#he was there alright‚ only not so contrite ; verse

[hauntthumans]

BENJAMIN “SWEENEY TODD” BARKER

42. heterosexual. he/him. was wrongly convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. spends his time in jail plotting revenge. wants nothing more than to see judge turpin dead. still has hope that lucy might be alive, despite what mrs. lovett said. thinks mrs. lovett is clingy and annoying but he likes her ideas. grows more and more paranoid as time goes on. fc: josh groban. primary.

ELEANOR “NELLIE” LOVETT

38. bisexual. she/her. has been in love with sweeney since she heard the story about him and turpin. is extremely jealous of lucy for getting to marry him. doesn’t like johanna because she’s proof that sweeney has no feelings for her. loves toby like he’s her own child. wants desperately for sweeney to take an interest in her but knows deep down that he never will. doesn’t like turpin because he took sweeney away from her. fc: annaleigh ashford. primary.

LUCY BARKER

40. heterosexual. she/her. didn’t want to go to that party but went anyway so as not to seem rude. rejects the judge’s advances even more after. loves her daughter more than life itself and, even after she takes the poison, does what little she can to make sure she’s safe. doesn’t like lovett at all. is absolutely heartbroken when sweeney is arrested and spends her days waiting for him to come back. takes the poison because she can’t live with herself for letting the judge do that to her. fc: ruthie ann miles. primary.

PHILLIP TURPIN

61. heterosexual. he/him. arrests sweeney so that he can have an easier path to his wife. doesn’t think that lucy will take poison and gives up on her once she does. takes johanna in because it’s the right thing to do and also because he thinks she’s pretty. has been intending to marry her since she was thirteen or so. threatens anthony and would have killed him if he hadn’t had to be in court. wasn't expecting sweeney to know him and genuinely liked him as a barber until anthony showed up. fc: patrick page. plotting only.

SIMON BAMFORD

55. heterosexual. he/him. has been working with turpin since they were young. knew phillip when they were children but didn’t properly meet him until they were adults. sometimes wishes it were him that was marrying johanna, but respects phillip’s wishes to marry her. the only reason he doesn’t kill anthony is because he had to patrol town. has been trying to get the beggars off the streets for years. doesn’t like lucy or lovett, as he thinks they're foolish and flighty. fc: john rapson. secondary.

DANIEL “ADOLFO PIRELLI” O’HIGGINS

32. heterosexual. he/him. used to work for sweeney when he was a child and greatly respected him. saw sweeney and lucy as parental figures. working for sweeney is the reason he’s a barber today. adopted toby from the workhouse. doesn’t like toby very much because he doesn’t bring in good sales. resents sweeney for getting arrested and leaving him without a job. fc: nicholas christopher. secondary.

JONAS FOGG

40. heterosexual. he/him. had an absolutely terrible childhood and was sent to the workhouse at a young age. managed to get out after a year and find work in an office building. worked his way up to become a higher-up and then, once he'd been there for three years, left. decided to open the asylum because something needed to be done about the lunatics in london and he was the best man for the job. treats the inmates absolutely horribly. uses the money he gets from the government on himself instead of putting it towards the asylum. fc: domnhall gleeson. plotting only.

verses

BENJAMIN “SWEENEY TODD” BARKER

the face of a prisoner in the dock ; verse - pre canon.

the demon barber of fleet street ; verse - canon.

sweeney’s weeping for yesterday ; verse - post canon.

his needs are few, his room is bare ; verse - modern.

hearing the music that nobody hears ; verse - crossovers/aus.

ELEANOR “NELLIE” LOVETT

i haven’t seen a customer for weeks ; verse - pre canon.

it’s man devouring man, my dear ; verse - canon.

have all the demons of hell come to torment me? ; verse - post canon.

by the sea we’ll be comfy and cozy ; verse - modern.

my, you do like a good story ; verse - crossovers/aus.

LUCY BARKER

had her chance for the moon on a string ; verse - pre canon.

alms for a miserable woman ; verse - canon.

never said that she died ; verse - post canon.

city on fire, rats in the grass ; verse - modern.

lunatics yelling in the street ; verse - crossovers/aus.

PHILLIP TURPIN

he was there alright, only not so contrite ; verse -pre canon.

when i offered myself to her, she showed a certain reluctance ; verse - canon.

there is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time ; verse - post canon.

a pious vulture of the law ; verse - modern.

he made the devil so much stronger than a man ; verse - crossovers/aus.

SIMON BAMFORD

spoken of with great respect ; verse - pre canon.

you shall surely see me there before the week is out ; verse - canon.

i try my best for my neighbors ; verse - post canon. 

someone has called the beadle ; verse - modern. 

the beadle calls on her all polite ; verse - crossovers/aus.

DANIEL “ADOLFO PIRELLI” O’HIGGINS

sweeping up hair and the like ; verse - pre canon.

this is, from early infancy, the talent give to me by god ; verse - canon.

what are we going to do about him? ; verse - post canon.

to shave the face ; verse - modern.

for if you slip you nick the skin ; verse - crossovers/aus.

JONAS FOGG

we are one happy family here ; verse - pre canon.

all my patients are my children ; verse - canon.

smile for the gentleman ; verse - post canon.

now, where shall i cut? ; verse - modern.

to be corrected when they’re naughty ; verse - crossovers/aus.

#char : benjamin barker #the face of a prisoner in the dock ; verse #the demon barber of fleet street ; verse #sweeney’s weeping for yesterday ; verse #his needs are few‚ his room is bare ; verse #hearing the music that nobody hears ; verse #char : eleanor lovett #i haven’t seen a customer for weeks ; verse #it’s man devouring man‚ my dear ; verse #have all the demons of hell come to torment me? ; verse #by the sea we’ll be comfy and cozy ; verse #my‚ you do like a good story ; verse #char : lucy barker #had her chance for the moon on a string ; verse #alms for a miserable woman ; verse #never said that she died ; verse #city on fire‚ rats in the grass ; verse #lunatics yelling in the streets ; verse #char : phillip turpin #he was there alright‚ only not so contrite ; verse #when i offered myself to her‚ she showed a certain reluctance ; verse #there is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time ; verse #a pious vulture of the law ; verse #he made the devil so much stronger than a man ; verse #char : simon bamford #spoken of with great respect ; verse #you shall surely see me there before the week is out ; verse #i try my best for my neighbors ; verse #someone has called the beadle ; verse #the beadle calls on her all polite ; verse

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Arranged!verse Bruce Wayne, worst fundraising host ever. What would happen if at one of the events, criminals make their usual appearance, but he's not there, just the wife? it would be very traumatic

When a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you to your feet, you know. Deep down. That this is how you're going to die.

And somehow, you can't even feel anything about it. Just the racing of your heart and the pounding of blood in your ears drowning out all the sounds. And when they shove you into the back of a van, the rough carpet scraped the side of your jaw and the palms of your hands before your arms were ripped behind your back and secured with tape.

You were too stunned to cry. And you wonder if your father was getting rid of you- you might be his only daughter. His only shot at getting the legitimacy that the last name Wayne could give him but. That didn't mean he wouldn't have you removed if he could make it work any way. The thought makes your blood run cold.

But these don't look like his men. Any of his men.

"Be a good girl," one of them chuckled, jabbing a needle into the meat of your thigh. "Just don't struggle and you'll be home before you know it."

___________

"Mrs. Wayne," Gordon said contritely, offering you a cup of soda- something with sugar in it. Something to help with shock. "I'm sorry but your husband is... out for the evening and no one seems to know where he is."

"It's not your fault," you tell him, swallowing hard and taking a sip from the cup with a wince. Too sweet. So sweet your teeth hurt.

"Alfred is coming to pick you up," he said.

You nod wordlessly and try to smile but your face hurts and you think you might still be drugged. Everything is so slow. Like time had slowed down.

Gordon wanted to hug you. You just looked... lost. And he wondered where your father was- no one had been able to get him to answer a phone. And he was angry on your behalf. Someone should be here. You had a husband. You had a father. Hell, you had a brother and a mother. Why was no one worried sick? And when you shiver, despite the blanket an EMT had handed to you, he took off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"I'm fine," you murmur. "I'm just tired and I'd like to go home."

Gordon nodded. Staying close to you. Issuing marching orders to his officers until he saw Alfred weaving his way through the crowd.

"Thank god you're alright," Alfred said exhaling. He'd seen the news. He'd seen Bruce peel out of the batcave. But knowing you were going to be rescued didn't mean much until he saw you. Obviously still drugged, but not beaten to a bloody pulp. You had a few bruises and scrapes but nothing too serious if you weren't en route to the hospital.

"I'm I- I'm f-fine," you manage around a shiver. "Just desperately tired."

"Of course," he said keeping his voice gentle. "Let's get you home, ma'am."

You nod and turn to Gordon, carefully handing him his jacket back, "Thank you," you tell him.

"Let's try not to make it a habit," Gordon said accepting his jacket with a small smile.

"I really hope not," you agree, letting Alfred take your arm to take you to the car.

____________

Bruce watched Alfred escort you to the car from the rooftop. Waiting. Wanting to make sure you were taken to the car and seen home safely before he left.

You'd been so still.

At first he thought you were dead. And he'd been... terrified. And furious. But when he patted your cheek and you looked up at him bleary-eyed and confused, he was relieved.

Tomorrow, Bruce Wayne would bring you flowers and apologize for not coming with you. But Tonight, Batman had work to do.

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #ask answered #minors dni #reader insert #arranged!verse 2.0

[val-aquenta]

Mace Windu Appreciation Day One. 

Prompt: Serenity/Acting

Here on ao3

 Mace Windu sat on his seat in the council, hands steepled in front of him. He let out a long breath. The problem of Ryloth was complex and with multiple faces. The Senate was pushing for one side, and while he in part agreed, he could see and understand the other side. He shook his head. He had already spent long on this issue even though the Senate’s push had solidified what the Order would do. They disagreed, but if they made it known, the Senate would be quick to order them. As he walked from the seat into the centre and then to the door, he shed the mantle of authority that came with his seat. He was still the Master of the Order, but away from the seat of decision making there, he felt more free, closer to his family. As he exited the room, Mace took a deep breath of relief. The room was somewhat stifling after so long. “Padawan Aleya, you’re free to go if you wish.” The twi'lek smiled widely. “Apologies for keeping you so late. I should have signalled.” 

“No worries, Master Mace. You aren’t that late.” Aleya assured, bustling at the desk and picking up a stack of datapads. Mace lifted a bemused eyebrow. “I had some work to do.” He mutters, blushing a bright green in embarrassment. Suddenly, he perked up, clearly remembering something. “Oh… Knight Depa had a message, Master. There’s an opening in the play they’re doing soon if you want to join. Not sure about the play, though. She just said you should meet her at the theatre.” Aleya stumbled slightly to the side, the datapads tilting precariously. Mace moved forwards, drawing the Force around the Twi’Lek to keep him from falling. 

“Well, I look forwards to the play. Perhaps you’ll even see me on stage, hmm?” Mace grinned, bemused at the bright green flush again. Aleya had only recently been assigned to the Council desk as Shaak Ti’s padawan. He still had, despite his older age, that youthful hero-worship of some members of the Council. Shaak herself, though, was an exception. “And yourself? It’s nearing exams, isn’t it?”

Aleya cringed, his face twisting into a displeased frown. “Yeah. I’m busy, but still managing. The exams come up soon.” He frowned, fiddling with his stack of datapads. “I still don’t get the Ryloth War in 406. Elya seems to be the cause of the revolt, but then the Rila commune also could be part of it, and the-” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry, Master. I was babbling.”

“No worries, Padawan. I’m afraid I’m not too well-versed in Ryloth’s history. I had not studied it. Cyslin, my Master, she studied Ryloth, though it was a while back before I became her Padawan.” Mace explained, a contrite look on his face. 

“Oh! That would be helpful. I’ll talk to her.” They reached the end of the hall. Aleya tried to manage a wave around the datapads. He was… somewhat successful. “Well, see you tomorrow, Master!” And with that, he walked down the left corridor. 

Mace raised a hand in an aborted way. “Good luck with your studies!” He called back, receiving a smile his way. Alright, now for the theatre. It would be fun to act again. Even for just a moment.

Depa was outside the arts centre, waiting for him. She smiled widely as he neared, looking up from a holo and placing the datapad in her robe pocket. “Master! You got my message.” She had changed her hairstyle from a braided crown into four looped braids. 

“Of course. Padawan Aleya is nothing if not diligent.” Mace commented, close enough to feel the gentle warmth of his former student. She shuffled a bit closer, her youthful features lighting up in happiness. 

“Indeed.” She paused for a while, simply soaking in the familiar presence of Mace before speaking once more. “Well, the younglings were putting together a show, and they need a Master and a Knight.” She pointed to Mace and then to herself. “I already volunteered you.” 

Mace sighed, of course. “Depa, you know I am quite busy now-” He started only to be interrupted by Depa. 

“I already checked your schedule, Master.” She grinned unashamedly. Mace had idly wondered if knighting Depa would lessen the amount she pestered him. It appeared not. “I’ve cleared it for practice and rehearsal. As Master of the Order, shouldn’t you be spending some time with the younglings?” She raised an eyebrow slyly.

Mace snorted, “That’s Master Yoda’s job.” Still, he followed Depa into the theatre centre, hands folded into his sleeves. If she had, in fact, cleared his schedule, it would be silly for him to miss this. Depa shot him a smug smile, unfazed by the dry look she received in response.

“Master Windu, Knight Depa!” The crechemaster, a tall mirialan surrounded by a small gaggle of younglings. “Thank you for coming.” Mace bowed, Depa copying him, her hair bobbing playfully. She shot a smile at one of the younglings, a young nautolan who smiles hesitantly in return. Mace takes a glance over the group. There are nine children of various ages, spanning until probably 12. He can’t truly tell. “We’re acting out the tale of the caves for the day of discovery.”

“Ah, a lovely choice,” Mace assured, trying not to feel too sad when some of the children seemed to startle. It appeared he had been missing creche supervision because of all the paperwork from the council seat he had gotten right after knighting Depa. “I’m quite familiar with it. I’m sure you are too, Depa?”

Depa nodded, a hand reaching out to move her braid out of the way. “Yes, we acted it a few times when I was younger. You played the knight if I recall?”

“Indeed.” It had been where he first met Depa. A fond memory he kept close to his heart. “So, when will we begin?” He asked the crechemaster, Tirna if he recalled correctly. 

Tirna was about to speak before a flimsi was pushed into her hands. She looked down to peer at it for a moment. “It’s lovely.” She murmured with a soft smile to the small twi’lek, returning the drawing and receiving a bright smile in return. “We were waiting for you two, so I suppose we can go in. 

The younglings were corralled in, excitedly whispering to each other. The theatre was a familiar place. When he was younger, he had spent most of his time here being taught the art of acting on stage. He’d even dabbled in music on stage, though he preferred to simply speak and not sing on stage. Both Cyslin and himself were surprised when he had gotten an offer from the theatre to become an instructor here. Sadly, his path to knighthood had gotten in the way and Instructor Rhuy had been disappointed, but not exactly surprised by Mace turning down the offer. Sadly, the chiss had passed to the Force a few years ago in his few missions offworld. He had not become familiar with the new instructor, too busy with Depa’s final years of apprenticeship. Mace looked at the brown and gray walls, breathing in the familiar scent and soaking in the warmth of the place. It was a place for entertainment. While, yes, people were driven to tears with some performances, the imprint left in the place was one of happiness and joy. 

Depa, at his side, watched him with a sideways glance. She had not seen him act much in recent years. In the middle of their years, when they were on rotation at the Temple for Depa’s studies, Mace would find himself often in the theatre, but a lot of those memories were hazy, just long enough ago that Depa could only recall them with a blurriness on the edges. A striking image of Mace in full attire of older Jedi, the ornamental robes and rather fancy modified training hilts came to mind. He turned in an elaborate fighting dance with another Jedi, a crechemate in the story. Another image, this time of Mace in more modern Jedi robes, a Nautolan next to him as he acted out a confession scene. She recalled the way she had cringed away from the stage. By the Force, it was her Master up there with that knight. Cyslin’s soft chuckle and a warm hand on her head finished the memory, the faint murmur of Mace’s voice in the background. 

He belonged in the theatre, she concluded, watching his eyes light up as they saw the familiar sight around him. Just as he belonged in the Council chambers, or in some blaster fight on some war-torn planet, or at some negotiation table, impassively looking between the two sides. Mace was many things, and that included being an actor. He looked at home here amongst the rows of seats, the stage as a backdrop, but he also belonged elsewhere. His eyes caught hers. Depa lifted her brow in question. Mace shook his head and followed Tirna up the stairs to the backstage and rehearsing room. Depa took one more look at the theatre, lit up with a warm yellow light, before following the group. 

The rehearsing room was, essentially, a large room, somewhat soundproof and almost large enough to duel. There were mirrors in one corner. The kids stood with Tirna in the corner where she handed out papers. The play was short, most of it being a question and response play. It was a kid's play after all. Depa and he stood in the corner, Mace trying to relax his back. Sitting in the Council chair for so long is a painful experience. He would rather not be there sometimes. Depa eyes him sympathetically, her hand reaching out to rest on his shoulders. They both turn to Tirna, in a strange synchronisation that is a result of their partnership. The mirialan blinks before offering the script. Mace accepts it, though he thinks he can recall all the words. “Thank you.” He says softly, flicking through it. The flimsi flutters under his fingers. He looks up to catch the woman smiling at Depa as she hands the flimsi. It occurs to Mace that he never asked why Tirna had asked Depa for her help first. It appears Mace muses with a bemused smile, that Depa is hiding something from me. And that she is doing a rather poor job. He turns back to the script

Tirna floats through the class as they read through it dramatically. The exaggerated expressions and voices of a few directly contrast the other side who read with a bored monotonous voice. It is endearing and familiar. Depa shuffles where she’s seated, rearranging her clothes, a nervous tell Mace has noted for a while. Mace shuffles a bit closer to her, hand going out to rest on her free one. Depa settles, easily leaning into the familiar warmth. They continue reading this way. The nautolan boy near them shoots him a look before returning to his rather exaggerated fearful voice. “But, Master, it’s too cold. I’ll freeze here.”

“Worry not, I feel a heat coming forth.” He tries to be comforting. “Knight Lea, you feel it too?” He asks Depa.

“Indeed, Master.” She responds, easily falling into a lightheartedness as a part of her character. “Younglings… see the light, it comes through the chamber and… through the ice.” The children act as though they are surprised, and relieved. 

“It will save us from the caves. The ice, it’s going down.” A young mirialan says, veil pushed quickly to the side from where it falls on his face. “Melting.” He’s rather good at it, Mace muses. The mirialan boy looks awed. And so, the play ends. Mace finds himself clapping happily much to the embarrassment of the younglings who end up blushing and sharing glances. Depa hands out compliments easily, the children used to her mannerisms indicating she’s been here often. 

The mirialan, Lameo, comes up to him. “Knight Depa says that you were once part of the theatre, but you chose to become a council member instead.” Mace blinks from where he sits, looking slightly upwards at the boy. 

“Indeed, I did.” He confirms, his head tilting slightly to the left. 

Lameo seems to perk up, sitting down in front of Mace. “What was it like, the theatre I mean, not being a Master? I want to join the theatre club, Master Windu, and I was wondering if I should or if I shouldn’t.” 

Mace hums thoughtfully, hands unconsciously steepling in front of him, “If you desire it, and you feel that it is your path, join it. I must say, you have a knack for it as well.” He grins a bit, happy when the young mirialan smiles back. “The theatre would benefit greatly if you joined.” 

“You think so?” 

“I would not lie, young one,” Mace says.

Lameo breathes in deep, furrowing his brow for a moment before he stands and bows thankfully, “I’ll think about it.”  

The performance happens two weeks later. Mace wears slightly more traditional robes, extra ornaments and embellishments on the cream robes. The children, all decked out in their own gear, like all children do, love the elaborately designed hilts, not made for comfort in dueling, but made to look flashy and beautiful. He turns to welcome Depa and is taken aback for a moment. Her robes are designed differently from what she usually wears. The sleeves are more poofed, less easy to fight in, the pants billow before coming to a close at the boots, and there is a pattern on the fabric itself, intricate little swirls that seem to fit. He recalls a younger Depa in cream coloured tunics before she became a Padawan. It appears, he muses, that she has grown up. Her hair has been intricately plaited on top of her head, in a style that Mace would say tops even the most intricate Naboo hairstyles. When he looks at her, he feels happy, yet also sad, yearning for the time when she would only reach his elbow.

“Master?” Depa asks as she sides up beside him after praising enough of the initiates for their costumes. “Are you alright? You seem… off. Are you nervous?” She seems genuinely concerned. 

“No worries, Depa. Just… thinking.” She shoots him a confused look, obviously not exactly understanding at all. Like he’s done before, he starts explaining. “You’ve grown up. It is… novel sometimes.”

Depa snorts, reaching out to smooth non-existent wrinkles on his robes. “You knighted me a year ago.” She murmurs. “I was far from my Padawan years then.”

“I suppose it is only hitting now,” Mace admits, shifting the tunic a bit from where it sits skewed to the left. It was a tradition to make sure they were both dressed properly before leaving the apartments. It has carried on to this day. “In many ways, I can still see the little you.” Depa laughs lightly, a small chuckle really. Her eyes sparkle like they always do when she finds something humorous. 

“Oh dear, I must have a long way to go then, before I am fully grown in your eyes, my Master.” Her affectionate tone accompanies her hands squeezing his. “Well, are you ready?”

“Of course,” Mace says. Depa smiles and joins Tirna in corralling the kids onto the stage. Mace takes a moment to breathe before following her on the stage.

#mace windu #mace windu appreciation week #depa billaba #Jedi appreciaiton #pro jedi #duna writes #star wars fanfic #fanfic

[ruensroad]

the servant in a lord’s clothing

This AU is all @this-solaris-life‘s fault, as well as @dyabolos who put the idea of Cinderella!Mo Xuanyu into my head.

A Sangyu inspired by Ever After. Also, this got long, sorry!

--- Mo Xuanyu had never considered himself brave before. Even now, it still felt like pretend. It was pretend.

Because he wasn’t really a lord, like his clothing spoke to. He’d stolen the robes days in advance from his cousin so they wouldn't be missed and they still smelled of the cedar wood of his floorboards. He wasn’t rich with a full purse of spare money like the purse he did have suggested. It’d been dumped over him for his silence as a nobleman had “borrowed” one of the Mo family’s horses. Enough money to buy ten servants, given so carelessly. A blessing.

He wasn’t brave, but he was angry. His disguise was seamless, his purpose clear. That would have to be good enough.

The Nie estate was vast, far larger than even his aunt’s fine home. The rooms he was led to, a mere office, was larger than the greeting hall of the Mo family. He couldn’t even imagine what to do with so much useless space. It was ridiculous.

He caught sight of a mirror and the stranger staring back at him. He straightened and so did the reflection. A comfort that he could not even recognize himself. What were the chances, then, that someone else here would?

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” a man said, breezing into the office in an elegant sweep. Even as a mere pebble in his aunt’s shoe, he’d still heard of the fine Meng Yao, right hand man of Lord Nie, as well the duality of his praise. He was everything a man should be: handsome, cultured, soft-spoken. He was also everything a man should not be: the son of a prostitute, a bastard, and a favored companion despite it.

Mo Xuanyu understood far too well that pain and bowed in respect, not as low as he would as himself, but low enough he could see Meng Yao’s surprise. They were bastards of the same man, brothers who had never before met, and Mo Xuanyu tried not to dwell on it. Brothers or not, he was here to save a fellow servant and the likelihood of them meeting again was slim to none. Best to stay strangers then.

“Please forgive my interruption of your no doubt busy schedule.” Adding flourishes was something he’d heard his cousin do when he tried to impress a lady, and did his best to mimic the poetic wording, as most lords did. “But I am led to believe a man in my charge has been sold erroneously to cover a debt already fulfilled. He is a man with a wife and children and has served my family well.”

He set the coin purse between them and bowed his head again, furthering the surprise in Meng Yao’s otherwise perfect, smiling mask. “Twenty golden pieces, to cover his cost and compensation.”

“A generous sum for a servant,” Meng Yao told him, thoughtful, though his eyes had taken in a sharp focus. “I fear I was not told of the debt being cleared until he was already sold to us.”

Mo Xuanyu forced himself to smile pleasantly, the way his mother would have to face this first challenging of his story. “A miscommunication, I fear.”

“I see.” Meng Yao’s smile said one thing, but his eyes said another, and Mo Xuanyu did his best not to cower under his scrutiny. He was a lord now, standing tall, and until Gong Ye was returned to his household, he would not falter. “Do you often go to such great lengths for servants, Lord Yu?”

“He is a good servant,” Mo Xuanyu said with confidence, because it was true. “My staff has been utterly out of balance without him.”

Meng Yao softened, just a little, perhaps sensing the truth in that at least, and regarded the full bag of coin thoughtfully. But whether or not he was about to grant Mo Xuanyu’s wish would never be known, given the door opened and a far more proper lord, in far richer clothes, walked in with purpose, though stopped dead in his tracks seeing Mo Xuanyu standing there.

“Oh, Meng Yao, I didn’t know you had a visitor.” His voice was low and lilting, soft and definitely cultured. A bit of dramatics, perhaps, as most lords that did not have to work a day in their lives had. Mo Xuanyu bowed to him respectfully and got a small one in return, as station dictated. At least he seemed as sweet as his voice and round face suggested.

“Second Lord Nie,” Mo Xuanyu greeted, recognizing the fine detailing of his hair piece, which only the Nie men carried amidst their braided top knots. His aunt had gone on about them at length enough times for him to know the shape.

Meng Yao looked almost impressed. Did he sense the truth of Mo Xuanyu so easily? Had he known that was a guess? “Huaisang, this is Lord Yu from the Mo province. He has come to reclaim a servant from us.”

“Oh?” Nie Huaisang asked, curious eyes watching Mo Xuanyu over a beautifully painted fan that looked more expensive than all of Mo Xuanyu’s stolen robes put together. “And what claim has he?”

Alright, so maybe not so sweet. Mo Xuanyu did his best not to wilt under his dubious stare as Meng Yao chuckled from behind his desk.

“Gong Ye was sold to cover a debt, which Lord Yu has insisted has already been paid. Therefore, he offers twenty gold to take him back.”

“A large sum for just a servant,” Nie Huaisang mused and by the gods, that flippant smile was irritating.

Mo Xuanyu felt the flare of fire in him again, that these two high positioned men could look down on good, honest people so easily. It filled him with an eerie, vengeful calm, and he could see in the mirror just how sharp his smile became, ready to cut them both down.

“And what sum would you give for a human life?” he demanded of Nie Huaisang, uncaring that he was breaking all forms of propriety to say it. They’d been baiting him, he knew, and so he let them have the spoils with sharpened words. “Twenty pieces of copper perhaps? Ten blocks of wood? What is a human life worth to you, who sees a man and only what he is capable of and not the family he loves, or the way he lives?”

He gestured to the bag of coin, proof of a lord’s dismissal, and knew this was dangerous now, but couldn’t stop. Years of abuse, of pain, of righteous fury flooded out, and if he couldn’t physically slap the smiles off their faces, he’d do it his own way. “Twenty gold could buy you a dozen good servants, Second Lord Nie, but it is still not nearly enough to replace one good man. Take my money and lose a servant and I will be still be the richer between us.”

He tilted his chin into the air, knowing that he’d gone too far, that he’d die right here, and made his stand. “What sum must I give to return a man to his family? Twenty gold? Fifty? Must I give myself before you are satisfied?”

“Lord Yu,” Meng Yao started, placating, and that smile that had slipped returned, though it didn’t quite erase the shock on his face.

Mo Xuanyu did not heed him, just stared defiantly at Nie Huaisang, who’s fluttering fan had stilled, his honey eyes wide.

“If a man’s worth is dependent on his work, then shouldn’t I be the servant and he the master?” Mo Xuanyu demanded. “What gives me the right to place a sum on a man who keeps my household running. What would you give, Second Master Nie, if your own star servant, Meng Yao, was sold without your knowledge? What would you pay, when twenty pieces of gold were only laughed at because a servant’s life is deemed worth far less?”

“Servants are born servants,” Nie Huaisang managed, sounding shocked, but firm in that.

Mo Xuanyu was having none of it. “Servants are born servants, lords are born lords. What a tidy way of life,” he mocked. “We lords who can sit in opulence while servants break their backs for us, because of who their parents were. So you have the right to determine their worth? You, who have no knowledge of who they are or how they suffer?”

He scoffed and was exceedingly pleased with the flinch he got from Nie Huaisang. “You suffer your people to scrounge for scraps and dare to call them less? Where is their right to life? Where is their right to determine your worth, Second Master Nie?”

He turned away then, glaring down Meng Yao in clear dismissal of the young lord, and waited for the blade to come. Death would be welcome, as long as Gong Ye could go home. He’d said his piece and he was more than ready to face what came.

“Now, are you going to give me back Gong Ye, or do I have to sell myself into your service to return him? Since you and Second Master Nie seem so well versed in the worth of human lives, tell me what I am worth.”

As the bastard son of a lord, discarded and forced to climb his way back up, Meng Yao understood, he knew, and looked ready to laugh at his stubbornness. Nie Huaisang on the other had, born a lord and a fool for it, snapped his fan shut with wide eyes, a slight blush on his cheeks and a contrite look in his eyes.

“Lord Yu… I did not mean to offend,” he said, voice small, and maybe he really was sweet, just horribly ignorant to how life really worked. As much as he hated to admit it, Mo Xuanyu couldn’t exactly fault him for it completely. “You are right. Who am I to determine a man’s worth? Perhaps he truly is worth twenty gold to you, or more,” he hastened to add when Mo Xuanyu glared at him in warning. “It’s more than enough to cover the debt, his price, and his place. Please, take him and return him to his family.”

“Yes, Huaisang has the right of it,” Meng Yao added, bolstering the command, and somehow, someway, he’d won, and all the fight left him in one horrible, terrifying crash. Holy shit, he was still alive. “Please, take your servant back, Lord Yu, and accept our apologies for the trouble and confusion.”

“And my ignorance,” Nie Huaisang jumped in on that, quickly, and bowed in deep respect. Mo Xuanyu stared at him in surprise. “Please forgive my rudeness, Lord Yu.”

To forgive a lord, how strange. Still, what did his forgiveness cost him, truly? It was worthless, they just didn’t know it. And the longer it took for him to reply, the more Nie Huaisang started to wilt. He would not be cruel, he decided, seeing it. Not like all the lords he’d known.

“You are forgiven,” he said, forcing his voice down into something soft and earnest. “But if you truly wish to make up for this conversation, simply be better.” 

He nodded to Meng Yao as he said that, surprising the man yet again. “You are surrounded by capable men, Second Lord Nie. I pray you never forget it.”

Nie Huaisang stared at him in open awe, mouth parted, sweet face dusted red. It made a warning go off in Mo Xuanyu’s mind, but he had no idea why.

“With your wisdom today, Lord Yu, I can promise you I won’t forget.”

#ruenwrites #sangyu #ever after au #this was way too much fun to write #huhu #mo xuanyu #nie huaisang #meng yao #the untamed

[officialleehadan]

Red Silk Wings

Eskyl was not overly pleased to be in a whorehouse.

Oh, sure, it was a classy whorehouse because Zain had expensive taste in everything including lovers, but it was still a whorehouse. Red draped the walls. The seating was polished wood, smooth and comfortable, and easy to clean. The whores were beautiful, dressed in almost-transparent silks and very little else. These were not the whores of a warrior tavern, either. These were confident, sleek courtesans, who were selling good conversation as much as anything else.

Zain, of course, was holding court. He had no less than four lovelies, three men and a determined woman, draped halfway in his lap as he did little cantrips to amuse them.

Eskyl had purchased absolutely nothing but a mug of good mead, and told the first whore to approach him that he was soon to be wedded.

For any other whorehouse, that would have been an invitation. This woman took it for the polite refusal it was, and kept her hands to herself.

Bald-Face was, unfortunately, less versed in the nuances of human conversation. He was also holding court, apparently unaware that the lovely young woman listening to him was halfway to shoving her hands down his pants.

Well, Eskyl supposed be understood. Bald-Face was polite, reasonably good-looking, and very prone to talking about honey at length.

And also was oblivious to just how many honey references could be misconstrued as references to sex.

This was sure to be deeply hilarious. Eskyl caught the eye of one of the girls and ordered a plate of food for himself even as two of Zain’s companions dragged him into the dancing.

His necromancer friend seemed to be losing clothing at an impressive rate. Eskyl had to give the whores credit for their alacrity. Zain’s clothing tended to be the complicated sort.

“It’s not so difficult to coax the best results out of my ladies,” Bald-Face was saying brightly, definitely talking about bees. “A light touch where it matters, but that’s no difficulty. I just move a little more slowly.”

Bees. He was talking about bees. He was always talking about bees.

The whores did not know he was talking about bees.

“Tell us more about this light touch,” the whore, a delicate creature of dusky skin and black hair and deep yellow silks, purred. She gave a good impression of being riveted to Bald-Face’s every word. “We live for a man who takes his time.”

“Well, all good things take time,” Bald-Face told her fondly, and looked down when another whore, this one pale, with fiery hair and green silks, twined her fingers with his. “Oh, hello. We’re talking about honey.”

“I love honey,” the redhead sighed, and stretched appealingly. Her eyes were lined in black kohl and her lips were inviting. Eskyl was impressed. It took a lot of skill to do makeup so well, and to make it look like she wore none at all. “All sticky sweet and golden.”

“He takes his time,” the dark-skinned whore murmured to her, eyes wide and promising. Bald-face didn’t even notice. “He was telling me how you need to go slow.”

“Just until they warm up to you,” Bald-Face said cheerfully. “But really, it’s the queen who matters the most. She’s the one who commands everything.”

“Do you like to be commanded?”

“Well, when a queen wants something, you can’t say no, can you? It would be rude.”

Eskyl was laughing too hard to breathe, silent shudders as he tried his best not to choke on his own mead.

“Are you alright?” Bald-Face noticed his distress, such as it was, and looked over. “What’s so funny?”

Eskyl flapped a hand at him, still laughing and completely unable to speak.

The whores glanced at him, then at Bald-Face, and decided they probably didn’t want to know.

“Queens are touchy sometimes” Bald-Face was warming to his topic as a third whore drifted over. “Really though, the honey from wildflowers is the sweetest, even if it’s the hardest to coax out of them.”

“I love the wild,” the new whore breathed as she leaned over far enough for Bald-Face to see right down her shirt. He didn’t even notice. “Would you tell us about how wild you can be? We’re desperate for you.”

“Oh, I’m not very wild,” Bald-Face told her obliviously. “But I adore honey.”

The whore who Eskyl first talked to came over with his food, and looked at Bald-Face with something like confusion twisting her red-painted lips.

“Bees,” Eskyl wheezed when she turned to him for answers. “He’s talking about bees. He’s a bee wizard. The only females he’s interested in are the ones with stingers”

The whore’s lips parted in a wordless Oh, and she turned to head off her eager compatriots. After all there were other customers who were interested in stingers of a different, much more profitable sort.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough.

The red headed whore must have decided that they weren’t being forward enough, or maybe just ran out of patience. She ran her hand up Bald-Face’s thigh, bold fingers making her invitation inescapably clear.

Unfortunately, Bald-Face was only sometimes human, was never good with women, and reacted poorly to surprises.

He yelped, attempted to clamber over the back of the couch to escape the whore’s questing fingers, and turned into rather a lot of bees all at once.

Pandemonium ensued.

Whores ran in all directions as thousands of bald-face hornets swirled through the room, buzzing with fury and confusion all at once.

Eskyl put a hand over his mug to keep the hornets out, and sighed.

People scattered. Mass panic sent whores and their half-dresses customers scrambling out of the room. Doors slammed, but doors were never much good against hornets, and there was more screaming from upstairs as the hornets tried and failed to find a way outside.

Zain stormed into the room, stark naked and glowing with unearthly magic.

The few whores left in the room took one look at him and fled, screaming.

The bees swirled and coalesced back into a very contrite-looking Bald-Face.

Zain stared at him, radiating outrage.

Eskyl started laughing again, and took a deep drink of his mead.

“Well,” he said as they glared at each other. “You did say you wanted some excitement.”

+++

Brothers Bound:

Before they were old monsters, they were young men. The adventures of Eskyl, Zain, and Bald-Face, before they were legends.

Body-Weight of Bees

Already Dead (Free on Patreon!)

+++

MORE STORIES!

+++

#writing #writers #spilled ink #writing prompts #spilled thoughts #writer #spilled words #writing prompt #prompts #magic #leehadan #lee hadan #necromancer #necromancy #flirt #flirting #honey #misunderstanding #bees #mead #brewing #motivating quotes #quotes #family #brothers #trouble #funny #lol #humor #black humor

[believingispowerfulmagic]

Could you write soldier verse, where one of Regina's and Robin's kid (Roland or Diana) have secret crush towards Killian?

“Ahoy, ahoy, ahoy!” Killian called out as he entered their backyard. Closing the gate behind him, he announced: “The party has arrived!” 

Regina rolled her eyes as she approached him, kissing his cheek. “The party is late and full of himself, then.” 

“Sorry,” he said, sounding contrite. “My doctor’s appointment took longer than I expected. Had a lot to work through, you know?” 

She nodded, knowing exactly what he was talking about as there were times she needed extra time with Dr. Hopper when it came to her PTSD. Regina softened her tone and motioned to the table. “Robin’s been busy with the grill, so help yourself to some food.” 

“The really burnt burgers are on the very end,” Robin said, motioning with his spatula to the burgers in question. 

Killian grinned widely. “Thanks, mate.” 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Regina offered. “Soda? Tea? Lemonade? Or should I just go straight for the beer?” 

“I’ll take that beer, please,” he replied, picking up one of the charred burgers and placing it on a bun. 

She nodded, heading over to the cooler. As she pulled out a beer, she heard a cry come from inside the house. Regina sighed as she straightened up. “Diana must be awake. I’ll go get her.”

“Can I get her?” Killian asked, sheepishly. “I’m fond of the wee lass and don’t get to spend much time with her.” 

“Okay. Do you know where her room is?” Regina asked. When he nodded, she told him to let them know if Diana needed a diaper change and one of them would come up to do it. 

Killian headed into the house and Regina sidled up to her husband, wrapping her arms around him. “I think your friend is going to hog our daughter all day,” she said. 

“Eh, I’m not complaining,” he replied, patting her hand. “Clears us up to do other things.” 

“I guess so,” she replied. “Still, it’s kinda cute.” 

He nodded. “I know, right? Who knew our little girl could turn a naval officer like Killian into a pile of goo?” 

“Well, I could’ve guessed,” she replied. “I’ve seen what happens when I bring her to work with me. All these soldiers become big old softies.” 

Robin chuckled. “I guess Killian isn’t much different.” 

The backdoor opened and Killian stepped out, cradling Diana as she chattered away at him. She was starting to say a few words but most of it was still nonsense, yet he nodded as if she was telling him something important. It was an adorable sight and Regina smiled as they approached them. 

“Hey there, Princess,” Robin said, holding out his arms to Diana. “Do you want to come to Daddy?” 

She shook her head, clinging to Killian. He gave Robin a sheepish smile. “Sorry, mate.” 

Robin shrugged. “That’s okay. Besides, you’ll eventually have to go home.” 

“Uncle Killian!” Henry raced over, grinning widely. “Hi!” 

“Hey, lad,” Killian said, reaching out to ruffle Henry’s hair the best he could with his prosthetic hand. “You enjoying the summer?” 

Henry nodded. “Mom and Dad signed me up for tee ball. I’ve been having a lot of fun with my teammates and playing the game. And Roland’s been practicing his swimming!” 

“Sounds like you’re all having a very exciting summer,” Killian replied, tickling Diana’s stomach. She giggled as he asked: “Where is your brother?” 

Regina frowned, wondering the same thing. Her two boys had been playing together before Killian had gotten there and she didn’t recall seeing either go into the house. It meant that her youngest son was still in the yard and she scanned it, hoping to find where he went and hoping he wasn’t getting into trouble. 

She spotted him kicking a ball in a far corner and grew more concerned. Why was he staying so far away? Was something wrong? She headed over to him, hoping she would be able to figure it out. 

“Roland? Sweetheart? Aren’t you going to come and say hi to your Uncle Killian?” she asked him, tilting her head as she studied him. 

“Okay.” He stopped kicking the ball and shrugged, keeping his head down as he took her hand. She led him over to the others, concerned when he didn’t say anything the entire time. 

Killian reached out to shake Roland’s hand. “Master Roland, I presume?” 

It was a little game Killian played with the boy and it usually drew a giggle from him. Roland didn’t respond except to mumble something that vaguely sounded like hello and shake Killian’s hand before running away again. 

“Was it something I said?” Killian asked, confused. 

“No,” Robin replied, sounding just as confused. “Let me go see if I can find out what’s wrong.” 

Regina stopped him. “I think we just need to give him a little space. He’ll come around on his own.” 

The others agreed before Killian turned back to Henry. “Now, I believe I was invited to watch your amazing football skills?” 

Henry’s eyes lit up and he led his uncle to a far corner. Killian held onto Diana the entire time, the little girl attached to him like a barnacle to a ship–his analogy, not Regina’s. It was his pet name for her and Regina found it sweet that Diana adored the man. She remembered when Henry was completely attached to his Aunt Mary Margaret. Whenever she came over, he wanted her to hold him and wanted all her attention. Neal had been the same way with his mother’s friend Ruby. It just seemed to be a phase and it was one Regina found absolutely adorable. 

Roland’s behavior, though, concerned her. She watched as he kept to himself in a corner far away from Killian and his siblings. It made her wonder what was going on and she hoped that her belief that he would come around was accurate. Otherwise, she was going to get to the bottom of what was going on once the party was over. Hopefully, there was a simple explanation with a simple solution that would make everything go back to normal. 

********************************************************************************

Roland’s odd behavior continued throughout the barbeque. He seemed to avoid Killian at all costs and only answered him in one-word sentences, never making eye contact. Whenever he could, he kept as far away from his uncle, unlike Henry or Diana, who both clung to Killian. 

“Did I insult him?” Killian asked after a few hours. “Hurt him?” 

“I don’t think so,” Regina replied, still studying her younger son with a frown. “But there must be some explanation.” 

Robin shrugged. “It could just be a phase. Kids have them all the time. It’ll pass. We just need to be patient.” 

“True,” she admitted, knowing her husband had a point. Roland was probably just going through a phase and they just had to wait it out. 

Killian frowned. “So do I keep my distance?” 

They both shook their heads. “Just keep treating him the same way you always do,” Robin told him. 

“The phase will pass quicker if we don’t make a big deal about it,” Regina added. 

Killian nodded. “Okay. Whatever you two think is best.” 

Henry raced up to them, leaning against his uncle. “Uncle Killian, can we play catch?” 

“What do you say?” Robin prompted him, rocking a sleepy Diana. 

“Please?” Henry added quickly. 

Killian chuckled. “Alright, lad. Though do you think your brother and you can go easy on me? I’d like to leave with only a few bruises this time.” 

“We’ll try,” Henry replied before running off to get Roland. 

“That didn’t sound very promising,” Killian said, eyeing them. “Is there anything you can do?” 

Regina shrugged while Robin waved at him. “Good luck, mate.” 

Killian groaned as he stood, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, mate.” 

He walked over to the boys, accepting a glove from an animated Henry. Regina leaned closer to her husband. “Do you think we should intervene on his behalf?” she asked him. 

“Eh, I think it does him some good to handle our sons,” Robin replied. “Certainly tires them out.” 

She chuckled. “True. But he did leave with a slight limp last time.” 

He frowned, nodding. “He did. Yeah, maybe just ask them to tone it back a bit. Tell them Uncle Killian isn’t a spring chicken or something like that.” 

“Oh, I’m sure Killian would love that,” she replied, laughing as she stood. 

She approached the children but paused, her attention now on Roland. Henry stood close to Killian as he explained a few things about throwing and catching the ball. Roland, though, chose to stand right behind his brother. But every so often, he would peek out from behind Henry. When Killian looked at him or he thought the man did, he would duck back behind Henry with pink in his cheeks. 

Forgetting about warning the boys, she returned to her chair. “Roland has a crush on Killian,” she told her husband breathlessly. 

He frowned, glancing toward their son. “What do you mean?” 

“Just watch him,” she told him. 

He continued to watch Roland, as did she. They watched as Killian gently guided Roland to a good spot. He said something to the boy, who nodded but never made eye contact. Once Killian was happy with Henry’s spot, he jogged over to take his own. Roland looked up and watched his uncle with adoration in his eyes. 

“Oh,” Robin said softly. He looked at her. “So what do we do?” 

She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. Just let it play itself out. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.” 

“Yeah,” he replied. He paused before asking: “Do you think he’s…?” 

“I think he’s a kid,” she replied, “and we all have time to figure that out. We just need to be supportive of him until he does - and after.” 

Robin nodded. “You’re right. As usual.” 

“Yes, I am,” she replied smugly. She leaned back, watching Killian play with her boys. Roland wasn’t hiding as much behind his brother anymore and she hoped he was quickly getting past this phase. She had no idea what would happen with her son in the future, but she knew one thing. 

Life was never going to be dull at the Locksley household.

#once upon a time #asked and answered #anonymous #outlaw queen #oq au #oq ff #soldier verse

[tremble-and-shake]

Ficlet for “Church girl” anon

Like I said previously, this is just a short lead-up, nothing fancy. It’s NSFW but not really smut.  That dear anon asked me enough times (and kindly) that eventually dialogue for this started to come together in my head and I found it really hot. Still, I acknowledge that this is super cheesy and unbelievable.  Not knocking Christians or Catholics of anything (I grew up going under Catholic pretenses, but it just wasn’t for me and I got the fuck out). The storyline is just a classic, cliché turn on.

I’m calling it The Tempest of Lustful Shades after the vortex in the Second Circle of Hell in Dante’s Inferno. That’s where people go for lustful sins, and that’s where I feel like I’m going to end up writing this shit lmao  Anyway, maybe some of you will be there with me for enjoying it. I hope so. Thanks @starchild0985 for taking a peek and offering feedback <333

The Tempest of Lustful Shades

You were finishing up your undergraduate degree in Art History at St. Mary’s in London. The uni had a partnership with Tate Modern, the art gallery collective that Jimmy had recently loaned tapestries to for their Edward Burne-Jones exhibition.  And now, somehow, you were sitting in Jimmy’s parlor, sipping tea and chatting with him about your undergraduate thesis on the intersection between medievalism and Victorian ideals of womanhood in the Pre-Raphaelite movement.

“Above all else, Pre-Raphaelitism espoused naturalism, even when this risked showing ugliness. But that’s the true irony of it, isn’t it?” You nodded along, beaming at his words. “Look at what beauty they were able to create by embracing the fidelity of human appearance.”

It wasn’t too often you came across men who could carry on such a cerebral conversation on this topic while maintaining this level of passion.  It was even rarer to come across ones this attractive.  

“Let me refill your tea, love,” he said, placing his own cup down and taking the ceramic handle of the teapot.  Admiring the hand-painted Moroccan lattice, you wondered how lavish it must to have a home where everything within it, down to the teapot and silverware, was an authentic piece of history.

“So, what’s a young lady as brilliant, passionate, and beautiful as you are doing still single?”

Shifting your weight from one leg to the other, you stifled a timid laugh.

He sensed your uneasiness, offering a consolation in the soft lines that cradled his lips and eyes. “Too immersed in your studies at the moment, I presume.”

“That’s my priority, yes.” Engulfed in his warmth and this momentary comfort, you surprised yourself by opening to him. “But a lot of guys my age aren’t willing to, you know, wait for a Catholic girl.  Not even the ones at uni.”

Something flashed quickly in his eyes like a response to some subconscious trigger, and you realized what you had implied.

“No.  I didn’t mean, that’s not-” Your startled movements caused your tea to careen over the lip of the cup, sending you to your feet to escape the hot Darjeeling. “Ow, shit, that’s hot!”

He was on his feet beside you almost instantly, removing the cup and taking your hands inside his.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m so sorry. Jimmy, I got tea on the throw.”  You tried to pull away and daub the spill, but he wouldn’t let you.  

“Darling, don’t worry, it’s quite alright.  You’re not burned, are you?  How embarrassing to serve guests tea that’s scalding.”

“No, no, I’m fine.  It wasn’t that hot, it just startled me.”

“Let me get something to dry your blouse.”  

You cursed yourself for being so foolish, but silenced the self-berating in time for him to reenter the room, dinner napkin in hand.

“Here we are.” He began to blot along the hem your blouse, pulling the fabric off your skin. “May I?” You nodded, but it wasn't until you felt his fingers graze against your stomach that you realized what he was asking: to reach under your blouse in order absorb the stain from both sides of the fabric.

“Jimmy, I don’t know why I said that. TMI, I’m sorry.”  You're surprised by how soft his fingers feel against you. “But just so you know.. I’m- I’m not.”

“Not what, love?” He broke his focus from the stain.  When his eyes found yours, he seemed to genuinely be unsure of what you were saying.  

“A.. a virgin.” That look again: the calloused, wanton glazing of his eyes. But fleeting and nearly impossible to recall once it’s gone. “I mean, I’ve only done it once.  It was stupid, he was stupid.  But I've done my penance and have been forgiven.”

"Hmm, I think that should do it, yes?"

"W- well, yes," you proceeded shakily but found confidence through the verse. "As it says in the Bible, 'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"

He took a step back and tugged down at the hem of your blouse. "I was talking about the Darjeeling, love. And you needn't offer an explanation, I'm not judging you in the least. Shall we go on?"

"I'm so embarrassed, I think maybe I better go. I talk too much when I'm nervous and I've already--"

"Don't be silly. My apologies if I've said or done anything to make you feel uncomfortable but it would be a shame for you to leave without seeing the artwork. Come," he motioned for you to follow him, his smile warm and inviting.

He lead you through the hall and into the study. You remained pace or two behind, trying to steady yourself in this whirlwind of lustful thoughts and conflicting emotions.

As you entered the room, you struggled to keep your focus on the awe-inspiring paintings. He saw this and  his dark brows became unsettled.

"It's just that I haven't felt this way before. Not even that first time,” your restless fingers searched for composure at the hem of your blouse. “I’ve never wanted someone so badly.”

His chin lifted and his gaze sharpened; he was eyeing you up as if assessing the honesty of your statement. “I see,” he lowered his chin slightly. “You’re here for academic research. I hardly think it’s appropriate. Do you?”

“Well, I guess not,” your gaze falls downward, disappointed.

“And what about your vow of abstinence? How do these thoughts make you feel?”

“Shameful,” you reply delicately. “Dirty.”

He smirked  “We haven’t even done anything dirty yet, love. Imagine how you’d feel afterward.”  Closing the space between you, he went on. “But it is the forbidden fruit that tastes the sweetest.”

“Let me taste it,” your tone was meek, but your hands spoke more strongly as they traipsed below his belt.

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” His fingers lifted your chin firmly, forcing you to surrender into his eyes. They were the seductive pinnacle on a face so seasoned and sophisticated.

“You may no longer be a virgin in the eyes of God, but as far as I’m concerned you might as well be. I'm going to have to go gently with you."

You swallowed sharply. Nervous, but overruled by the strong ache growing between your thighs. You'd never been so wet that your panties actually became damp like this.

"But I assure you that you're going to feel filthy all the same.  Is that really what you want?" His fingertips skimmed your lips, finding a place to come to rest.  "Show me.” He tugged gently at your lips and you knew what he wanted, so you welcomed them in and sucked gently.

“Good girl.”  His smile brought a dramatic softness to his face. And yet somehow it still commanded a subservience you were eager to give. “You know you’re going to have to go to mass tomorrow to confess this dirty secret.  Then you’ll pray on the rosary for hours before you find absolution.” You nodded and moaned for him, still caressing two of his long fingers with your tongue.

“I wonder, how many Our Fathers or Acts of Contrition will you have to say in reparation for sucking the cock of a man old enough to be your father, or grandfather even?  Don’t answer with your mouth full, love. It’s poor manners.”   He removed his fingers and gently pressed on your shoulders, encouraging you to your knees.  

“I suppose you could just tell me next week when you come here again, no use in supposition. But I do know one thing: anytime you kneel again, you’ll be thinking of us. In the church pew, besides your bed for nightly prayers, wherever. And you’ll be wet when you do.”

#Jimmy page smut #Ficlet #Jimmy page fan fic #Led zeppelin fan fic #Silver fox Jimmy #Writing by tremble #Old man Jimmy #Jimmy page

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs Chapter 13: The Routine

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

In a series of vingettes, Belle learns the ups and downs of her day to day life

Read on AO3

Author’s Note: Special Shout out to @nerdcafeolatra who gifted this fic (and me as an author) with the first fan art. Check out this moodboard!

It took a little time for Belle to notice how much her days fell into a pattern. The first week she had spent in Rumpelstiltskin’s castle had been a blinding flurry of events--a constant stream of new experiences in her body and in her mind. Only gradually did she feel her new life settling into some kind of order.  

Most days began with Rumpelstiltskin waking her up, brushing her hair, and making her work for her food.

“Alright,” he said one morning, a bright glint in his eye. “Are you ready for a challenge?”

Kneeling on the floor, Belle nodded. “Yes, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Good girl,” he grinned. “Stand up.”

The cuffs pulled Belle to her feet. The breakfast tray was still on the ground, magically set there so firmly that it might as well be part of the stone.

Rumpelstiltskin stood behind her and pulled the robe off her body. His hands crept around her curves as he spoke low into her ear: “Now bend over and grab your ankles.”

As usual, the cuffs did the work, pulling Belle to bend at the waist and locking her wrists to her legs. The tray was in front of her now, the bowl of porridge close enough that she could dip her tongue in it. She could eat, but she would have to do it upside down.

She could see Rumpelstiltskin’s feet between her legs, upside down from her perspective. Was he enjoying the view offered by her new position? Her bottom was exposed, her secret places no longer secret. Would he finger her while she tried to eat? Would he take her while she was like this?

“Eat up,” he said brightly. “Unless this is too much for you?”

“No,” Belle said, even as the blood rushed to her head. “It’s not too much.”

She was permitted to say it was too much. Sometimes he would tell her that that was the point, that he wanted her to suffer. Sometimes he would halt the game for a moment. He would allow her to breathe, to gather her strength. Then he would tell her how good she was, how obedient, how strong and clever and beautiful. It might take a while, but the Dark One always got what he wanted from her.

Most days she enjoyed rising to his challenges. It surprised her to realize these games could be fun. There was a pleasure in being restricted and bound--and finding a way to work around those restrictions to get her reward. Every so often, she would look up at him while she performed, while she debased herself for his amusement. When he looked back at her, his eyes glowed softly, as though he were amazed by her. As though he were not just pleased by her humiliation, but proud of her accomplishment.

That was the look that made Belle want to keep rising to his challenges.

****

“But look at your hair!” he said  on another morning. “I spend precious time every day making it look presentable, but you still wake up with a rat’s nest on your head!”

Belle forced herself not to smile, to look convincingly apologetic and contrite. She pretended to pout, as he pretended to be annoyed. “I’m so sorry, Rumpelstiltskin. Please don’t punish me for being so careless.”

“Oh, you know I will punish you, my slut. I will hurt you from one end,” he pulled sharply at one of her curls, “to the other!” he smacked her hard on her bottom. The sound of the impact echoed in the small cell.

Belle felt her insides clench and bit her lips to keep her smile away.

Rumpelstiltskin sat on the bench. “Kneel,” he ordered. “Let me fix this catastrophe.”

She knelt between his legs, her face close to his groin. As usual for this game, she bowed her head and let him have access to her hair.

Regular brushing wasn’t this much of a production, but wash day was different. The magic cloth he had given her always steamed and bubbled with soap, so it was easy for her to wash her body and face whenever she needed to. But Rumpelstiltskin had claimed a special ownership over her hair. Only he could wash it and oil it and comb it out.

Warm water poured out from the air and he lathered her curls with lavender soap. More water to rinse--water that never left a puddle on the dungeon floor--and then the oil of roses.

When his hands were in her hair, Belle felt more owned than she did when his cock was inside her body. His hands in her hair controlled her, yes, but they also protected her, cherished her. The best part was when he would twist a strand of her curls between his thumb and forefinger, exactly the motion he used to spin his straw. That was when she knew she had value.

After he rubbed oil into her hair, he would usually keep spreading it onto her skin. At the very least he would rub her back. His hands were gentle but firm, pushing into the muscles under her skin. He would always point out marks on her body--bruises he had put there, or the faint bites and claw-marks left over from their coupling. Every time he rubbed her back, he told her it would get worse.

Belle believed him, but she wasn’t afraid.

“Stand up now,” he said. “Let me see your arse.”

Even more gently, he rubbed oil around her bottom. His touches were feather-light on her bruises--unless he didn’t want to be. Unless he wanted to make more bruises.

Belle didn’t mind the dull aches, but sometimes a sudden touch would make her wince or cry out. When that happened, it was impossible to know whether Rumpelstiltskin would apologize or squeeze her harder. No matter what, she was allowed to scream, to weep, to beg him to stop, even if he didn’t stop. Whether his intention was to soothe her or worsen her suffering, he never wanted her to hide her pain.

“What a pretty bum you have,” he said after an application of oil. “And how convenient that it just so happens to already be slick and slippery. Just the way I like it!”

He always fucked her ass on wash day. Belle made herself think the crude words. She had never been given polite phrases for a man entering her there, so she made due with the impolite phrases Rumpelstiltskin had taught her. He wanted her to think these rude words, to speak them freely. As in everything, she tried her best to obey him.

For days afterwards, the fragrance of roses lingered on her skin and in her hair. Every time Belle smelled that scent she felt her knees grow weak with desire. The smell was a reminder of Rumpelstiltskin’s care--and his ownership of every part of her.

****

Every day she saw him was a day he took her--on her bench, on the dining room table, on the carpet in front of the fireplace, in his armchair, against a wall. He used every part of her body, favoring her mouth or her cunt only a little bit more than her ass.

He would pleasure her--almost always, he would make her orgasm before they did anything else. He used his mouth or his fingers to reduce her to a quivering mess long before he would take his cock out and fill her.

Throughout all of this, he kept his clothes on when he took her. He never even removed his boots. Belle had caught glimpses of his cock, jutting out from a slit in his leather breeches. But she was never permitted a good look at it. Even when Rumpelstiltskin shoved it in front of her face and demand she put it in her mouth, even then he kept them in darkness or in shadow. He would not allow her to see any part of his body, not even the part that was the most crucial to the terms of their deal.

Meanwhile, Belle had two choices with her apparel: Naked or half-naked. The robe was most useful for her at night, when she could cover herself with it like a blanket and retain a little bit of her body’s warmth. Or if she was by herself in the castle, she felt more civilized having something to wear over her own skin. It was better than wandering around unclothed like some kind of barbarian. Sometimes Rumpelstiltskin fucked her while she was still wearing it, but usually he liked to have her exposed.

If she had ever doubted that the robe was magical, a few weeks of constantly wearing it had proved her wrong. It never got dirty. Nothing that spilled on the silk stained. It never smelled or felt grimy against Belle’s skin. The blue and gold silk never lost its vibrancy or looked as though it had been worn at all. It was just as beautiful as it had been the day he’d given it to her.

****

Rumpelstiltskin took tea every day. The chipped cup was always on the tray, but Belle never served it to him. He had all but ordered her not to, told her that if she ever did he would fly into a rage and punish her severely. Even though Belle had become more accustomed to the punishments the Dark One dolled out, she had no desire to test him. She gave him tea in the unchipped cup, with three sugars and lots of cream.

While he drank, she would usually perform for him. Sometimes they played the wobble game, when he would make her pose and keep track of every time she moved. There was what he called the poetry game, when he would give her a verse to read while he had tea. If she could memorize the entire thing and recite it to him without error, then she would get a reward. That hadn’t happened yet, and Belle had the bruises to prove it.

It should have bothered her, that Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed hurting her. That had been the aspect of their deal that she had most dreaded. But that was before she knew what it meant to be on the other side of Rumpelstiltskin’s particular desires.   

How could she describe it without sounding mad? Sometimes Belle imagined talking to her old friends about her life now. How could she tell sweet Jeanne and practical Mathilde that the highlight of her days were those times when the Dark One pretended to be angry with her and took that fury out on her body? How could she explain the thrill she got from being at his mercy? How could she say out loud that she carried the pain in her back and bottom around with her as though they were tokens of esteem? It was madness to tell them how safe she felt when he was hurting her. How could a normal person understand?

Rumpelstiltskin was never actually angry during the pain games. He didn’t care if she wobbled or stammered or failed at whatever other impossible task he devised. Her behavior didn’t matter, it was just an excuse to hurt her. That was freeing for Belle, to have punishment without a crime. She had done nothing wrong, he was just doing this because he wanted to. She could feel the release of suffering without the damage of any real guit.

“This isn’t a punishment,” he said one day while she was naked and locked across the dining room table. “How can I punish a whore who never disobeys me?”

She was good, she had been good all her life. But pain still happened. She was still small and vulnerable before the powers of the world.

“I’m hurting my whore because it’s fun!”

And that was the beautiful lie of this game: that the pain had meaning, that it benefited anyone. Belle could allow herself to be hurt as long as she had the knowledge that Rumpelstiltskin took real pleasure in hurting her. In this way, they could make sense out of the chaos that was life.

“Stretch out, little slut, and relax. That will make the impact hurt more.”

“Yes, Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle’s voice was small and muffled by the table.

If there was any aspect of this game that she didn’t like, it was the odd effect it had on her voice. Already she could hear herself become high-pitched and breathy. Later, she knew she would fumble over her words or she would babble or fall silent altogether. When Rumpelstiltskin hurt her body, her mind detached from her mouth.

He hit a solid smack onto her thighs. Belle yelped--more in surprise than pain--and tensed her muscles.

“I said relax!” he growled into her ear, holding her throat from behind.

“I’m sorry!” Belle closed her eyes against the sudden tears. This game made it embarrassingly easy to cry. Sometimes that was the best part, to feel uninhibited, to set her emotions free even as her body was bound.

“Try it again,” he said darkly.

“Yes, Rumpelstiltskin.” She took one deep breath. Then another. She tried to force the air from her mouth down through her body. The relaxation traveled through her flesh to the exposed cheeks that Rumpelstiltskin brushed his nails against posessively.

When she was relaxed, he hit her again. She couldn’t stop her body from tensing as it happened, but she made muscles ease more quickly this time.

He hit her again without warning, then scraped his long fingernails over her cheeks--pain on top of pain.

Belle let out a sound and even she couldn’t say if it was a moan or a cry.

He was so calm, so calculating as he hurt her. In the moments when she could think, Belle was certain that this was deliberate. He was holding himself back, intentionally keeping himself from hurting her even one measure more than she could stand.

Belle had some idea of what Rumpelstiltskin was like when he lost control. She had seen the destroyed room, after all, the fist-sized holes in the stone. Sometimes when he fucked her, he was more intense, more heated, more desperate. But she had never seen him lose his self-command entirely.

No matter what he did to her, he was always a step removed. What would it be to face the Dark One’s full wrath? Or even his full lust? Could a person experience that and live to tell about it? Legends told that no-one could look at the gods without dying or going mad. Perhaps that was why Rumpelstiltskin kept himself hidden from her.

After the violence had ended, Rumpelstiltskin always cared for Belle. He would hold her in his arms and tell her how wonderful she’d been, how pleased he was with her. How she was good, she was precious, she was his. This was Belle’s favorite version of him. Gentle, tender, a little silly and very sweet.

Did she let him beat her just to have this part of him?

But Belle enjoyed who she was during these times as well. In these soft moments after the harsh intensity of the games, she also became giggly and sweetly foolish. She liked the freedom of being direct in her desires. She could tell Rumpelstiltskin that she wanted to sit or stand or lie with him on the plush carpet--and he would give her what she wanted. There was nothing to think about in these blissful after-moments. Belle had no worries, no cares, no questions. She was like a boat that had navigated stormy seas and unknown waters for endless weeks--but now she was docked at a safe harbor, allowed to float in a peaceful bay.

****

“I’m going out today,” he told her one morning after breakfast.

“So you’re not just wearing your coat to keep off the cold?” Belle’s breath showed in the dungeon air.

He grinned at her. “Oh are you chilled, little one? Perhaps I can spare a few moments to warm you up before I make my departure.”

Then he walked up to Belle, who was perched on the bench in her robe, and wrapped his spiky black coat over her head and shoulders. In the darkness of his clothes, she was surrounded by the warmth of him, the smell of him. Without being ordered, she opened her mouth and slid his cock between her lips.

Hidden under layers of fabric, Belle enjoyed the feeling of being close to him, of touching him. Even if her hands were locked to the bench, she could rub her face up and down the length of his cock. It almost felt like she was nuzzling him.

His hands were on the back of her head, but he didn’t control her this time. He held her close, wrapped her up in his scaly black leather. Like the wings of a dragon, Belle thought. A dragon cradling its treasure.

She had gotten better at pleasuring him with her mouth. It was still a daunting task to fit all of him inside her and she still always broke away when he spurted into her mouth--but she was getting better. She licked and sucked, like he had taught her. She trailed kisses along the shaft and rubbed her tongue against the smooth head. She hollowed her cheeks and heard him groan.

Before he came, Rumpelstiltskin pulled away from her, taking the warmth and the darkness with him. Belle winced at the light and the cold and she missed her chance to see him as he orgasmed. When she opened her eyes, he was collected and calm--though his eyes did shine and he smiled at her.

Aside from that, the only signs of his pleasure were the ache in Belle’s jaw and a single drop of glistening black fluid on the floor.   

Belle took a breath and wiped her mouth.  “How long will you be gone?”

“I’ll be back before your next feeding.” He reached out to pat her on the cheek, then turned to leave.

Belle stood up from the bench to follow him. “What shall I do while you’re gone?” She had never been alone in the castle before. Was safe to be here without him?

“You may do whatever you like, my girl. The cuffs will be your chaperone. But!” he held up a finger to her. “If you can find the orange drawing room, there is a surprise there waiting for you.”

“What’s the surp--” Belle began to ask, but he had already vanished in a puff of smoke.

Alright then. At least now she didn’t have to hear him mock her about the futility of asking what a surprise was going to be.

So. The orange drawing room. There were hundreds of rooms in this castle. Her previous explorations hadn’t even covered a tenth of its magnitude. She would have to get going.

She spent that day poking her head into bedrooms and antechambers and galleries. The cuffs didn’t keep her out of any room as they had the angry room at the foot of Rumpelstiltskin’s tower. She hadn’t found any other rooms like that, nothing so ruined and demolished. None of the rooms seemed lived in at all. Most rooms in the castle held no trace of Rumpelstiltskin, no hint of who he was or how he had lived before her arrival.

Well, there was one hint: There were almost no mirrors in the castle at all. She could see where they were supposed to be--see the empty spaces above dressing tables or the broken frames of hand mirrors. Once or twice, Belle had found grand, full-length mirrors on stands or built into the walls. Perhaps those were too large to be removed. They were all covered with heavy cloths. Did Rumpelstiltskin really think himself so ugly that he couldn’t look at his own face?

It was late afternoon when Belle found a room that could only properly be described as “the orange drawing room.” It was a small room by the standards of this castle, but Belle thought of it as cozy. There was just enough space for a small couch, a cluster of upholstered armchairs, and a few end tables. The furniture was all velvet, colored a deep, russet orange. The fireplace had been lit before Belle even opened the door, so the room was full of warmth and cheer. The walls were panelled in dark brown wood, the same kind that lined Rumpelstiltskin’s tower. On the floor, the carpet was a brighter orange than the chairs--the color of marigolds.

Where was her surprise? There was nothing on the center table, nor in any of the drawers. He had said there would be something in the room, hadn’t he? Not just that the room was the surprise.   

It was a lovely room, of course. Every room that had walls and a fireplace was a paradise to Belle. But this room seemed especially comfortable and inviting.

Dreamily, Belle sighed onto the couch, thinking of the hours she could spend in the soft cushi--what was that?

There was something hard in the couch cushions. It dug into Belle’s back. Twisting around, Belle pulled away at the cushions until she found the offending object.

It was the book. The copper-colored book Rumpelstiltskin had allowed her to read. The color had blended in to the couch so that Belle would have never noticed it if she hadn’t sat down.

She touched the copper silk reverently, brushing her fingers against the light-and-dark snakes that decorated the cover. She could read more of it now, this story that never ended. She could see what happened next!

With no reason to hide her joy, Belle beamed and settled in to the couch, reading until Rumpelstiltskin came back.  

****

There were also days he would spend spinning. He usually warned her of his plans the night before. Or else he would wake her in darkness and make sure she was fed and cared for before he began his work at sunrise.

Belle would spend those days much as she did they days when he was gone. As the evening drew near she would wander up to his tower, ready to spend time with him when he could give her some attention.

It was hard to talk to him while he spun. He was so focused on his thread, on his work, that he had no thoughts to spare for Belle. Sometimes she would ask him questions and his answers were disjointed, distracted. He didn’t seem to know what he was saying while he spun. Having him physically near but mentally distant was somehow worse than when he left the castle altogether.

****

Every night, Belle would go to her cell and touch her female places. At first, she didn’t think of Rumpelstiltskin. Her mind went to familiar territory, the terrible men who might have been her husbands. Eventually, however, she began to imagine what Rumpelstiltskin would do if he happened to witness her hypothetical wedding nights.

She imagined him in the room of her bridal chamber, invisible to her husband, watching some old man press her onto a bed. She imagined his anger at seeing her so poorly cared for; she imagined his desire to rescue her from this drudgery and show her what true pleasure was. She imagined Rumpelstiltskin touching his cock while he looked at her, she could imagine his desire and his fury growing more and more urgent until he reached a breaking point and pushed her husband off of her and took her like an animal until she screamed.

More and more, she orgasmed to the image of his face.

****

“Time for your potion!” Rumpelstiltskin said one morning as he woke her.

Belle shivered as she rose from the bench. “What potion?”

“Don’t you remember, my dear?” he held out a goblet for her to take. “Every month when the moon is full?” He let the phrase hang in the air, waiting for her to finish it.

“My womb will be empty,” Belle completed the sentence, the promise he had made her so long ago.

She took the cup and looked into it. Last time she hadn’t seen the potion, only tasted it and felt its warmth. Everything had been black that first night, dark and unknown and terrifying. But now it was morning. Rumpelstiltskin was not the Dark One, not to her, not anymore. She knew more of what to expect from him. She knew what her life was to be.

The potion in her hand was an opaque white, like milk. It steamed, and the heat was comforting. She drank and felt the warmth fill her.

A month. How could it have been only a month? How was it possible that a month ago she had been a maiden, set to marry a handsome young man? How could her life have changed so completely in the span of only a moon’s turn?

It had been a month since she had slept in a bed or eaten at a table--or spoken to anyone besides Rumpelstiltskin. Strange that she wasn’t more lonely, that she spend her days in sorrow for the life she had lost.

In the beginning, her solace had been the knowledge that her people were safe. The friends and family she would never see again would go on to lead full and hopefully happy lives. In the miserable confusion of her first days, her only certainty was that the Dark One had kept his word: the ogres were gone. He had saved them and she was paying the price.

But now she felt no need for solace. It was good that her loved ones were safe, of course. And she still loved them and thought of them fondly. But she didn’t miss them. Her cousins, her companions… they had no place in this new way of life, not even in Belle’s head.

Perhaps it was shame. How could she explain to Little Claude or the village girl Alix that she wasn’t ever going to be married? How could she tell Jeanne and Mathilde that her days with Rumpelstiltskin were more satisfying in every way than life could have ever been with Gaston? How could she even let the thoughts of these innocents exist in the same place as the Dark One? Pushing them from her mind was a kindness to everyone involved.

She wasn’t ashamed of the deal she had made. She enjoyed more of her life than she would have ever imagined. If she had changed so much in one month, how much more would she change in the months to come?

#golden cuffs #rumbelle #rumbelle fanfic #sorry this is so late guys #i've had a rough week

[captainsbabysitter-blog]

Mama’s Pride

Pairing: McKirk

Rating: Everyone?

Length: 2079

Warnings: I don’t usually have to do these, but there’s some homophobic bullshit.

Summary: Jim convinces Bones to head to their local Pride event and mama McCoy tags along. Questions abound, and Len finds him in the awkward position of coming up with answers he never thought he’d have to give.

Notes: I was given this idea as a sort of prompt by a friend who thought they couldn’t really do the subject justice. Basically all the questions mama asks are questions I was asked by my own dad, and the protestors later on feature an argument I had with another family member at a later time. So... Yeah, enjoy!

~*~*~*~

Sure, jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt wasn’t exactly in tune with the “dress code” for most of the men in the park at the moment, but Len was having fun walking with his boyfriend through Pride. He wasn’t so sure about his mother tagging along. Mama made it clear from the second she noticed the looks her son gave Jim that first Christmas Jim tagged along that she didn’t care who her babies loved as long as they were happy. Really, he couldn’t have asked for a better response to his mama finding out he was bi.

He loved her to pieces, but if she didn’t stop asking questions, he might burst a blood vessel from the embarrassment.

“What do all of these flags mean?” She was probably gesturing toward the rows and rows of various pride flags adorning the booths.

“Each one is for a different orientation, mama,” Jim explained and then enthusiastically launched into a detailed explanation for each flag.

At least Len didn’t have to field the questions alone. They already explained to her by pansexual meant, patiently corrected her when she’d confusedly asked, ‘but who’s the woman?’ and Len was pretty sure he only ground his teeth a little at her wondering out loud why someone couldn’t just choose one or the other. ‘Well because some people like both, mama,’ Jim had answered.

Speaking of Jim, Len took in the sight of his boyfriend with fond amusement. He knew Jim would want to go a little more eccentric with his look, and Len would be lying through his teeth if he tried to pretend those shorts weren’t working for him. The pink, yellow, and blue stripes adorning his left cheek had been streaked there by a young girl eager to add color to anyone willing to sit still long enough. So far, they’ve been dragged to every single booth and mini even going on in the park by the over-excited blond.

Len was broken from his wandering thoughts by a small flag being jammed into his hand by his mama. She apparently decided he needed a bit more pride adorning him.

“I got you and Jim mini flags! See, yours is the bisexual colors and Jim’s matches his cheek!”

All he could do was give her a warm smile. She was trying. A helluva lot more than Jim’s family ever did.

“Thanks, mama.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek before offering his arm. “Let’s go catch up with Jim before he does something foolish.”

“Dear, I thought that was the point of today?”

“Maybe, but he’s got an extra strong nose for trouble. Knowing him, we’ll find him talking to the strangest person he could find.”

They shared a smile as Len caught sight of Jim again. Someone had bedecked the young man in a boa made of a million different colors, and he’d somehow ended up with a tiara.

Eleonore blinked at one of the signs, and before Len could notice her sudden curiosity, she piped up with, “Leonard? What does that sign mean by bears?”

His face instantly heated up and he could feel the embarrassed flush creep up his neck as Len dared to follow her gaze to the gentlemen Jim was now in an animated conversation with. One of the men- a rather large fellow in an open leather vest- was waving around the sign in question.

“Well, mama… Uh…” He prayed Jim would come over and rescue him from the question, but when his knight in metallic short-shorts didn’t seem to pull away from his talk, Len was forced to answer, “They’re gay men that tend to be larger and rather hairy…”

“Oh so they’re bears because they’re furry.”

“… Yes, mama.”

“Bones, there you are!” Jim darted over to grab his hand, pulling the doctor along to meet his new friends. “See? This is him.”

Jim ran through introducing him to people whose names he’ll probably never remember while Len kept an eye on his mother. She seemed to be looking the group of men over and a few looked a little uneasy about the scrutiny until she gave them a beaming smile and said, “You boys look lovely!”

“Mama, please…”

“Oh! Sorry, and this is my boyfriend’s mother, Eleonore.” Jim grinned over his shoulder at her before turning back to add in a stage whisper, “We’re giving her the grand tour of gaydom today.”

If Leonard’s face got any hotter, he was sure he’d catch fire, but the men seemed content to coo over his mother’s presence. He took a steadying breath when they finally continued on through the park.

“And now what are they up to?” Her curious tone was followed by her tugging Len through the crowd toward a stage. There was a gay comedian at the mic performing.

“What does he mean by that? What’s a bottom mean?” Eleonore asked quietly, obviously trying not to interrupt the enjoyment of the crowd laughing around them.

Len shot a panicked look toward Jim who seemed perfectly content to leave him hanging with a smirk. His mama looked at him expectantly, not seeming to notice just how uncomfortable he was.

“Um… Well... Shit. Mama, I don’t know how to answer that in a way that won’t disturb you. There’s really just some stuff you probably don’t wanna know.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but her.

She finally seemed to notice just how red he face was getting and had the decency to look contrite. “Oh sweetpea I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s okay, mama… It’s just there are just some things you gotta right not to know and you already had to think about me having sex when I came out and I really don’t need you knowing more specific things.”

The three of them wandered around for a while longer, Len progressively being weighed down by the various trinkets mama and Jim picked up from the booths as the two social butterflies made friends with every craftsman and woodworker and quilter (he had to convince mama not to buy a quilt that had what looked like Picasso’s rendition of several hundred dicks as the topper ‘mama those are penises…’ ‘oh dear! They are, aren’t they?’) who bought a booth for the day. Jim’s wallet was crammed with a couple dozen business cards with personal numbers on the backs so he could keep in touch, and Len was just pleased to see his boyfriend so happy.

It wasn’t until they got to the far edge of the park that Len started feeling a bit tense. The chanting shouts he knew he’d inevitably hear at some point finally rose over the din of revelry behind them. He made sure to keep a closer eye on Jim because the last thing they needed was a fight.

What he didn’t anticipate was Eleonore’s reaction. Her eagle eyes caught sight of the signs with various religious vitriol and she scowled darkly. Before he could shift from holding Jim in place to grab her arm, she was off like a shot making a beeline for the protestors.

“Evangeline Martin! What in the world are you doin’ standin’ there with that sign!”

Leonard paled when he realized a good portion of the group were the women in his mother’s Bible study. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him when he invited her along.

“Ellie!” Her surprise was dampened when she saw Len with an arm around Jim’s waist. A sneer twisted her lips as she continued, “I guess I don’t have t’ask what you’re doing here.”

“I’m learnin’ more about my boys and showin’ them love and acceptance like Jesus preached!”

“Jesus didn’t have cocksuckers in mind when he was spreading God’s love,” another woman (Angelica, Len recalls) countered. Cheers of agreement rose up around her.

“Well then he must not’ve been talkin’ about you either!”

Jim nearly choked on his laugh, and even Len had to bite the inside of his lip to stop the wide grin that was trying to form. Mama just kept on talking, jabbing accusatory fingers in their direction, “Y’all should be ashamed of yourselves! These men and women have had more than their fair share of problems just acceptin’ themselves and now all y’all are here making right fools of yourselves tryin’ to make them ashamed of somethin’ the Lord wouldn’t give a pig’s spit about.”

“The Bible says…”

She cut them off before the sentence was even finished, “The Bible says not a damn thing about the subject.”

“Sodomites are condemned, Eleonore!”

“Ezekiel 16:49-50, Sarah! ‘Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore, I did away with them as you have seen.’ You’re lookin’ awful haughty, and you sure look unconcerned for the harm y’all are doin’ by being here.”

From there, it seemed to become a contest over who could spout the most Bible verses to support their side. In Len’s opinion, mama was winning, but he was kind of biased. The whole ordeal was only amusing for so long, however, and he finally decided to snag her arm and lead her away.

“C’mon, mama. I think that’s enough for today. I bet they’ll have plenty to say next time you go to Bible study.”

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I set foot in another one of those groups, baby. Not when that kind of ignorance is the majority,” she muttered darkly. Another second later, she turned warm eyes to her boys. “Are you two alright?”

“Yeah, mama I’m fine. I knew a group like that would be there I’m just sorry you’re losin’ friends over all this…” Len accepted and returned the tight hug she offered with a gentle smile.

“They’re not friends I need if they’re gonna be so nasty. You can’t fix that kinda ugly, sweetheart.” Her gaze settled on Jim who seemed almost asleep on his feet. “Jim, darlin’, you look beat. Let’s get you back home, hm?”

“Mmn… That sounds good,” he mumbled as he leaned into Len’s side. “Boooones… Carry me?”

“Sugar, I’m not carryin’ you.”

“Pleeeeeeease?”

The two of them stared at each other before Len finally relented and ducked down to let Jim clamor up onto his back with a victorious sound. He was out cold before they made it back through the crowds to the car.

As he was getting Jim settled into the back seat and nuzzling into his hair a little, Eleonore finally piped up again, “You know I love you both no matter what, right baby?”

“Yeah, mama. I know.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “And if I didn’t before, I think you arguin’ down half the church on my behalf would’ve clued me in. I think you surprised Jim a bit, though.”

“That boy…He’s had it hard enough. He deserves to have a couple people in his corner now that he’s outta that house.”

“I’m not about to argue with that.”

When they made it back to mama’s, Len woke Jim so they could head inside. The sun was going down, and Len got them both settled into bed to cuddle up. Jim tucked his head against his chest and sighed in contentment.

“Today was the best. Thanks for going with me.”

“It was fun. It’s not every day I get to see mama lose her mind like that,” he chuckled and gave Jim a soft kiss. “She loves you, you know.”

“Yeah… And I love her. She’s the mom I always wished I had when I was a kid.”

“She’s yours now. You call her mama and I’m not planning on dropping you anytime soon, so just act like she is.”

“Mmmn… And I made a lot of friends today. Did you hate it? I know the whole tons of people in a crowd isn’t your favorite thing…”

“I still had fun and mama sure as hell kept me on my toes. Now get some rest, alright? We have family dinner tomorrow, and about the time Donna shows up with the kids and Joanna gets here we’ll have our hands full of excited babies.”

Jim offered up a serene smile, already dozing back off. “Sounds good. Love you, Bones.”

“Love you, too Jim.”

Tagging: @pinkamour1588 @auduna-druitt @thevalesofanduin @mccoymostly @thinkwritexpress-official @the-space-goddess-16 @southernbellestatues @yourtropegirl @randomlittleimp @gracieminabox

#why does mckirk happen to good people #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #homophobia #pride #tia writes

[whiskyrunner]

Alternate PBell verse smut

Let’s face it, this is what we all wanted from this verse. I hope you enjoy! (Takes place after the last one, but not immediately after; like, a few months after.)

*

Eames spent the day before the full moon roaming the pack territory and hunting with his cousins, the night of the full moon romping with his pack. He was exhausted when he returned home. He washed himself perfunctorily at the sink and then crawled into bed, spent.

He didn't know how long he was asleep, but it was probably no more than twenty minutes or so before another presence in the room roused him. He blinked, and found Arthur at his bedside, shedding clothing to the floor.

"Arthur?"

The felid climbed adroitly onto the bed over top of him, tail arching. The smell of his heat hit Eames a second later, bringing sudden understanding with it. On the tail of that, a thick haze of desire. He reached without thinking for Arthur's face, wide awake all of a sudden, and the felid pushed his cheek into Eames' hand.

"Missed you," Arthur said huskily, rubbing against Eames' rough palm. "Want you."

It did something to Eames when Arthur's impeccable Anglian started to break down. He was already hard. He took a deep breath, fighting for clarity.

"How long have you been in heat, darling?"

"Started last night."

"You didn't ... go to anyone else?"

"No." Arthur leaned down, nosing along the line of Eames' stubbled jaw. There was a touch of sullenness in his tone. "I waited for you."

Eames let go of his breath. He would have smelled another male on Arthur, probably, but it was good to be sure. He couldn't stand the thought of Arthur's heat driving him to do something he otherwise would never do.

That thought gave him pause. He already knew he was going to fuck Arthur in very short time--how could he not, with that intoxicating scent practically dripping from Arthur and going straight to his cock? He knew, too, from the last time, that when the heat was over Arthur would slink away and reject touch until the next heat. He should have felt more guilty about taking advantage of Arthur in this state, but it was difficult when the felid was here and so eager on top of him. Anyway, Arthur had given his permission already, before a heat had ever happened; and Eames had never been a saint, besides.

Still, he wanted to hear it now; so he asked, gently, "What do you want?"

Arthur pressed his face under Eames' jaw, breathing deep against his neck. "Inside me."

Eames pushed him away slightly, and Arthur went where he was guided, pliant and willing the way he never was ordinarily. His tail swept back and forth as he watched Eames push the bedcovers out of the way. Once that layer was gone, Arthur climbed back on top of him, slotting their bodies together. Eames ran a hand up and down his back, then pressed down above his tail and felt it raise automatically. Arthur was hot with fever against him, nuzzling at Eames' jaw again. Guilt was a far distant thing on the horizon.

"Inside," Arthur said more impatiently, reaching down to grasp Eames through his shorts. Eames caught his wrist--Arthur's other hand was on his chest, and he could feel the pinprick of claws through his shirt. Arthur hissed with frustration at finding himself restrained, and Eames could barely see straight for arousal but he managed to huff a laugh.

"Arthur, I promise you, you'll never forgive me if I let you act like a fool when you're not in your right mind."

Arthur brought his head up at that. His eyes flashed with anger, and with it, brief clarity. He took a moment to compose his words.

"I'm in heat. I need you to mate me," he said slowly. "What part of this is foolishness to you?"

It was a good reminder that Eames' prickly felid was still in there, in this hot, wriggling body on top of him. It made him feel a bit better, too, that Arthur still understood this was a mutually beneficial arrangement. A moment later, though, he had to wonder, when Arthur sat back and there was a brief searing pain along Eames' hip along with the sound of tearing cloth. He hissed through his teeth in pain--Arthur had used his claws to remove Eames' shorts.

"Sorry," Arthur said, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

"Brat," Eames grunted, tossing the remains of his shorts off the bed. He pulled his shirt off next, making Arthur growl, then almost croon when this last barrier was gone. He pushed Eames down again and grasped his cock, preparing to align it with his hole.

"Arthur, wait," Eames said breathlessly, grabbing his wrist again, and Arthur released him with a spitting hiss of anger. His tail thrashed.

"I need you," he gritted out. To him it must seem as though Eames were punishing him, dragging this out to watch Arthur squirm and throw himself at Eames' mercy. Eames took a deep breath. The wolf in him, still close to the surface, would have liked to fuck in and rut, hard. But he couldn't--he had to--

"Let me get you ready, first. I don't want to hurt you."

Arthur put his face very close to Eames', so that he could glare into his eyes. "I don't care."

He was so close, Eames could have kissed him. He wondered what would happen if he did. Probably get bitten. Kissing was not part of Arthur's heat.

"Trust me, pet, you'll care when it's over." He stroked Arthur's back again, just to feel the pleasurable little shiver that ran right down to Arthur's tail. Then he brought his hand under Arthur's tail, seeking, and when he found Arthur's hole he circled it with his fingers. Already wet. Arthur's eyes fluttered shut; his breath hit Eames' face in a gust.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Eames murmured, pressing in with one finger. Arthur was searingly hot inside, clenching with neediness. "You want me inside?"

"Yes," Arthur said, on a hitched breath.

"Let me get you nice and ready, pet. It'll only take a minute, and by then you'll be aching for me."

"Already," Arthur panted, bringing his head down to Eames' chest, and lifting his hips, "aching."

"I know. You've been so good, so patient." Eames already had a second finger in. Arthur was as tight as he remembered, but when Eames flexed his fingers a bit, Arthur clenched and then relaxed around him, and Eames was rewarded with a trickle of fresh lubricant. Arthur moaned, low against his chest. "That's it. You're going to open up for me, and when you're dripping wet I'll be able to slide right in. I'll fuck you as good and hard as you want, kitten, as long as you want it."

"Want your knot," Arthur said, his voice starting to break. He was really losing himself now, rolling his hips to force himself back onto Eames' fingers.

"I'll knot you," Eames promised, starting to slip himself into something more feral, aching with lust. The wolf was crawling up his throat, begging to take Arthur the way it wanted to. He swallowed it, but his voice still came out low and husking. "I'll fill you full of come and stuff you with my knot so that not a drop escapes, and you'll just have to take it. Do you want that, kitten?"

Arthur gave a full-body shiver, beyond words. He was good and wet inside now, and Eames hoped it was enough. He pulled his fingers free and reached down to slick himself quickly.

"I know what you want," he said, pulling Arthur against him. He sat up, getting onto his knees and tugging Arthur with him, so that Arthur was straddling him again. He had to hitch Arthur up a bit, and got a bite to his shoulder, probably for taking so long to reposition them. But then he was guiding Arthur down, onto the head of his cock. Arthur's thighs shook as he lowered himself, forcing the head inside, and then, with a small, almost squeaking cry, he forced himself even lower, and his body pulled Eames' cock in like it was meant to be there. Glancing at his face, Eames could see that his eyes were squeezed shut and the tips of his ears were flicking every which way, flattening back every few seconds as though he couldn't bear it.

"Is that good?" Eames asked, his voice little more than a hoarse rasp now. The wolf was creeping in again, and it took every ounce of humanity he had not to start rutting into Arthur and breed him properly, the way wolves did.

Arthur's reply was a shaky little gasp. He wasn't moving, so Eames took it upon himself to grasp Arthur under the thighs and pull him up and off, almost all the way. Like a female werewolf, Arthur had ridges just inside, made for holding a knot in place, and Eames loved pressing against those. He moved Arthur up and down on his cock, and dragged the head over those ridges again and again. It made for a shallow fuck, though, and Arthur squirmed suddenly when Eames' cock slipped out.

"Alright," Eames soothed, guiding himself back into that welcoming heat. He supposed he'd teased Arthur enough, and this time he let him go. Arthur wasn't expecting it, wasn't ready to hold himself up, and his body swallowed Eames' cock to the root. He yowled, burying his face in Eames' neck. Eames felt wetness there, and didn't know if it was sweat or tears. But in another moment he was moving, frantically fucking himself on Eames' cock.

It felt exquisite--better than fucking any human--better than fucking a werewolf, even, perhaps--but the fog of lust was dispelled abruptly by a stab of pain, and he let out a strangled yelp.

"Arthur, Arthur--your claws--"

Arthur pulled his claws at once out of Eames' back. "Sorry," he whispered in a small voice, but Eames knew that his contrition came entirely from the fact that he was afraid Eames would stop fucking him. Eames took a deep breath, his wolfish half momentarily driven from his mind by the pain. He felt blood run down his back, mingling with the sweat there. He wondered how Arthur would feel about restraints now, and felt himself smile ruefully.

He pushed at Arthur, very gently, taking advantage of his momentary clear-headedness. "Off for a moment."

"No," Arthur growled, clinging. His claws were just shy of digging into Eames' shoulders.

"Yes," Eames said, and he scooped Arthur and dumped him on the bed before Arthur could react. The felid twisted around, panicking briefly. He calmed when Eames placed a hand on the back of his neck and guided him down onto all fours. From here he could shred the bedsheets, not Eames' back. Arthur's tail arched up high immediately, inviting Eames to his hole. Eames wrapped a hand around his tail and tugged him back, just hard enough to elicit a hiss, then pushed himself in. He used Arthur's tail to pull him all the way back and hold him there, flush against Eames' hips, and could hear Arthur's claws punching into the mattress.

"Want you--" The air was driven momentarily from Arthur's lungs when Eames pulled back, and thrust back in. "--breed me."

That did it. Eames let go of Arthur's tail and took his hips instead, and at long last, he was fucking Arthur properly, hard and deep. He didn't let himself surrender to the wolf--he was controlled, not violent. But forceful. Arthur liked it, if his helpless wails were anything to go by.

"More," he cried, clawing the sheets.

Eames gave him more. He shut his eyes and thanked every god that had brought this felid to his bed. Sex had never been better than this.

He had to hear it one more time, just to make sure. "You want my knot?"

"Yes," Arthur panted. He was lifting his hips into every one of Eames' thrusts, taking everything Eames had to give. "Need it."

Eames was far too close to stop now. He wrapped an arm around Arthur's belly, hitching him up as close as he could. He fucked in hard a few more times and then crushed himself as deep inside as he could, burying his face against Arthur's shoulderblade and gasping raggedly. He felt Arthur buckle slightly underneath him and followed him down to the mattress--trying to get away from him. The sound that wrenched out of Arthur was not pleasure anymore. Eames' knot was still inflating inside him.

"It's alright," Eames said quickly. Arthur turned his head away, his tail lashing Eames' leg, his ears tight and flat to his head. Knotting him felt so good Eames could barely articulate, but he tried. "We're almost done."

A moment later Arthur quivered, and Eames knew the felid felt the same thing he did: the bone-shaking intensity of a werewolf climax. Eames gripped him tight and snarled wordlessly into Arthur's shoulder, wracked by wave after wave of pleasure. Arthur was gasping and shivering under him, finding his own climax even as Eames was still filling him with come. He collapsed against Eames afterward, utterly spent for the moment.

For the moment. As soon as Eames could breathe somewhat evenly again, he gently rolled them onto their sides. Arthur was tired, and Eames' own exhaustion was stealing up on him again. If he was lucky, they would be knotted long enough that they could both fall asleep. He kept his arms around Arthur, and felt Arthur rub the pads of his fingers--no trace of claws--in a circle into Eames' forearm: a wordless thanks.

"Just relax now," Eames mumbled, nosing the back of Arthur's ear. Arthur made a sound of acquiescence. "You were so good."

That brought the barest ripple of tension, and Eames knew that, for a time, Arthur's heat was receding and his resentment was returning. He took a deep breath and, only half wanting to hear the answer, asked, “Are you alright?”

Arthur was silent for a long time. It made Eames feel a bit as though he'd done something wrong, even though he knew Arthur had given his permission, even before the heat had ever compromised his judgement. He waited, forcing himself not to let his doubts start creeping in again.

Finally Arthur stirred, and lifted his head a bit. His voice was quiet. "What happens if I'm not fertile?"

It was so different from what Eames had expected him to say, he found himself at a loss for words and had to think for a moment.

"Nothing happens," he said. "You don't have to be fertile. I have plenty of time to find a mate."

Arthur's voice went even quieter. "You won't ... sell me?"

"Not unless you want me to."

"No," said Arthur firmly.

"Then I won't sell you," said Eames, attempting a shrug.

Arthur put his head back down. "You'll just ... find a mate. And only come to me during my heats?"

"If that's what you want," Eames said.

Another pause. Another flicker of resentment. "What I want doesn't matter."

"And I've told you," Eames said, digging into a well of patience that, for Arthur, appeared to be endless, "it matters to me." He paused. “What do you want, Arthur?”

Arthur's tail had been moving lazily between them. Now it stilled, and Eames could tell he was thinking.

"I want you to mate me during all my heats," Arthur said finally. "Only you. I--" His ears flicked forward and back, and his voice went softer than ever. "I like this. With you."

Eames pulled him closer, and smiled when Arthur nestled into him firmly.

#fic drabbles #pwp #basically #*buffs nails* still got it #...i hope i still got it

[shadowfax044]

Thoughts on the Recurring Dream Theory, Pt. 6

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Alright, now for Mary’s letter to John and the sequence of her running/looking for Ajay:

“My darling.” She calls John this twice in the letter. When have we heard Mary say that before? Only in the Victorian part of The Abominable Bride, which we obviously know happened in Sherlock’s head. ‘Nough said here.

The wording in the rest of the letter feels off, too: “you mustn’t hate me... every move is random and not even Sherlock Holmes can anticipate the roll of a dice...” This isn’t how Mary speaks. She isn’t flowery in her language like this. (Considering the fact that we seem to be in a mirrored version of the world, this inconsistency could be either a) because Mary and John’s roles in the episode are reversed, and this is how John writes, or b) Mary and Sherlock’s roles are reversed, and this is what Sherlock would have liked to say to John if he had been able to leave a letter for him after TRF.)

The one time Mary ever says “I’m sorry” in a serious tone is 1) actually in a letter, and therefore her tone can only be assumed, and 2) is immediately followed by a shot of her pushing a wheelchair with a drugged/knocked out/murdered flight attendant (we really can’t be sure which is the case without being told), and she’s got a big smile on her face as she does so. That doesn’t look like contrition to me.

During this sequence, we see Mary travelling all over the place, but again, we’ve got a time interval that feels too long. If John and Sherlock had the AGRA memory stick bugged, why did it take them so long to catch up with her? If your part of the camp that thinks John and Sherlock are working together to bring her down, it could be that they took the time to plan, but the downside to that is that Ajay could have caught up to her before they got there, and then they’d never get the answers they need from her.

Also, and I’m not sure this is relevant, but what is up with her hair looking ridiculous through most of her on-the-run sequence? Looking especially bad makes you stick out just as much as looking especially good, and Mary would want to blend in if she’s truly on the run/trying to find Ajay before he finds her.

When she finds Sherlock in her hotel room in Morocco, he gives her the speech about “fifty-eight techniques.” And she believes him! What happened to, “I’m not John; I know when you’re fibbing?” Unless, of course, in this mirror!verse inside Sherlock’s head, she would believe him because she is John. And again, if things are this distorted, it makes sense that they are happening in his dreams.

The conversation John and Mary have about how she left when she should have stayed and worked things through with her husband also gets to me. Mary is not the type to capitulate; she never has been. From her first scene with lines, she’s been assertive and full of confidence/arrogance. “I agree; I’m the best thing that could have possibly happened to you.” And now, here, we get, “Yes. Yes, of course”? This is not like her at all; but, similar to the letter, it could be a reflection of what Sherlock wishes his own reunion with John had been like.

This is followed by “You’re always a good man, John. I’ve never doubted that. You never judge. You never complain. I don’t deserve you.” This is in direct contrast with her usual character (see the above point); a confirmed psychopath would not feel like another person is more than they deserve to have in their life. Once again, this sounds more like what Sherlock would like to say to John than something Mary would be feeling/expressing.

When Ajay comes in and they start talking, there’s a moment when he moves around the corner and fires his gun in a direction where no one is standing. Why does he do this? This is an actual question, because I can’t make sense of it. Nothing shatters. No one is standing in that corner. Why waste a bullet?

The gun that John goes for is in Mary’s purse. If she’s on the run/looking for someone who wants to kill her, why didn’t she keep her gun on hand? She’s a trained operative, she knows better.

From ASiP: “That’s a crack shot you’re looking for. But not just a marksman: a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle.” And yet, when Ajay and Mary are holding guns to one another’s heads, John is shaking while he holds the gun, and even at the short distance with his wife in immediate danger, John doesn’t fire at Ajay’s gun hand.

Ajay says he knows it was Mary/R who betrayed them because, “They said it was the English woman.” Except we’ve already been told that Mary is not English, and the AGRA memory sticks are supposed to have their real backgrounds and all their aliases on them. Why would Ajay mistake her for the “English woman” that the terrorists were speaking of?

In this scene, we get another seemingly unimportant character causing the death of a major player (like the trigger-happy agent they decided to blame Magnussen’s murder on at the beginning of the episode).

This is getting ridiculous. There’s so much that makes no sense at first glance; I’ve done six parts and I have another twenty minutes of the episode still to go. Sheesh!

Part Seven

#sherlock spoilers #sherlock meta #the six thatchers #recurring dream theory #recurring dream theory pt 6 #my meta