloodily Dealt With...by an amnesiac Dark Urge, who isn't actually being very bloody about it at all by their typical standards, and who has no memory of anything before like a month ago.

Everyone points weapons at them except Wyll, who insists that if they've truly reverted to ignorant innocence, then they should have a second chance, to mend their ways and help fix what they broke in the world. This is, fundamentally, a group wherein a bunch of morally dubious assholes (except Karlach, who's an angel and we're delighted she's here) outsource their moral compasses to Wyll; and honestly it's not like this is surprising behavior from him, so...welcome to the team!

[tiny-cloud-dragon]

Tiny Cloud dragon Headcanon - Hungry

Tiny Cloud dragon may be tiny, but he has a big appetite. He can really pack away the food!

Tiny dragons have high metabolisms, and they have a high calorie requirement. They use up a lot of energy skittering, hunting, pouncing, making biscuits, tangling balls of yarn, stealing shiny things, stealing articles of clothing, chasing toys, flying around, and managing their many loyal subjects!

Running a kingdom is hard work!

Because of this, Tiny Cloud dragon is on an On Demand feeding schedule. Angeal is ready to drop everything and make his babey a full course meal if he even thinks he hears his tiny tummy growl.

Sephiroth is armed with snackies. You can usually see his pockets bulging with the cashe of treats.

Genesis carries nothing but empty calorie treats because what's the point of a snack if it isn't indulgent?

Zack has a few snacks on his person in case his boi gets hungry, but he usually prefers to get him "real" food.

Tiny Cloud's subjects are pretty good at getting him food when he gets a little peckish, but there was one Incident where things did not work out.

He was not at all happy

Zack had taken him on a car ride and Tiny Cloud dragon had gotten big hungry.

No problem, Zack could just stop at Wei's Wutai Quisine To Go and pick something up!

The order of shrimp Yum Yum sticks had been placed and Tiny Cloud was skittering impatiently on the seat as they pulled up to the window.

But then horror! Tragedy! Betrayal! High Treason! Ultimate Dishonor!

Zack had forgotten his wallet.

Tiny Cloud dragon didn't do anything as uncivilized as throwing a temper tantrum. There might have been some hissing, displeased squeaking, a little rolling around and flailing on the seat, and there was possibly some clawing and nipping at the upholstery done.

A complimentary baggie of Yum Yum sticks was quickly provided by the staff after Tiny Cloud dragon may or may not have tried to leap through the drive thru window and start a tug of war with the window attendant.

His Tiny Highness was hangry, okay? Hunger makes you do strange things!

Zack drove home in stunned silence, listening to the little possessive growls and hisses as Tiny Cloud dragon violently consumed his snacks.

He made a mental note to start a tab with every restaurant in town, just in case.

[einsteinsugly]

Why, outside of season 8, Winter is the worst T7S episode.

*This Hyde line. The most OOC line, ever.

"Red, the thing is, is that these toys are too nice for the needy kids. You need to start them off with something simple, like a... a ball of yarn."

Like, what in the actual fuck? Hyde was one of those needy kids. He would never say this.

*The writers contorted Hyde and Eric's characters to get them to play with stolen toys, stolen from kids in need. Real!Hyde and Real!Eric would turn Kelso away, immediately.

*Kitty spiked the wrong punch, for the kids. Aka, the punchbowl incident.

*They say the punchbowl incident happened in 1973. Yet Donna said it happened in sixth grade. It would've happened in eighth grade.

*Donna calls Jackie an evil ice witch.

[sphylor]

one of the ghouls has a fiber arts hobby and... after some incidents they don't do it in the common room anymore

kitty dew has mauled too many balls of yarn/floss

maybe even jute rope as someone was coiling it very fast and he got excited about the moving end

AAA YES. kitty Dew being a menace hcs under the cut because i got a bit carried away...

Aether just trying to relax and enjoy his evening, crocheting a nice warm blanket for the little gremlin, and Dew just sat there on the floor bapping the yarn around by his feet. its all cute and adorable until the yarn gets stuck around his claws and Dew starts trying to run away with it, Aether's handiwork still attatched.

after that incident Dew is no longer allowed to play with the yarn.

he has to sit there and watch the yarn from across the room instead, eyeing every twitch the ball makes as Aether works. eventually he'll start to crouch down low, pupils wide and looking very alert. Aether will notice and go "Dewdrop..." in that stern voice pet owners use and then Dew will pounce on the yarn and drag it back to his nest to play with it more.

Aether waits until Dew's asleep to do his crocheting now...

when Dew's in the greenhouse with Mountain, the earth ghoul will sometimes dangle some twine over his head, just out of reach, and watch as the little ghoul tries to catch it. Dew once climbed up Mountain's body just to reach it and refused to come back down all day. So Mountain just had to walk around with the little gremlin clinging onto him. not that he was complaining, though. Dew was warm and purred the whole time so it was quite comforting actually.

and when he's relaxing with Rain, head rested in his lap as he lies on the sofa, he'll play with the water ghoul's necklaces or hoodie strings while he looks down at him with the utmost adoration. Rain coos at him and calls him his little kitten and other cutesy names Dew would never let anyone else call him. Rain can get away with it though because its Rain.

Swiss is the one who bought him an actual cat toy, one of the ones with the feather on the piece of string. Dew was so mad at first, all "what the fuck? im not playing with this!" and then Swiss started to move it around and he was immediately captivated. unfortunately he managed to catch it straight away and break it, to the dismay of everyone. so they all make a bigger one for him using a tree branch and a longer peice of string.

Dew's generally pretty well behaved for Cirrus and Cumulus, though he cant help but play with Cumulus' lovely hair, with its loose curls and general fluffiness. she will let him as long as he glamours his claws away. he'll pull it down and watch it spring back up with delight while the two of them dote on him.

And Sunny? she's as equally entranced by this stuff as Dew is. they regularly trade bits of string and yarn and ribbon and springs and feathers and anything else interesting they find around the place. fights do break out sometimes over who gets to keep what and they both have the scratches to show for it (along with Aether and Mountain, the unfortunate ones who have to break up the fights)

[lazlolullaby]

Terry's place in the "modern" Batfam, or rather, his incompatibility, an essay

TL;DR: some JLU episode "Epilogue" discourse is missing some at the time context.

Also, if anyone tries to redo the same story: "Amanda Waller, why do you think the ideal of Batman is going to die? Have you seen his imitators? Have you seen his actual proteges? The dining room full of his kids???"

It was technically one of Terry's Birthdays this year. (either June 27th or August 18th of 2023/2024, yes i love you DC and you're inability to commit) and I've been thinking. His canonical DCAU origin.

Amanda Waller and her Cadmus Project "Batman Beyond" and her big fandom-enraging decision of making a "Son of Batman" to carry out the Batman name.

Maybe it was because "the only assistant that can deal with his job and his intense boss" relationship was actually kind of nice and different from the sidekick thing. and the JLU episode "Epilogue" took that concept and tainted it by saying "he had to be Batman, it's in his blood".

But the text of the episode genuinely refutes that and it just makes it...tonally messy and bittersweet? idk i ain't mad which is why I've picked at this tangled ball of yarn to get at this story.

Maybe it's not the making an heir to the Bat was enraging, as you realize, Cassandra Cain was introduced in 1999, the literal incarnation of Scary Fighter with Soft Side. Damian Wayne was retooled in 2006 and we all love a little Murder Child getting Growth, and Duke Thomas from 2013 is shaping up to be a great all rounder for the title of both Scary and Great Detective.

Even skipping Dick being Batman for a year and it sticking, the other Robins could wear the cowl as well. Maybe it was something else?

Currently, in the Modern!or Comics!DC, Terry is redundant because of all of the Batfam that have been introduced before and after him. And because of Fandom Telephone Fanon, it's hard to interpret older canon as fairly.

With how the Batman Beyond story is structured, Bruce has to be isolated, old and alone in order to trust Terry with the cowl. It's an escapist fantasy and it's a redemption for both of them. It's implied that the Justice League is not as strong as it used to be. The Age of Heroes is over. there was a "near apocalypse of '09"

Especially looking at Wayne Family Adventures, it's hard to imagine all of the Batfam just goes their own ways and doesn't check in.

Terry's origin and start as Batman is fundamentally incompatible with modern canon. It does not work with the concept of the "Batfamily" and even the "extended Batfamily".

Because of that we have to step back in time to 1999 where Terry was created and we also have to completely disregard the comics. Because he was created specifically for the streamlined DCAU.

At this point in the DCAU, the New Adventures of Batman wrapped up. There's Nightwing, Barbara Gordon (only Batgirl, not Oracle, even though the incident that put her in a wheelchair was written in 1988, the DCAU didn't adapt it), Tim Drake (who was combined with Jason Todd, taking over his outfit and backstory). that have been in the BatFamily. Three people who could try to take the cowl.

And then we get into the incident from the Return of the Joker, which was alluded to in series but never actually described. Where the Batfam Blows Up. and Bruce just carries on and isolates himself from Everyone.

Yeah, making a new incarnation of Batman sounds like a pretty good option at this point.

What I'm trying to say. the "Batman Beyond" project, at the time both in universe and out of it, made sense. but like all "future worlds", time catches up and eventually surpasses it.

[the-inkwell-variable]

Find the Word Tag!

Thanks so much for the tag, @captain-kraken!

My words are: noise, energy, need and time

NOISE

The TV is on as background noise.  The house is eerily quiet.  Damian and Selina are in their rooms, doing their brand new virtual classes.  Harley is asleep somewhere – she’s not in her bed, but like a cat, she found a dark comfortable place to take a nap.  Even after two years in this house, she still doesn’t know half of Harley’s hiding places.  Hopefully she grows out of it soon.  Searching the house for a missing three year old is getting… well, old.

ENERGY

The severity of Batman's tone stopped her rant in its tracks.  She silently tugged out one of her neckports, thin auxiliary cables that were jacked in directly to the augments attached to her brain, and plugged it into his spare radio.  Alfred's voice crackled in her head within seconds.  "—ee it in a minute, sir...  Yes sir, it's coming towards you... and building energy at a rapid rate."

NEED

Ashlee returns her eyes to the knitting kit in her lap.  Place a slipknot on the needle and pull yarn tails to tighten, she mouths as she reads, picking up the ball of vividly purple yarn.  Sounds easy enough.  She knows how to make a slipknot.  …but how big does it need to be?

TIME

“Well, Amy-Leigh, SIMS has indeed been around for quite some time.  I’m sure you’ve heard of the term ‘going postal’?  It usually refers to people, usually workers, becoming extremely and uncontrollably angry, often to the point of violence.  While ‘going postal’ [usually refers to] incidents happening in workplace environments, it is the first definitive title for people suffering from SIMS.  There have been reports of such incidents going as far back as [the ancient Greeks].”

TAGGING @space-writes - @drchenquill - @drchucktingle - @falconfate

[cryosewn]

@drolliic asked:

They've been catching up over a cup of steaming tea when the noise of something crashing reaches their ears followed by a loud yowl. A beat of silence passes before a ball of yarn rolls toward them. That... can't be anybody, but Tsuki who's mysteriously disappeared at some point and hasn't been heard until a moment ago. But before Kazuha can get up to check what happened, a colourful blur runs past them, skids to a stop and then runs back before bumping into Caiying. Upon being finally stopped, they can now see that what appears to be a tapestry has obscured the cat's sight and likely caused the rampage.

"She must have knocked the tapestry over and then ran off." spoken in the voice of somebody who's used to their feline friend's destructive tendencies. Tsuki herself is fine as proven a moment later when the tapestry is removed and she starts cleaning herself as if nothing happened. "I hope she didn't damage it. I do apologize deeply, I should have kept a better eye on her."

" -- ! "

She jolts, nearly spilling some droplets of tea onto her, when she hears the first bits of the commotion. It's not commonplace for her residence to be filled with such rambunctious energy. She's not sure what to make of the situation as she watches Tsuki collide with her, staggering here and there. The tapestry that has attached itself to the feline makes her pause. Then, she laughs -- truly laughs at the sight.

Caiying observes the cat with a fond expression. It must be freeing to be able to recover so quickly from incidents. She's almost envious of Tsuki.

The tapestry lays in her lap with some of its threads pulled loose or torn, but she pays it no great mind. Perhaps her work is altered now, but Tsuki had brought a smile to her face. This exchange is not unfair, so she drops the matter entirely.

" You worry too much, " she says, folding the tapestry. " If Tsuki likes it so much, then she may have it. I can always make a new one. "

If it means Tsuki will be happy, then she doesn't mind it getting treated like a toy. Just this once.

[ragewrites]

When he was thrust into the labyrinth Ariadne gave Theseus no directions, only a look, a look and the spathe, the tightwound ball of thread. Most imagine it red—yarn, spun fine, the outermost rounding stiff, rind, skin almost, all that salt blowing in from the coast coarsening the ply. Red, venous or startling, whichever shade you first think of.

I’ve always thought the string leucistic, a sort of garrote. Translucent whitegreen, like (fitful) (dreaming) eyelids. Thought her hands must’ve shook. (However little.)

Spathe.

Spáō. Spád’eh. It was love for a boy and it was love for a prince that had her do it, but neither of them were that Athenian, he of the quick hands and quick black eyes, cool, cruel, seizing her measure and finding himself lacking. He might’ve known, at that. Suspected he was only means, that this was her choosing a butcher, moving unseen in the dark. Suspected her sin if not the truth of her mercy. Known her cowardice, certainly, because to give him the string was first and foremost to take the choice out from her fingers.

I’m never going to get this right, Franz Wright wrote once (writing about the inability to write about death) and wrote it right. I’m never going to get this right. To do so I’d have to unravel the thread, lie there prone, naked, soul-naked, glass-eyed like someone after a terrible thing. No similes, no metaphor. No myth.

Naked.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Everybody wants it naked, but beautiful somehow. The carnage shot (again) to art. Elevated. The poem Dormition of a sort, you God and Mary, John and Angel, the weave profusion of lavender, no gore in any thread. Film-blood, sure, yes, that we can have, that has aesthetic value, that makes it worth an instagram post—but hold the reeking, ugly shit, the fluid rot of the body as it expires, as it wilts and caves in on itself. Nothing that might unsettle the audience, you understand. No reminder you’re human. Only the sterile, abstract, lovely film blood.

But how can I talk about it? Without the gore, how the fuck can I talk about it?

You’d think the consummate fabulist might make the perfect politician, but in truth the fabulist lacks a quality essential to the job. The politician will lie politely, smiling without teeth; all the while his mind is elsewhere, probably Bali or the French riviera, you get the gist. Meanwhile the consummate fabulist sincerely and fervently believes each and every one of his own lies. Whatever distance he puts between the truth of an incident as it was, as it happened, and the truth of it as he wishes to remember it is then not a divorce but a wedding.

And you can’t count on the fucker not to romanticize. To be useful, strategic, to keep the story neat.

I’m good at stories, but belief—(in general) that I sorely lack.

And he was worse, my Minotaur. Beautiful idiot bull hammered not over the head but at the gut, his lungs, his long legs crushed.

(I told you, I’ll never get this right.)

Good at stories, dark, magnetic (and him magnetic enough.) In another world we might’ve been an Eastern echo of John and Robert, a kind of strange, rippling music. Variation on a nocturne, something at once late August and October, the sound like a cathedral, heavy and open, lanced. A point between Doga and Prokofiev. Not a middle note, no, never that—only a point, a vacillating point, one hovering close always to an apex. Like all who live a half-life we’ve never been good at doing things halfway or by halves. You quit early or you go all in, baby. All in, all of you, in. Cards and soul. Even (especially) when you know you have a losing hand.

So, John and Robert. Music.

Yes. Music, dark. He’d have said Ladies first, half of his mouth curling up. He’d have said it and smiled and still been the first one to get a bullet through the head. Dead. Just like that. (Just like that.) Dead and miraculously resurrected on the fourth day or at the sixth-week mark. No—better yet, Assumed right then and there, the small hole just above his right ear almost clean-edged. Or maybe he’d be dead forever. Dead but known. Dead and fabulated, mythologized, and so dead in a way that means he’s not gone (full stop) but gone outside of death, dead in a way that makes him alive, forever and forever alive, apururea, amin.

Myth within myth. (I told you, I told you, I can’t get this right.)

I and my Minotaur. I and my brother, my big little idiot. (Another thing Franz wrote, a poem just this one line long: and the Ariadne artery—) (Example, the title, and what he meant by it in truth only he knows, of course. But to me that’s the long bodywide vein, the branching circuitry of one’s whole blood.) Girl and bull in Pieta, the bodies abstracted. Marble, maybe, all of it naked and beautiful, naked and art, most of his body mangled and so most of his body draped in shadow, in obscura. Marble is bloodless by nature; thus the affect of the gore is artful, discreet. The splash of red is only contrast, stage dressing, lovely film blood.

Fables. (And aren’t you tired?) (Aren’t you tired.) (Good God stop trying, stop trying, stop fucking talking and put that boy, that man, he was a man before he was dead and you know it, you fucking know it, you know it so go put him down, go put him in the ground, any ground, hallow or not—) But the truth is nonfiction. The truth, the little facts that make up the big one, the body of the truth—that is distinctly, eminently bleak. (Not that nonfiction need be a beige drone, unintelligible and academic, mind. I’m not saying that. I’m not.) (Listening requires the eyes and the ears and the brain. A certain amount of willingness to understand.) (There’s a despairing dearth of willingness in any given audience, these days.) Bleak. Sterile not by virtue of the dispassionate arthaus lens but by virtue of time and geographic space.

I can talk about it honestly or I can abstract and talk about it in something that approaches poetry, but I can’t do both at once. Partly because the thought alone is lurid to me, yes.

But more than that, worse than that, I can’t do both because the audience which ‘consumes’ art expects meaning, expects some sort of conclusion, preferably a tidy, satisfying one. A takeaway. (As if this is fucking fastfood.) (As if mybloodmygriefmylife is fastfood.) And fable is fine. Myth is fine. Those are instances of me abstracting, obscuring, lying in a sense, and mostly (to no harm apart from that done) to myself. Instances of me still stuck at the bargaining frontier of grief. But meaning? Meaning?

The meaninglessness of it is why I need to fabulate now and again, to mythmake, to fantasize in the first place. It’s that or more barbiturates than my already ulcerating gut can stand. That, or commitment of the psychiatric kind.

Making meaning (and a making it would be, because there is none inherent anywhere in the senselessness of either our lives or of his death) would require moralism: I’d have to bring some sort of god, or God, into it. Demur. Say something empty, something good, clean, something I don’t mean.

(Example:) Fable: (Ariadne’s artery—) the Dormition of the Minotaur.

Mary’s in Heaven, sure, but nowhere does it say she is at peace. My Minotaur is dead, adormit apururea, and all that means is that he’s dead. Through Dormition the Mother of God is in Heaven and through dormition my brother is (nowhere) (dead.)

And I can’t get it right. I can’t even make enough of a story out of it to imagine a version where he is still alive. I can’t—I can’t.

I think I might’ve been lying to myself. It’s not bargaining but anger I’m stuck at. And I’m keeping myself angry, consciously, because anger is lucid, anger is clearsharp and lucid even (if) (when) I find the nerve needed to admit that all this fabulating shit amounts to is me going in circles, wearing a labyrinth in the livingroom rug.

It’s sordid enough. Should I ever find myself tempted to try and invent some sort of commercial meaning out of my life, I’ll reach for the hammer and do what Ariadne couldn’t, become myself the bull at the narrowing centre as I swing down and blow my brains out.

Are you kept alive by a fantasy?

[heavenlylightning]

❛  what's the strangest dream you ever had?  ❜

@healerkissed

           ❝ The strangest dream I've ever had? Hmm... ❞

   The general relaxes back into his chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in his hands, as golden hues study the world traveler before him. Shy, insecure, burdened with guilt, && possibly other traumas... He could see it all on her features. 

           ❝ Well. I suppose if I had to pick one it would be the time Mimi turned into a chimera && chased Yanqing all across the yard, simply because he had stolen their favorite yarn ball to play with. It was quite humorous, even if he doesn't appreciate me talking about such an incident ever becoming plausible. ❞

[wrinkled-sheets-and-sunlight]

Today was a pretty normal day.

No major incidences. No having to snatch Kokichi out of harms way. A few minor calamities here and there, the laughing leader showing no shame for them, as per usual. But all-in-all, standard stuff… It only makes sense that THIS would be the day Kaz and Gunnie returned to their shared dorm and saw something definitely Not The Norm waiting for them.

Lying on their bed, decked in what could only be ‘tactfully’ described as a Slutty As Shit outfit— feminine in design, as Kokichi tends to lean towards when given a choice —he leisurely tosses a ball of yarn into the air, catching it and tossing it catching it and tossing it… as any playful kitten might.

With purple cat ears and a fluffy tail— kept in place rather… intimately, thanks to some prep he’d performed in private —to complete the ensemble, Katkichi looks like a sexual cheshire wet-dream come to life. The brat grinning in a way that’d do the fictional feline proud as he turns his head when ge hears the click of the door. Bell on his checkered cat collar jingling cutely, one might even swear they saw a fluffy ear twitch, the appendages fitting the leader’s nature far too well…

❝ Oh- ‘Sup, guys… How’s it going? ❞ He innocently purrs. — (( I am still wheezing over this and so he can’t Not ))

@not-bcring

The pair had been arguing when they first entered the dorm, Kaz complaining about the mundane while Gundham simply rolled his eyes with an half-hearted annoyed huff. "Coke is way better than Pepsi, I'm telling you! Pepsi is flat as shit, no one can say it's better, 'cause it's not!" It could be heard from the other side of the door as the lock clicked open, Gundham only able to get half of a comeback out before stopping in his tracks. "I am not arguing with you Kazuichi, I only stated that I hardly see a-" Only stopping for a moment in shock, the door was slammed closed very quickly as the breeder took in the sight, his cheeks burning red despite the smirk that spread across his lips. "Hello, kitten. To what do we owe this pleasure, hm?"

Kaz had been a little slower to notice, so used to being met with something out of the ordinary on a daily basis that it slipped from his peripherals, the mechanic first looking to Gundham in confusion before following his line of sight at the smirk. He was much more obvious about his embarrassment, a sputter of words leaving his lips as a toolbox fell from his fingers with a heavy clatter to the floor. "What the actual fuck, Kichi?!" Was he a little jealous that the leader got to play dress up without him? Maybe. Was he thinking about digging out his own dog based ensemble to go along with it? Absolutly.

[nexus-nebulae]

:[ i overworked my hands

[fallingsatellive]

Well so I don't think our experience was exactly the same based on how you describe yours — I didn't die slowly, more of an actual incident cause of death. And the type of ghost I was specifically was an ibbur meaning that, in my particular configuration at least, I was tied to the physical world by a need to fulfill a mitzvah or mitzvot.

When I did complete it, that event also sort of co-occurred with some other supernatural interactions (for lack of a better phrase) that I think probably wouldn't have affected me physically if I hadn't been currently in a progressive and almost literal limbo between ghost, dead, and living thing. Like a living ghost with metaphysical biologics that get to be twirled like spaghetti, instead of simply a spectral phantasm without DNA. I just think it kind of did something like unravel my genetics like a ball of yarn and now my body feels less and less human by the day lol. More other things.

I love the philosophy. Being what you had to become. Becoming is strength, I think. Especially if you had to.

I think I was born human. I was a child, and then I died. I died slowly, leaving my body more and more, first at school, then bound to my bed by autistic burnout, and later wandering hospital halls. Then the incident happened. The shock somehow forced me back into my body. Being forced back in such a violent way caused my body to change, making it into something torn and twisted. My body isn't human anymore. Nothing about me really is. I am what I had to become, and that's okay. 

[wonderbreadbucky]

Homemade Christmas

Brought to you by A Very C and E Holiday

Jamie Tartt x F!Reader

Description: Jamie's love language is gift giving, and you love that part of him. But, this year, you wanted to take a different approach and made it clear to him that this year, all gifts must be homemade.

@cevans-is-classic

Word Count: 2,287

“But babe!”

“I meant what I said Jamie!”

“Bu-“

“End of discussion!”

“You’re jus’ cruel.”

“Oh you poor, poor baby.” You laugh, kissing his pouting lips.

You had sat Jamie down for a talk that night. Christmas was approaching quickly with the cold front, and you had to lay some ground rules. Gifts.

You had told him in holidays passed not to spend much on you, that his presence was enough for you. You didn’t mind spending Valentine’s Day in with some take out, and a few horrible romcoms, but he bought you a pair of Louboutin heels and a box of Venus Et Fleur flowers that’s price almost made you faint on the spot. For your birthday? Thousands of pounds worth of Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent products. You loved him deeply, and appreciated everything he gave you, but for Christmas you had to put your foot down lest he buy you a car next.

“I jus’ wanna spoil you, babe.” He leans into you, kissing your neck lightly.

“You already do every other day of the year,” you joke, turning to face him on the couch. You pulled your legs up, criss crossing them before grabbing his hands and pulling them into your lap. “I don’t want you spending any more money on me for Christmas. The rule is you have to make the gift. Simple as that.”

He looks into your eyes, the fairy lights in them. Growing up, he watched his dad treat his mum like shit, forgetting her birthday almost every year, giving her a certificate for the pub on Christmas and then being the one to use it. He watched her cry, and he swore he would never do that to the woman he loves.

He lost himself for a while, the fame got to his head. He got cocky. But after he came back to Richmond, things changed, he changed. He found you, all soft smiles and kindness at the coffee shop near his new flat.

You were flustered, jogging to the counter and begging to the barista by name. She had given you the cup, wishing you luck on your first day of work, and when you turned around you slammed into him. You came out of the incident clean, not a single drop on you, but Jamie wasn’t as lucky. You apologized profusely, offering to buy him a new cup and pay for his dry cleaning as you pat his front with napkins. You had finally looked up at him, and he smiled at you. Two years later, here you are.

“You know I’m shit at crafts.” He pressed his forehead against yours, lips pulled into a frown.

“As long as you make it, I’ll love it. I’ll do the same, okay? I’ll make you a gift, and it’ll be fun!” You scrunch your nose, and peck his lips before pulling away.

“Fine! Fine, but we’re doing Valentine’s this year my way.” He relents, pulling you into him as you click on the TV.

---

The next day, he walks into the weight room where his teammates linger. His brow is furrowed as he walks to the bar, prepping for a set. They notice almost immediately how distracted he is.

“Oi, what’s wrong bruv?” Isaac speaks up, and the team focuses on the two.

“Lads, Y/N told me I have to make her gift this year. I have no clue what I’m goin’ to do.” He slumps onto the bench, rubbing his eyes. “I spent most of last night trying to figure out wha’ I’m goin’ to do, and I’ve got zero ideas.”

“What if you knitted her a scarf?” Bumbercatch speaks out. The team nods in agreement, and Jamie contemplates it.

“I don’t know how to knit, mate.”

“I’ll show you! Here!” He jogs into the locker room before coming back with needles and yarn. “Let’s get started!”

Knitting was not for Jamie. Bumbercatch nearly killed him out of frustration. Any rows he tried were knotted and falling apart at the threads. He wasted more yarn than should have been possible, offering to buy his teammate a new ball before sulking away to the café where he ran into Beard.

“What’s up with you?” The coach asks.

“Y/N and I have an agreement where we’re making each other’s Christmas gifts this year, and I have no clue what to do, Coach.” He rubs his eyes.

“I’m pretty handy, want to make her something out of wood?”

Jamie quickly agreed, and promised to meet him the next day. As expected, it went poorly. He wasn’t exactly the most skilled when it came to woodworking, and the best he could do was crookedly nail some pieces together into the shape of the letter of your first name. Beard tried to console him, saying that it looked great, and that you would love it, but Jamie wasn’t convinced. He went home that night with the wood piece and hastily shoved it under his side of the bed. Strategically hiding it in a storage box, he thought longer. You liked jewelry, maybe he could make you something?

---

The next day, he was sat on the floor in front of his locker using the bench as a table. He strung beads carefully onto the elastic bracelet, oblivious to his teammates surrounding him.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Sam leaned down to look at the mess of beads and string.

“Making Y/N’s Christmas gift, what does it look like?” His brows are furrowed in concentration.

“It looks like you are making a bracelet for a toddler.” Jan Maas is blunt in his response. Jamie slumps, banging his head off of the bench repeatedly.

“Hey hey! What’s all the hubbub?” Ted joins his team, they motion down for him to see what Jamie was doing and he smile.

“Beard was tellin’ me about your little issue.” Jamie only groaned in response. The team dispersed after this, comforting pats left on the distressed man’s shoulders.

“Y’know, I’ve got a little idea for ya, Jamie. Meet me after training okay?” Ted doesn’t give him a chance to answer before walking away and giving them the warning that warm ups are soon. Jamie quickly ties off the bracelet before shoving it deep into his bag. He’s got to figure this out soon, you deserve the best and quite frankly he’s coming up with nothing.

Training finishes quickly, and he changes back into his clothes before joining Ted. They walk in silence for the most part, making their way through the town. Ted stops in front of a shop, and grins.

“I found out about this place a few weeks after I moved her, you see. Everyone needs a little artistic release! In you go!”

Jamie is filled with warmth when he walks in, the smell of bonfire flowing through the store. The walls are lined with mugs, plates, bowls, and vases. It’s empty, aside from the woman at the front of the store. She looks up at the sound of the bell, and smiles.

“Hello Ted! Here to pick up your last piece? Just came out of the fire this morning!”

“You know me too well, Chelsea!” She walks to the back before Jamie turns to him. “What is this place?”

“It’s a ceramics studio! You get to make and glaze your own pieces, and I think this might be the perfect thing for you.”

“Let’s hope you’re right, mate.” And with that they got to work.

Chelsea was very helpful, showing him how to use the wheel and giving him pointers when she could. It took most of the afternoon, and into the evening for him to finish your gifts. By the end of it he had splatters of wet clay on his jeans, but he was satisfied. Chelsea had promised to fire them as soon as possible, and agreed to stay open later for him to glaze them the following week. He made his way home that night with a smile on his face.

When he entered his flat, he could hear Christmas music playing softly from the kitchen, the smell of baked goods flooded the home and he quickly kicked off his shoes as he followed the sound of your humming.

You were hunched over the counter, scooping dough out onto a baking sheet as you hummed along to Baby It’s Cold Outside. He came up behind you quietly before wrapping his arms around your middle, kissing your cheek softly. You giggled and greeted him. The bowl in front of you filled with chocolate chip dough as he swayed the two of you.

“Hold on, hold on.” You giggled out, pushing him back slightly as you put the dough in the oven and setting the timer. You finally turned around to him, and kissed him deeply. There was flour all over your front, but he didn’t mind as he pulled you impossibly closer.

“You’re home late,” You mumbled against his lips.

“You’ll see why soon.” He pulled back to sway with you to the song that came on next.

“The Christmas crafts isn’t too painful for you then?” You tease.

“Ah ah! Can’t talk about it or I’ll spill the beans and Christmas will be ruined. You don’t want to be the Grinch here, babe.”

You laugh, head tossed back as your shoulders shook. He smiled at this, taking in how relaxed you looked. He wanted to make you laugh every minute of every day if that meant that you looked at him like this forever.

“Okay, okay, no talking about gifts. How was training?”

---

Christmas came around quickly, and Jamie’s hands sweat as he placed the large box in front of you. You handed him his, and forced him to open his first.

Jamie was in shock. In the box, were three candles. Each of them had coordinates and dates on the labels, in your own handwriting. He pulled them out smelling each one. The first smelled like coffee, light and airy. The second smelled softly of vanilla and musk. Finally, the third smelled of flowers, lilacs specifically, and freshly cut grass. He looked up at you, confused.

“I thought we said we’d make our gifts.” He joked, looking down at the dates. He recognized them instantly.

“A woman at the office makes candles on the side, she let me make these.” You look down bashfully before looking back up. “The first one is from the day we met, the second is from when we first said ‘I love you’, and the third is when you asked me to move in with you. All with the dates and the coordinates. The scents are related to the places each thing happened.”

Jamie is silent for a while. You start to panic.

“Do you not like them? I’m sorry, I thought it was a cute idea. I can get you something else-“

During your rambling, you had missed Jamie carefully setting the box of candles aside. He cuts you off by bringing you in for a long, passionate kiss. You sigh into his mouth, gripping his face softly as your lips mesh together. He finally pulls away after a moment, breathing heavily.

“I love it. Don’t you dare take this away from me.” You smile at him, kissing him again. He pulls back again, sitting back down.

“I don’t know how I’m going to beat this,” He shakes his head, motioning for you to open yours next. You smile at him before looking down. You wiggle in excitement in your seat before opening the box. You slowly pull back the tissue paper, and stop when you see the gift.

Your eyes begin to water as you see what’s in the box. A mug lies on top of the tissue paper, speckled glaze wrapping around the base, the handle colored in your favorite shade. It was crooked in some spots, the rim dipping lightly from where Jamie accidentally bumped it. You twisted it around, looking at the cup, before looking up at Jamie. He looks nervous as he scratches at his neck.

“There’s more in there…”

On the next layer of tissue paper was a spoon, glazed to match the mug. Below that was a woodworked piece that resembled the first letter of your name. You let out a watery laugh as you pulled it out, and noticed something underneath it. There was a bracelet at the bottom of the box, yours and Jamie’s favorite colors beaded in an alternating pattern, finally meeting with three white beads that read your initial + his own. You looked up at him.

“I know it’s not much, and they’re all a little wonky, but I really tried-“ You were the one to cut him off now, launching yourself into his arms in a tight hug.

“Jamie, I love it. I love it all. Thank you, thank you so much.” You pull back and kiss him deeply.

“I love you, Y/N.” He mumbles out, moving you to straddle him. You pulled back and pressed your forehead to his. “I love you too, Jaime Tartt.” You smile, pecking him again.

You stay on the couch for the majority of the morning, enjoying hot chocolate in your new Tartt original mug while watching movies. You look at the time and quickly jump up.

“See, it wasn’t that bad, making me my gift. This was a Christmas to remember. Now, c’mon, love. We have the Higgins party soon, gotta get ready.”

“I’ll be there in a moment, babe.” You nod and go up to your shared room, unaware as Jamie pulls a small, red velvet box out of his pocket, and smiles. This is definitely a Christmas you two would remember.

[stabby-with-love]

Catwalk in the Sengoku

MC is a cheeky posh cat?! "You are a feline who carries fortune's favor. You are now my lucky charm."

A cat that once belonged to a rich, lonely man making her way in the Sengoku Period.

Oda Nobunaga felt soft jellybeans knead on his cheek. The warlord sleepily opened his eyes and he saw... a cat? The cat seemed distressed, and when Nobunaga saw the roaring reds and oranges, he understood. Honno-ji was on fire.

After the incident, Nobunaga picked up the cat and told her with the authoritative booming voice of a commander "You are a feline who carries fortune's favor. How would you like to rule the world at my side?". (Name) just licked the soot off her paw in an effort to clean herself. "Mrroww~".

".. Very well. It is decided." Nobunaga brought her back to Azuchi, gave her the title of "Princess", and asked his servants to take good care of her. Nobody mentioned a word about the fact that a cat became "Princess" because everyone knew better than to question the Devil King.

(Name) is present in every war council and every banquet. Oftentimes given a ball of yarn or sleeping peacefully on Date Masamune's lap, while he pets her gently, as they talk about tactics and strategies. She loves Temari Balls the most and the warlords find out that she loves her fresh fish with Bonito flakes.

There was something strange about (Name), though. Sometimes, the warlords wonder if (Name) the cat, actually understood them somehow. She paws at Hideyoshi whenever he seems overworked and needed a break. The ever peaceful cat seems to hate Ranmaru and nobody knows why.

She meows adorably at Nobunaga whenever morning arrives without missing a single day. Her ears happily perk up whenever Mitsuhide calls her "Little Kitty" and she jumps straight into his arms. She sleeps on top of Shogetsu and purrs at the warm afternoon sunlight from Mitsunari's room atop a stack of dusty books.

What really made them confused is when (Name) took an interest in Nobunaga's expensive wine. She rubs the side of the bottle with her squishy kitty cheeks then purrs. They didn't give her any wine to drink, of course. Sometimes, she becomes distressed during strong thunderstorms unless someone gives her a wine bottle, which strangely calms her down.

(Name) is a special cat. The warlords don't know what goes on in her kitty head. Of course they would not know. They will never know her lonely owner. The way she understood the tone of their voice because of lending an ear to her owner for many moons, the way she slept on the plush tiger skin rug in their livingroom, her owner absolutely adoring books and running himself ragged with work to escape his lonely life if she were not there to paw it his clothes.

She always knew that her owner loved to drink the red sloshy stuff in the weird bottle whenever he stared out of the window as rain pours from outside. He always did love to call her his "Little Kitty", much to her purring delight.

(Name) remembers the fire that changed her life. The fire that took her lonely owner as he shooed her away so she could save herself. She became a stray in the streets and wandered for a while, waiting for his return. It all became stranger after she was almost hit by lightning next to a monument of sorts and was brought to a strange world.

When (Name) saw the sleeping man amidst the reds and oranges, a familiar scene, she did not run away this time. She bravely ran to his side and kneaded his cheek to wake him up. Maybe the world gave her a second chance to meet her owner again in this strange new world.

"Meow!! meow meooww!!" The strange man opened his eyes in a daze and saw a cat in the middle of the fire.