#The Three Inspector (serial)

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Don’t worry if you can’t remember where the Blorgons came from.

The programme has offered up at least three explanations for their origin: Mutation caused by nuclear war on Blorgonon, future humans that have evolved into the Blorgon squid creatures, and Vosdra’s genetic experimentations.

[bitterrfruit]

clingfilm [1]

serial killer / detective ghoap x forensic pathologist reader cw: dubcon. free use. graphic depiction of a corpse. smut. 18+ only [masterlist]

The first body was discovered on the eighth of September, propped up at a bus stop in the outer suburbs of Whitfell. Found by a drunken teenager on his way home from the pub. 

You got the phone call from the detective inspector in the ultra-black hours of the morning. The time of night where not even the waxing moon hung in the sky, its habits as sibylline as any nightcrawler lurking red-eyed at that hour. Yourself included. 

Not alone, though. You had found yourself a lurker, one that would arrive unannounced in the pitch black and disappear before the sun broke over the low-rise city skyline. Exactly what you needed. If he were any more of a fixture in your life, you would have grown to loathe him. You were like that with everybody; you could handle people in doses — fixed, controlled, prescribed doses — and beyond that their very presence became as abrasive as sandpaper. Fork-on-plate grating enough to make your ears bleed. 

It was a defense mechanism. That’s what all the pseudo-analytical armchair psychologists would tell you, anyway. Something you could work to overcome, like it was a problem in the first place. That you just needed to become one with yourself, and the right person would slot into your life like a jigsaw piece. 

Tommy slotted in just fine, for now. 

A little wonky, one of those unsolvable pieces that you had to squish in, in itself an indication that it didn’t belong where you had put it — but it would suffice. Having the hole filled was satisfying enough. Looked more complete when you took a step back. 

He was uncanny, not quite all there. Offbeat in a way you were drawn to. 

There wasn’t much to him. He simply offered his cock to you when you wanted it, and he didn’t burden you with the social obligations of a well-adjusted man. No wine and dining, no meeting the parents, no cooking breakfast. He told you very little, and you liked that about him. 

You knew his name was Tommy, that he was from Manchester, and that he was a lorry driver for some packing or logistics company — you learned that when you first met him at the petrol station checkout. Knew that he’d be gone for weeks at a time driving up and down the island, only visiting Leeds for a quick fuck and a cigarette, and he’d be gone again. You knew he served in the special forces in his twenties and was discharged due to injury, and you only discovered that because you mindlessly asked him about a scar on his back. You knew his tattoos apparently didn’t mean anything and he got them to piss off his dad when he was eighteen. 

He arrived at your flat just after three in the morning. 

You had been growing roots into the sunken cushion of your sofa when he knocked on your door,  television playing a box set of Grey’s Anatomy with the volume two notches above mute. You knew it was him, he always knocked the same way — two hard knocks with the back of his knuckles, a third too much effort. Loud enough to startle you. Ever impatient. 

You opened your door with a twist of the handle (rarely bolted it, a careless habit). Greeted him in your oversized t-shirt, with no underwear on and your legs unshaven. You weren’t expecting him, but you knew he paid no mind. He’d sink his cock in showered or otherwise. Simple man. 

He stood cladded in his rough canvas work jacket, day-old sweat embedded in his stubbled cheeks, cropped wheaten hair scruffed up and pointy. Greasepaint creased in the wrinkles of his sockets, once said it prevented sun blindness during his long hours on the road. Pinched a lambent cigarette between his scarred lips, amber glow catching a glint in his brown eyes. 

Took up the whole doorframe, fucking behemoth that he was. The jacket made his goliath shoulders even bulkier, such a thing somehow possible.

“You smell good,” is all he said, as he pushed forward into your flat and swung the door shut behind him. Voice as hoarse as ever, the growl of an old dog, cords shrivelled by cigarettes and dragged raw over gravel.  

“You don’t,” you answered frankly, turning to sit back on the sofa. You had unfinished business with a rum and diet coke that you left dripping on the coffee table. “Smell like petrol.” 

He huffed, vaguely amused, hasn’t stopped you before remaining unspoken. He shucked off his jacket and dumped it on your cluttered kitchen counter, a grimy wifebeater the only layer underneath it. Came to sit next to you on the couch and landed in it with a grunt. The old springs sank deep under the weight of him and his sheer gravity pulled you in his direction. 

You got down one sip of your drink before he scooped you up — with two dinner-plate hands on either divot of your waist you were swiftly lodged in his lap, ass nestled against him as though you were made to fit. He had your legs hooked over his, thighs wedged open, and you got a little splash of spiked coke down your front in the motion. You leaned forward to set the drink down on the coffee table, before he reeled you back in. 

He was a taker, Tommy. Liked to pick you up and plonk you down as he wished, and didn’t like a fuss. He wasn’t rough about it, at least. He was a utilitarian, simply preferred convenience. 

Fine by you. You were a pedant in most facets of your life — needed a tight grip of everything, always, or else you’d implode like a dying star. Some might have called you a control freak, under their breath and behind the cover of your inattention. 

Not with sex, though. Sex was the only act wherein you could willingly relinquish all control. It was liberating, in a way — the ability to shut your brain off, cantankerous as it was, and for once let another person pull your bullied strings.

Tommy never checked, never asked. Sometimes he’d fuck you and leave without a word exchanged. 

A wide hand bunched up the bottom of your t-shirt, pulling it up to your belly, and the other bent up and over your shoulder — he hucked up a lump of saliva into his salty fingers, and smeared it against your spread pussy with little fanfare. He was generous with his fingers, sometimes, at least well practiced — began by pushing a thick middle finger inside you, hooking and raking it against your outward wall, kneading into the gummy flesh below your bladder because you told him once that it felt good that way. 

The rough heel of his palm grinded against your clitoris as his fingers coaxed your cunt to drool for him, a little harsher than would be most comfortable, but you would never say so. Telling him to do anything would defeat the purpose. 

Once he got you warmed up, it didn’t matter. When your clit blushed under his attention, pink and alert, he’d redirect his focus. Would drag his finger out of you, coated in your watery slick, and paint stripes with it over your pulsing bead. Up, down, up, down. Nothing fancy, but you liked consistency — he’d expose your clit from under its hood with every upward stroke, the calloused pad of his finger directly touching the raw nerves would make you twitch. His fingertip would travel back downward every odd moment, scooping up more of your syrup before returning to its job. 

Before long you were panting, sweat beading on the nape of your neck, and your head rocked back over his shoulder. The television was rendered nothing more than a lightshow in the dark sitting room, bouncing blue and white off the walls and ceiling. His iron-hard length pressed into your lower back, straining against the fly of his jeans, and he bucked his hips to make certain you could feel it. You could. 

You enjoyed it when he dragged it out. When he had nowhere to be, so took his time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to rush, to fuck you hard and hurried and leave before your pussy was even warm. Whenever he was gone for a long while, though, he’d savour every minute. The longer he was gone, the more you looked forward to his double-knock on your door. 

With the way he was indulging tonight, you’d have thought he had been gone for two months. 

You saw him last week. 

When you came on his fingers with a breathless whine, your thighs strained desperately to clamp shut around his hand, but he kept them jammed open — even readjusting his own legs to open you wider. Selfish. He candidly relished in the pained sobs you would let out when he persisted in vexing your sated clit, once the nerves in its peak were cloyed and inflamed. Sometimes he’d press it like a button, or pinch it tight between his fingers, just to hear you yelp in the shock. You felt his grin when he did it.

His turn, then. With a forearm hooked around your waist, cutting into your belly, he lifted you — reached underneath your bottom with a wet hand and tore down his fly, tugging out his cock and holding it upright like a sword, fist around the hilt. 

He gracelessly impaled you on him without warning, yanking you downward onto his lap and making you squeal like a cat with its tail stepped on. Far from the first time you had been speared on him, but you never grew accustomed to the size of it — it stretched you open and burrowed itself among your organs, taking up so much space you could hardly breathe around it, became an organ of your own. Even with your doctorate you failed to imagine how your bowels could rearrange themselves to fit him. 

With arms like boa constrictors coiled around your belly, fingers boring into the flesh of your waist, he raised you up and tugged you down again — it was as though you weighed nothing to him, he could lift you up and down like a doll without toil. Fucked you like he was jerking himself off with your body. 

“Only good cunt,” he grunted deeply into the back of your neck, where his teeth grazed your skin. So low that you felt it rattle in your chest, as though he thought you could not hear it. “No wonder.” 

The shit he said was always gibberish. Uttered as low as a secret, always referring to something he never made you privy to. You never bothered asking. You just liked the sound of his voice. 

“Wan’ another one?” He asked roughly, as a pair of fingers creeped over your mound and resituated themselves at the crux of your pussy. Almost gibberish, but you understood quite clearly this time. 

“Yes please,” you softly purred, a little breath. 

Hearing your obsequiousness aloud was always painfully shrill. Such a needy little sycophant the moment a cock was inside you. Embarrassment would settle heavy and thick later, once you were alone, and the thrumming heat twisted up in your core had unwinded. 

He touched you differently with his right hand — left-handed, you supposed — would smear circles over your clit with the palps of his fingers, lazy and imprecise. Used the rutting of his pelvis to guide his motion, as he hammered into your cervix with the thick head of his cock. You’d be sore later. 

As he sped himself up, blindly chasing the acme of his own pleasure like a dog after bone, and you chewed on your lip like meat— 

Your phone rang. 

Glowed bright white from where it sat on the couch beside you, the piercingly loud marimba of the ringtone as jarring as a smack to the cheek.  You blinked over your shoulder to look at it.

D.I. MacTavish. 

You never saved his contact, but you knew the number by heart. Could determine the caller the moment you saw the incoming call on your screen. Very rarely came with good news.

Expecting that Tommy would snap at you for being distracted by it, you shut your eyes again and turned away, focused on his busy fingers and the cock in your guts — but, to your shock, he slowed. 

“Better get that,” he grumbled. 

You groaned childishly, the back of your head knocking against his collarbone as you slumped back into him. “I don’t want to.” 

“Pick it up,” he said rigidly. 

Short-fused man that he was. Request better be followed by action in the first instance, or he’d ignite quicker than a match in petrol. Never got physical with you, at least. He’d just grit his teeth and leave in a huff. 

You all but mumbled fine as you leaned over to grab the phone from the cushion next to you, but with a tug he kept your hips riveted to his lap, and his cock skewered in you to the root. 

There was something deeply depraved about picking up the phone to speak to the detective while being fucked by another man, but you didn’t think too much of it in your come-drunk haze. You wanted to avoid the inevitable fit of rage that would erupt if you made a fuss. Hoped for a short conversation. 

“Hello?” 

You weren’t very good at phone calls. Not well versed in the formalities. You silently waited for him to elucidate the reason for his bothering you at such a ludicrous hour — but, given the shared nature of your professions, you could hazard a guess. Doubly inappropriate that you had a dick inside you, in that case. 

“Did I wake ye?” 

Been a while since you heard that voice. A month, at least. It made your chest a little warm to hear it, lilted and deep as it was, even through the tinny phone speaker. 

“No, I—” You hiccuped as Tommy moved his hips, and his cock raked pointedly against your constricting walls. You felt his hot breathing against the nape of your neck and tried to ignore it. “—I’m just watching telly. Something happen?” 

“A body’s been found in south Whitfell,” he said bluntly. 

Not a friendly call. You reached back and patted Tommy on the shoulder, implicitly telling him to stop moving as though you couldn’t feel him. You could keep it together if he stayed still and let you breathe steadily. 

“Do - do you need me there tonight?” You asked, voice stiff, struggling to sound at ease while you were stuffed full. 

“I’d love a visit,” he said, and you couldn’t tell whether any humour was webbed in his tone. “Need ye to take a look in situ.” 

As you opened your mouth to speak, Tommy brusquely bucked his hips, and his stone-hard cock pummelled into the plug of your womb brutally enough to force a piercing squeak from your throat. 

That was enough to make you angry. It flared hot in your belly and made your jaw clench up, and you twisted your spine to spitefully jab him below his collarbone, holding your breath when his cock mashed against your organs. 

He was smirking vindictively, pupils blown wide, ravenous as a shark. You hadn’t taken him for an exhibitionist, but with the context of the phone call painfully clear, you weren’t going to let him use this as the opportunity to explore it. 

You unhooked a leg to get yourself off of him, and his grin dropped from his face so abruptly it was as though you had flipped a switch. 

Cold dread needled down the back of your neck. 

His huge hands kept you bolted to his lap, cock grinding into you as if to spite you. 

It dawned on you then the precedent you had set — allowing him unfettered ingress to your body and not once disputing mid-act. He had the size and strength to keep you pinned to him for as long as he wished to; a fact that would normally excite you, that now only frightened you. 

Only when you scowled at him with enough ire to turn him to stone, smacked him on the chest and again attempted to get off, did he finally and reluctantly acquiesce. His glower was gelid, venomous, and his disdainful fingers clawed over your thighs as you stood yourself up. His slick cock tugged out of you and landed against his hirsute stomach, leaving a wet patch on the white cotton of his wife-beater. In any other situation you’d mourn the emptiness. 

You brought the phone back to your ear with a clear of your throat, as you timidly wandered away from the couch towards your bedroom. 

“Must get excited when a cadaver shows up, MacTavish,” you said coyly, flustered, wiping an errant hair from your forehead. “Gives you an excuse to see me.”

A beleaguered sigh grumbled through the phone. “That’s no’ funny.” 

Johnny’s gallows humour was a quirk of his you enjoyed, even though he routinely used it to get a rise out of you while you did the work they paid you for. So, his uncharacteristic severity made clear that there would be no such persiflage this time. You didn’t know how to act toward him when he was serious. It made your skin itch. 

“Sorry,” you said awkwardly into the phone, through teeth. Well rehearsed. He left a silence harsher than nails on a chalkboard before you brought yourself to speak again. “S’it look like a homicide?” 

“Body was sitting at a bus stop. Young lad spotted it,” he replied stiffly. It didn’t sound like him. “It’s — it’s wrapped in clingfilm.” 

“Oh,” you hummed. That was new. “Kid didn’t see anyone?” 

“Nobody,” he answered. “He hasn’t been much use, though. Lad was steamin’. ” 

You rummaged around in your chest-of-drawers as he spoke, phone wedged between your shoulder and cheek. Shoved your bare legs into your jeans once you found them, and stuffed some changes of clothes into your Nike gym bag. Homicides always necessitated an overnight stay. 

“Any decomp?” You asked clinically, “might have been dead a while. Soft tissue intact?”

“Dunno, Bones. I didnae look that close. That’s your job.” 

You always cringed a little when he called you that. He decided it was your nickname upon first meeting you, and persisted even after you told him that television’s beloved Bones was a forensic anthropologist and not a forensic pathologist. The difference was lost on him. Expressing any displeasure only made the name stick. 

Still, it was evident something had gotten under the detective’s skin. It made you viscerally uneasy, and he wasn’t even in the room with you to give you that toothy look of heavy-browed discomfort. 

The human mind was an enigma to you. A labyrinth of dark hallways and trapdoors. You always found yourself turning the wrong corner and hitting a dead end, or losing your footing and tumbling into a spike pit. Your own mind no exception. 

Bodies were much easier. You knew what there was to be found and exactly where to look for it. Skin, flesh, organs, bones, teeth. No constituent variance between one person and another, no discrepancies to account for. 

Saying the right thing was a more difficult undertaking than autopsying a corpse.

“Everything alright, detective?” You felt obliged to ask, when the silence stretched too long, and your ears began to ring. 

A long sigh. His muteness only endured, but he finally spoke after a pruritic pause. “Sorry. I’m — just — s’good to hear yer voice.” 

You bit down on nothing as you marched out of your room and towards the door to your flat, only to find it ajar and the sitting room utterly empty. Glancing around for a moment, you checked for Tommy — not in your bathroom, not in the kitchen — just gone. Must have stormed out in a temper. For the best. 

“Didn’t answer my question,” you said edgily, as you grabbed your keys from the table by the door. 

“I’m fine, bonnie,” he grunted. “When’re ye getting here?” 

You stuffed your feet into your boots, yanked your long black coat from the rack by the front door.

“I’m on the way,” you said. 

The drive to Whitfell would normally have taken around two hours, but you drove a steady five miles an hour over the limit, and got there ten minutes sooner. Cumbria Constabulary could just as well find a pathologist in their own region — you were sure there would be at least one — but they had an affinity for calling on you at wild hours, likely because you never refused. Not to mention the hardly vocational reasons their detective inspector had for liking you. 

The roads were dead empty that early in the morning, just after four. The asphalt was glossy with autumn dew and reflected the odd streetlight in stripes. Mostly empty motorway and rural hills between there and Leeds, but the pseudo-city you headed to had a decent population that was only expanding, and the sprawl of freshly built flat-pack condos proliferated beyond its borders every year. 

By the time you arrived at the scene it had been cordoned off with tape, the suburban street blocked by four flashing patrol vehicles, a CID van, and the mobile morgue. A few night-robed slipper-wearing bystanders hovered around the barricade, too sleepy to be a bother but curiosity compelling them to get out of bed and poke their noses around at the drama outside their houses. 

A plethora of crime scene investigators pottered about, taking photos and lifting prints and swabbing surfaces, the odd constable there to oversee it and write their aimless notes. Screens of grey canvas had been propped up around the scene, shielding the cadaver from your sight and that of the bystanders, but the floodlights within projected the shadows of every CI working behind it like a puppet show.

The detective spotted your car as you pulled in to park, immediately sauntering towards you and squinting in the glow of your headlights. Thick mohawk cresting his skull as scruffy and unprofessional as ever, he stood dead still with his hands in the pockets of his black duffle coat as you killed the engine. He wore his authority like a nice jacket, standing tall and brandishing it proudly, a fact you always found amusingly juxtaposed to his boyishly crude character. 

You flashed your warrant card at an approaching officer as you got out of the car, and they left you be without a word. 

“Got ‘ere quick,” he called to greet you, and you shoved your card back into your pocket as you walked over to him. 

“Sounded serious,” you answered bluntly, perplexed by his surprise. 

He nodded, lips in a line. “Sorry if I was a wee bit blunt,” he said grimly, wintry grey eyes as piercing as you remember, even under the dim orange glow of the streetlight above him. “Bit shaken up, I s’pose.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Johnny,” you teased, quirk in your brow as you leaned slightly to the side to see past him. 

“I’m no’ made o’ stone,” he gibed, finally baring his pointed teeth with a grin, silver-capped canine glinting in the light of the street lamp. “It’s no’ nice to look at, I’ll tell ye that.”

“I’m sure,” you said. 

“Get on yer gear,” he told you. “Come take a look. Need yer noggin on this one.”

You gave him a nod and hurried around your car, popping open the boot and digging around the rubbish for the PPE kit that was a permanent fixture among your belongings. Climbed into disposable white coveralls and smoothed down the velcro-close front, tugged a pair of fresh teal latex gloves from their cardboard box and bullied your hands into the floppy rubber, plucking the band around your wrist to ensure a good seal. Three-ply mask, shoe covers, palm-sized notebook in tow. 

Returning to the detective, he flicked his head towards the scene, and you followed him at the heel like a duckling. Your heart fluttered high in your chest, buzzing a keen anticipation that always swelled inside you whenever a homicide was in question. Likely inappropriate. Not a secret you’d share. 

“There she is,” he grumbled, far more sombre now that the cadaver was in his immediate line of sight. He sniffed, held the back of his hand under his nose as if to stifle a retch. 

She indeed. A woman, quite clearly, sitting upright on the bench under the bus shelter, across the road from a quaint little play park. A double layer of clingfilm wrapped snugly around the body from head to toe — meticulously done, each limb individually swathed, the plastic corset-tight around the waist. Dark nipples were visible through the glossy film, breasts squished flat by the tautness of the plastic. The head was less visible, face only determinable up close — bandaged up by multiple layers of film, turned greenish in the thickness, nose and eyes smushed up underneath it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, and for the moment that was all you could muster. 

Johnny nodded. “Aye,” he agreed morosely. “No’ somethin’ ye see everyday.”

“Have any of the CIs touched the plastic?” You asked resolutely, focus already needle-pointed and honed in. “Taken any off, moved it at all?” 

“No’ that I know of,” he said. 

You grunted irefully. “Well, they better not have. You need to keep a better eye on them, detective. If they pissed around with—”

“They’re well trained, doc.” He said, more pointedly, and you sensed that he was gently chiding you for assuming their idiocy. The subsequent chagrin made you shrivel up like a prune. 

“How long since it was discovered?” You asked dispassionately, changing the subject.

“‘Bout two hours,” he answered. “Lad said he called triple one straight away once he found it.” 

“Mh,” you considered aloud, crouching down beside the bench. Clicked your pen and flipped open your notebook. 

Your eyes scoured every inch of the corpse — legs, knees, feet, genitals, stomach, ribs, arms, hands — anything that was visible without having to touch or shift it from its position, you made a note of. 

Contusions visible on: right hip, right shoulder, left side of neck, left clavicle. Blood (?) present on the inside of the clingfilm, around stomach and throat areas. Partial lividity (?) on outer left thigh and arm. Pocking/marbling (?) visible on: both thighs, lower stomach, chest, both arms, left foot. 

Positioning — sat upright, neutral positioning. Hands flat on thighs above knees. Head leaning slightly to the left, otherwise neck neutral. Legs spread at ~30°, feet flat on ground. No shoes. Evidently nude beneath clingfilm. Hair apparently intact, tied up. Eyes open. 

“You’ll have to get your team to analyse the clingfilm,” you muttered flatly, more a spoken thought than a directed statement. 

“Huh?” Johnny queried, right behind you. He liked to watch you while you worked. Surveyed like a hawk every anomaly you pointed at, every note you made in your book. Always overly curious about your movements. 

“The plastic,” you repeated, glancing up at him over your shoulder. “Get your team to look at it. The brand, or something — it just, it doesn’t look like the stuff you’d get from Tesco, does it?” 

“Don’t it?” 

“No, it’s — it’s thicker, see? It looks sturdier. Here, look.” 

Johnny pursed his lips. “Dinnae need to get any closer, hen.” 

A knit pulled in your brow. “You’re being weird,” you said, the irony of your comment not lost on you. “It’s just a body. You’ve probably seen more of them than I have.” 

“Callin’ me old?” He chided, an uneasy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dimpling his cheek. 

“No, I mean—” You quickly corrected yourself, panicked that you had insulted him. “From, you know. Being a soldier, or whatever.” 

“Ah,” he nodded. “I ken. This is hardly like that, though, eh? Dinnae see anything as fucken’ horrific as this out there. This is — ah. S’like a horror movie. I don’ like horror movies.” 

You smiled at that. “Little wuss,” you murmured impishly. 

“What d’ye think, then?” He asked. 

“Of horror movies?” 

“Of the fucken’ body, Bones, Jesus.” 

You nodded tightly. “Oh, uh—” you looked back at your notebook, “hard to say without taking off the wrapping. But it looks like it was taken from somewhere else and put here recently. Tonight.” 

“Mh,” he warily hummed. “How can ye tell?” 

“Um—” You bite your words, wrangling them into a comprehensible sentence opposed to unintelligible medical jargon. “There’s blood pooling, on the left side, which suggests it was initially on its side post-mortem. But it’s, it’s not fully settled. I’ll have to look more closely in the lab.” 

“Anythin’ else?” 

Your eyes raked over the cadaver in front of you, new notes buzzing in the air around you like insects. “It’s pretty intact. Hardly any decomposition. Doesn’t really smell, does it?” 

“Cannae say I’ve sniffed it.” 

You snorted. “Well, there’s — oh.” 

“What?” 

Stare hitched on something you hadn’t noticed while you were focusing on the flesh beneath the plastic — water. 

Little puddles underneath where the cadaver sat, pooled around its feet. Then you observed droplets, mostly evaporated but what was left trickled in rills down the thighs and chest, atop the plastic. 

“It’s wet.” 

Johnny chuffed, disquieted. “S’it leaking?”

“No—” You leaned closer, squinting, and laid the back of your gloved hand against the body’s belly. Frigid cold. “I think it’s freshly thawed.” 

“Shite,” he grunted, visibly perturbed. He was sharp, the detective, and the realisation of renewed urgency was quick to settle. “Alright, let’s rush ‘er to the fridge then.” 

You’d have liked more time to assess the body in situ, but MacTavish wasn’t wrong to want it in storage as soon as possible. The more quickly the body was able to thaw, the more posthumous changes might disturb the secrets it retained from its murder. You stepped back from the bench as the detective whistled over some hazmat-clad drones to bag and tag the cadaver and haul it into the mobile morgue. 

You began your shed — pulled off your mask, plucked off your gloves, took down the hood of your PPE suit and let it puddle around your neck. Let out a breath of relief once the most abrasive layers were peeled from you. 

“Y’want me to do the post tonight?” You asked impassively, when Johnny returned his attention to you. 

His eyes were solemn, overcast, and he stiffly shook his head. “Nae, hen. Save it for the morn, eh?’” 

“You sure?” You puzzled, frowning, “I should do it now. Now that it’s not frozen, it might—”

“Och, stop,” he dismissed. “Not havin’ ye look over a body like that if you’re knackered. Yer notes will all be gibberish.” 

A curl twisted in your lips. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just have a RedBull.” 

“No,” he said. “Tha’ one’s an order.” 

“You can’t order me to do anything, detective,” you jeered. “I’m not a cop.” 

He let loose a wide grin. “I can do what I damn well please.” 

You snickered, rubbing the heel of your palm into an eye — only after he mentioned it did your exhaustion make itself known. It pulled on you like sinking stones, made your legs heavy as lead. The sun was probably not far from rising, and you hadn’t yet slept a wink. Had been far from a relaxing night, in fact. 

“Fine,” you grumbled. “I’ll be at the lab in the morning. Or, y’know, in a couple hours.” 

He nodded, the buck of his head a salute. 

“Will ye crash at ma bit?” He asked, kept his hoarse voice low, as if a secret. 

Would be far from the first time you’d have stayed at his flat. He invited you every time you were forced to stay the night near the lab, though the first few offers you had modestly declined. 

When you finally capitulated it innocently started with you on his couch, but that only lasted a night. It was only a formality, really, to even pretend that you would sleep in his sitting room — by the next night he had skulked down the stairs and approached you in the dark, allowing you just enough time to squeak his name in shock, before he pulled you by the ankle and buried his mouth in your pussy through the loose leg of your little sleep shorts. 

For a while, it was something of a tradition. You’d park in his driveway, put on your pyjamas out of courtesy, dither about whether it was improper, before he inevitably had his cock in you and you were knocked out in his bed. Forced to comb it all out and appear unfrazzled when you arrived at the lab the following morning. 

In recent months, though, your visits became fewer and further between — MacTavish’s department had proved somehow too effective, and homicides had become atypically scarce. You could acknowledge the senselessness of bemoaning that the detective was too good at his job, but in some petulant way you held it against him. It meant your paths only crossed once a month, if that, when you were called in.

You had been withholding yourself from him, for the last few visits. Motivation eluded even yourself. Perhaps out of spite, or shame, or an inexplicably renewed concern about the appropriateness of the trysts while you were ostensibly in the city to investigate a murder. Maybe you just couldn’t get past the notion that you had been busy fucking another man, saddled with the certainty that he would not be pleased if you were to tell him, even if you couldn’t sympathise with the jealousy. 

“Not tonight,” you answered, and he looked like you had just kicked a puppy. 

“Why not?” He all but moaned, reaching his burly hand toward you and brushing your jaw with his thumb. You suddenly felt like people were watching. “We don’t have t’do anythin’, bonnie. We can just sleep.” 

You almost snickered at that, because you knew how vastly unlikely that would be. Instead you gave him a pleasant smile and a noncommittal shrug, hoping he’d leave it at that. 

He didn’t. “Are ye mad at me?” 

His hand was on your shoulder, then, at the crook of your neck. Johnny was like you, in that way — had to have his hands on you, craved the tangible like a carnivore craves meat, ever-chasing the succor of touch. 

“No, Johnny, I’m not mad at you,” you said mildly, through a placid smile.

“Y’sure?” He asked. “Y’been prickly, lately. Have I done somethin’ tae upset ye?”

“I’m always prickly,” you muttered, now defensive, broke your eyes away from his interrogative glare to look at the asphalt of the footpath beneath you. 

“Aye, ‘n ye ken I like yer prickles,” he said with a smirk.

“I’m sorry,” you huffed. “I’m just gonna get a room at the Travelodge.” 

“You’re avoidin’ me,” he said edgily, hooking his hands onto his hips.

Possessive brute he was. Yet another reason you’d avoid revealing your escapades to him, even though he had absolutely no right to claim you as his own nor to bemoan your sexual habits. 

“I’m not,” you said. “It’s not my fault we’re hardly ever in the same city.” 

“Got another fella, do ye?” 

Your brows pulled tight. “No. I don’t.” 

It wasn’t in your nature to lie, and you weren’t good at it. It didn’t help that the detective’s entire being was built to hunt for the truth, he could scent a lie like a bloodhound could a fugitive. His brows were low and hard and cast a shadow over his eyes, dimples deep in his carved cheeks as he chewed on your fib. 

“He do it for you?” He asked derisively, jealousy thick as tar lacquered every word. 

“Stop it, Johnny,” you sternly implored, shrinking into yourself like a snail. “I’m just here to do my job.” 

“Mh,” he mumbled, contempt in his throat. “Prefer the company of dead bodies, do ye?”

You pouted unwittingly. “Don’t be mean.” 

He let out a huff of potent disappointment, wiped down his cheeks with a wide, stiff hand. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said gingerly, hand returning to you with a brush of your cheek, a sweep of your hair behind your ear. You never begrudged his touchiness, it made your skin tingly. “I just miss ye, s’all.” 

You bristled when he said that, irrationally. He missed your cunt, that was what he meant. He missed you warming his bed. More likely, he didn’t miss you at all. He’d call you in more frequently if he did, wouldn’t he?

“I know,” you said, hands in your pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though.” 

“Alright, hen,” he said with a nod, hand retreating. “See y’in the morn.” 

The snippy receptionist at the Travelodge managed to check you into a room on the first floor of the three-storey building, built in the eighties with those hideous chocolate-square bricks. The room itself was without frills, a double bed with teal and brown sheets, a little bench with a kettle on it and one wrinkly teabag remaining in the rack. The bathroom fixtures were all yellow-faded with specs of green mould stuck under the caulking at the edges. A nice view of the parking lot out your window, when you peeled back the sheer polyester curtains to have a look. 

It was a precarious decision to have a bath as sleepy as you were, but you were all sticky after a half-fuck and the excitement of a fresh homicide. You lay in the water for half an hour, made use of the little bottles of budget soap that sat in the shower caddy. 

Once you were done you dried yourself off with the provided towel and left it scrunched up over the rail, and you climbed into the crisply-made bed stark naked — you forsook pyjamas when you could, because they twisted up tight when you tossed and turned and you found it maddeningly overstimulating. Checked your phone before you went to sleep, and you had a text from Tommy; another number you hadn’t saved, but you hadn’t memorised that one yet. Only realised it was him when you opened the messages and saw the older one before it. 

23/08 02:21: Need some cunt. 

08/09 05:03: You gone? 

You didn’t reply. 

The sun had risen just before eight, and you woke up with it. A short and spasmodic sleep, more of a nap than a true slumber. You came awake on a gulp of air with sweat on your nape and your arm dead asleep. It was limp and heavy when you pulled yourself out of bed and got yourself ready for a day at the lab. 

You poured yourself a black coffee from the instant machine once you got there — a subterranean wing of Whitfell General Hospital, inconveniently situated a ten-minute drive from the police headquarters. Everything in there was rubbery, wrapped in linoleum and vinyl, crisp white or speckled teal. Far less flash than the crime labs you were used to in Leeds. Block fluorescents lined every corridor and the hum always made you twitchy, despite your years of experience underneath them. You always had earplugs in while you were working to escape it. 

The reek of rubbing alcohol and hospital-grade hand soap permeated every surface of the wing, and it made your nostrils flare. The smell of challenge. One that always had your heart fluttering with an admittedly twisted exhilaration — especially today, knowing how many secrets were wrapped up in that body, you were itching to read whatever stories it had to tell. 

You greeted Jenny, the lab assistant, as you elbowed through the swing door into the mortuary, and she waited for you by the unmanned reception. Wiry wee girl that she was, riddled with neuroses that even you found unreasonable. 

“Sleep in this morning, doctor?” She asked with a thin smile, and you wondered how long she had been waiting there for you. Her lime-green coffee mug was just about empty.

“Yep,” you grunted, sweeping the lanyard she had left for you off the reception counter and hanging it around your neck. “You made a start?” 

She shook her head as she gestured for you to follow her. “No, ‘course not. Not allowed to start without you.” 

“Mh.” You took a pacifying sip of coffee from your foam cup. 

“I have prepared everything, though,” she said curtly, marching ahead of you, scrubs billowing with her haste. “The tools are all laid out and I have the chiller on extra cold. I also requested some scissors specifically for the clingfilm.” 

“Fabulous,” you said wryly. 

The first door into the lab was something of an airlock, a vestibule with a window into the autopsy room, providing room to cover yourself in PPE from head to toe and take a deep breath before you made your way in. You wore casual clothes under the crunchy blue tyvek suit — same pair of jeans as yesterday, and a woolly sweater to keep yourself warm under the blisteringly cold aircon in the sealed laboratory. Layers on layers — two pairs of cloves on each hand, shoe covers, sleeved plastic apron atop the coveralls, N95 respirator, face shield, a cap to cover your hair. You were fastidious about it; every inch covered, protected, sealed up. 

You swallowed a breath as you entered the lab, anticipating the familiar stench of death and formaldehyde — hit instead with only bleach and the faint smell of raw meat. 

The plastic mummy lay flat on the steel dissection table in the centre of the room, gleaming under the blinding overhead lamps above it. 

Surreal to look at. 

You had seen and cut up many corpses in your profession and studies prior — never one presented like this, awaiting being opened like a gift at Christmas. It looked like a practice doll until you approached it, and the human parts became plainly visible through the shiny film. 

You had Jenny assist you in carefully slicing through the plastic wrap, peeling it back as gingerly as possible, exceedingly careful not to nick the skin. The plastic stuck firm to the epidermis, moist underneath, and it made a foul gooey noise as you peeled it away. Even once the seal was broken, the odour of decomposition was not nearly as fetid as you were used to; almost as if it were a fresh death, but your gut told you that it was far from. 

Unwrapping the head was a morbid ordeal. The face was milk pale, the bulb of its nose coal-black with frostbite, the skin both stodgy wet and shrivelled in texture. From her features you’d have guessed the woman was in her forties. 

What your eyes pinned to, though, was the perfectly round hole in the centre of the forehead. You could look through it and see straight down to the shiny steel underneath. Precise but not clean, skin and flesh feathered out from the orifice. 

Gunshot. FIred cleanly from the back of the head, you guessed, but you’d need to roll the body over to confirm. 

Once the plastic was finally removed entirely — which took almost two hours — the rest of the autopsy was fairly routine. With all of her quirks, one thing Jenny was exceptionally good at was taking note of everything you uttered aloud. You could say a single word and she could translate it into a meaningful report. You dictated everything as you found it. 

Interrupted lividity on left side. Cadaver was left on left side for <1 hours prior to freezing. More recent posterior lividity, consistent with storage positioning post-thawing. 

Severe cell damage from crystallisation, major damage (pocking, marbling on epidermis) consistent with being frozen >2 weeks. Digestive tract empty, suggestive of a lack of food intake for 24-48 hours prior to death. 

Major contusions on: ribs (left - blunt force damage to ribs 4, 5, 6, consistent with tip of shoe - possible kick to ribs), medial back (blunt force - crushing injury? Possible stomping, consistent with shoe sole size 12.5-13). 

Ligature marks on neck and throat, and both wrists (wide restraint - possibly tape/duct tape). Petechiae present around eyes, cheeks, mouth. Consistent with asphyxiation, non-lethal. 

No evidence of sexual activity or genital trauma ante-mortem. No evidence of defensive wounds. 

Gunshot wound centre cranium, external bevelling anterior. Significant internal bevelling posterior, consistent with weapon fired against back of head, suggestive of execution — “Yes, Jenny, write that down.” — bullet wound ~1cm in diameter, consistent 9mm semi-automatic pistol. GSR present in neural tissue, no bullet present. Clean entry/exit. 

Toxicology results pending. DNA analysis pending. 

Estimated PMI: <1 hours prior to freezing, 3 or more weeks since death. 

Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the head. 

Manner of death: Homicide. 

Jenny obsequiously aided you in suturing up the large Y-shaped incision you had made to open up the chest cavity, punctilious as she was. It was always a little disappointing to return a body to the fridge unidentified and with no next-of-kin. Nobody to relay the details to, no curiosity to assuage. 

You liked to do a final comb-over once the assistant had left the room to make copies of the preliminary autopsy report — Jane Doe, case number: 0187 — if only to quell the writhing inquisitiveness that permanently riddled you. 

You checked the hands, checked every crease and line, noted the colour of nail polish: berry-red, chipped at the free edge. The soles of the feet: clean, hardly calloused, no running through mud. No tattoos, only the earlobes pierced, no earrings. Teeth square-straight — braces as a teenager, no doubt — freshly cleaned aside from the discolouration of decay, likely a recent appointment at the dental hygienist before death. 

Only as you peered into the open mouth, squinting in focus, did you spot something abnormal — a scratch mark, on the inside of a molar, previously hidden by a fat grey tongue. The powdery ivory enamel was stark white where it had been carved into, clearly inscribed post-mortem. Maybe even moments before the body was dumped at the bus stop. 

You frantically scoured the lab for a mirror, anything reflective; came up short with a small steel tray, but it was smooth enough to see a blurry reflection. Furiously tore out your notebook, and immediately scribbled down what you saw when you tucked the tray behind the teeth and tilted it to the right angle.  

Mandibular teeth: #20 - R, #17 - O, #19 - U Maxillary teeth: #13 - S

The killer had left a message. 

Who for?

It took D.I. MacTavish less than seven minutes to get to the lab. You imagined he screamed through the traffic on his siren-bedecked motorbike many miles per hour over the limit. He came thundering down the corridor and you heard his approach before you saw it – you were disrobing in the antechamber, dumping all of your disposable PPE into the biohazard bins, washing your ungloved hands with antiseptic soap in the large steel sink. 

He bulldozed in through the push-door, panting like a dog, clad in a sweaty grey button-up with his black holsters around his shoulders, secured with a strap across his chest. Carried unease in his eyes and his blazer in a fist. 

“Show me,” was all he said, ragged and impolite. 

It was poor practice to re-enter the autopsy room without your PPE on — you made the detective put on some latex gloves and a respirator, at least, as you allowed him inside to look more closely at the body. He stuck an imprudent thumb behind the teeth on the lower jaw, hooking it open to widen the mouth as he peered within. 

“What the fuck,” he muttered, under breath, evidently disturbed by what he saw — you wanted to say told you so, but held your tongue. “R, U… what is that, O?”

“There are four,” you explained impersonally, “R, O, and U on the bottom, and S on the top.” 

“What,” he said, stopping to think. “Sour?” 

“Yeah, could be.” 

“Y’don’t think so.” 

“No,” you gritted, “can you get your finger out of there now?” 

He nodded, pulling his hand from the mouth and standing straight, gesturing for the two of you to leave the room. Lucky that Jenny wasn’t there to reprimand the both of you. You waited with your arms crossed, leaning against the double-glazed window into the lab, watching as Johnny plucked off his gloves and dumped them in the rubbish along with his mask. He raked up his sleeves with a grunt and began washing his hands in the sink. 

“We got more comin’, don’t we,” he said grimly, back to you. 

“More letters?” 

“Bodies, hen,” he clarified. 

You swallowed a shaky breath, the air suddenly harsher on your throat. “Yes,” you uttered cautiously. “I think so.” 

A mutter, “Christ.” 

“Yep,” you said. “I’ll grab you a copy of the report.” 

“Gimme the spark notes, please,” he grunted, already exasperated — he turned to face you, leaning on the sink, and he wore that worn-out look he always did at the end of a long day (eyes heavy, jaw tight), despite the fact it was only half-three in the afternoon. “I’ll read the lot with the team later.” 

You let out a tight breath as you considered which details to give him. 

“Well, the victim was a middle-aged woman,” you started, “I’d say late forties. Wealthy, too.” 

He nodded. “Cause and manner?”

“Definitely a homicide, but that wasn’t really in question,” you started. “She was shot in the back of the head, I reckon with a nine-millimetre. It — it seems like it was an execution. Like the killer had the victim face down and pressed the barrel against the skull before firing.”

“Clean freak?��� 

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “Certainly would lend an explanation to the clingfilm and the freezing.” 

“Mh,” he thought aloud. “So he has ‘em in cold storage. Why’s he only dumpin’ them now?” 

“He?” You asked, a quirk in your brow, and he suddenly looked agitated. 

“Not a rogue assumption,” he argued. “S’always a man, with this shite.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. “S’pose so,” you admitted. “I’m guessing they — he — has something to say, right? Leaving messages in the teeth — that’s zodiac shit.” 

“Sour,” he repeated, lost in thought. “What else.” 

“The victim was asphyxiated, but the ligatures around the throat are pretty minor compared to the airway damage. My guess is suffocation with plastic, given our guy’s affinity for it. Victim was alive when she was shot, though — maybe he suffocated her to subdue her.” 

He was in front of you, now, hands hooked on his hips, tip of his thumb anxiously rubbing his brow. 

“Fuckin’ animal,” he huffed. 

“We’ve swabbed all over for DNA,” you said, some clinical effort to comfort him. “He’ll have left something behind.” 

“He better ‘ave,” he said, looking briefly at his shoes, and his unease radiated from him, made your mouth taste like metal. 

“You alright?” You asked, less gently than you had intended. 

“I’m fine,” he said, vaguely defensive. 

He eyed you for a moment, sharp silver rings with their pin-prick pupils inspecting your face as though analysing the minutia of your features. You shuffled uncomfortably, looking at your fingernails to evade them. 

“What’re ye doin’ for dinner?” He asked, more warmly, and the whiplash made you cock your head back in disbelief.

“What?” 

“Y’heard me,” he said. 

“I’m—” you stammered, bewildered. “I haven’t thought about it yet.” 

“Grab a bite with me,” he said with the sternness of an order. “We can sit down somewhere. Have a real chat.” 

“Johnny, that—” you groaned, “that doesn’t seem like a good idea.” 

“For fuck’s sake, bonnie,” he barked, and you flinched at his sudden intensity. Not quite aggression but certainly encroaching on it. 

“What?” You growled, recoiling, back pressed against the window behind you. 

“I’m sick of it. Y’been fucken’ cold to me, and I haven’t done nothin’ to deserve it.” 

“I’m not — I’ve not been cold.” 

“No?” He snapped, “y’wont even look me in the eye for more than a damn second! Last time y’didn’t even say good-bye when ye left.” 

Riled annoyance flushed high on your cheeks, thrummed in your temples as you curled your tongue in search of a retaliation. 

“We’re not — there’s nothing here, Johnny. I don’t owe you anything. You can’t — you can’t expect me to worship you.” 

“Worship me?” He asked incredulously, “I don’t need ye tae worship me, hen, Christ — yer just so fucken’ icy I can’t focus on anythin’ at all when yer here. Like i’m walkin’ on eggshells everywhere I go.” 

“If I’m that distracting then you should find another pathologist,” you spat. You didn’t have a bone of de-escalation in your body; made entirely of kindle that took far more energy to snuff out than to ignite. 

He wiped down his face with white-knuckled hands, eyes rolling into the back of his head in pure frustration. Sometimes you simply enjoyed riling him up, but this time you only sought to get him to leave you alone.

“Yer bein’ cruel,” he grumbled, and you could hear the swelling anger roiling in his throat. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you hissed. “If you need to let off some steam so badly go stick your dick in someone else.”

His eyes turned dark, you watched his pupils distend right before you. 

“Don’t want someone else,” he murmured coarsely. 

 You gritted your teeth. “That’s too b—”

Cut off by a gasp as his body suddenly rammed against you, he used his weight to smother your disputes as a needy hand grasped at the button of your jeans, tugging and wriggling it vigorously to break it loose. 

“Johnny—” You belted, throat plugging up in the shock. 

You swung back a hand and threw it viciously into his cheek with a bullet-loud slap — but aside from the white-hot handprint you left on his face, he was utterly unperturbed. He deftly seized your assailing hand by the wrist and grappled it tightly, wrangled the other one while you were distracted and pinned it to your chest with a fist.

You balked as he yanked your right hand towards him, planting his mouth in your palm; his breath was blistering hot, made your hand all clammy as he pressed his slovenly lips into the hollow. 

“Miss ye,” he grumbled into your skin, wetting your palm with his tongue, no doubt it tasted like latex and soap. Didn’t seem to faze him, as he slid the tip of his tongue between the valley of two fingers, before taking your pinky finger in his mouth. Wet, and warm, enveloped it hole — the rough texture of his taste buds on the pad of your finger made your hairs stand on end, needle-sharp tingles down trickled your spine. 

“God’s sake, Johnny,” you breathed, dyspneic; tried to wriggle free the hand he had riveted to your sternum, but he only secured his grip of you. “This is — n-not here.”

“Don’ care,” he muttered, after releasing your finger from his maw; dragged his mouth hastily down your wrist, then your forearm, catching in the knit of your sweater. Found purchase once it reached skin again, took your febrile neck between his teeth and suckled there, basely relishing in the saltiness of your sweat. 

“John — please,” you chirped, when he bit your thickest tendon, and you felt your scruples begin to melt like butter. “I’ll go to d-dinner with you, just — this is so—”

His messy lips were on your jaw, then, but he never made his way to kiss you; as if kissing you on the mouth was too intimate, too severe a violation to commit, more so than anywhere else on your body he could have planted his mouth. 

“After,” he mumbled into your cheek, and his hands sunk to the button of your jeans, undoing it with a pop. Kept you wedged against the window into the autopsy room with his hips against you, gargantuan mass nearly squeezing the air from your lungs in an effort to keep you still. 

“Made me wait too long, bonnie,” he slurred, mouth on your collarbone, most of your exposed skin now wet with the marks of his saliva — hardly kisses, tastes instead. “Look what y’done to me.”

“I wasn’t…” you faltered, breathless, as he dropped to his knees hard enough that you winced at the thought of his kneecaps hitting the solid floor. 

The sound of your fly being torn down was harsh, ear-piercing; you squeaked in panic when he took the undone waistband of your jeans in his fists and yanked gracelessly them down your hips, dexterously taking your underwear with them. 

Hadn’t even shimmied them to your thighs before he keeled forward and took your cunt in his mouth, lapping at the seam of you like a dog on water, planting mushy kisses at the top of your slit as though greeting a lost lover.

Your protests turned to liquor on your tongue, inebriating — your head spun with it, ceding every modicum of agency to his charge, the responsibility now his to orchestrate you, the onus on him to steer you. He knew you well, the detective, could read you like the pages of a book. Knew how rarely you’d give, only hoping he’d take. 

And take he did, fucking glutton that he was — ate you like an animal, hardly even trying to prevent his sharp teeth from grazing your labia as he sucked your clitoris into his mouth, laving it with the voraciousness of a hound starved — suckling down your slick and letting it run down his chin, smear over his mouth and cheeks, eager to drown himself in you — you could only sputter and mewl in surrender, skull donging against the hollow glass of the window behind you as your head rocked back from your shoulders. 

“Johnny—” You hiccupped, aimless, hurling his name into the overcrowded air of the stuffy vestibule as though hoping it would stick to something. Your hands clawed at the veneered sill of the interior window, scraping off the polyurethane, you could feel the shards under your fingernails. 

Your clit burned under his tongue, pebbled and swollen and throbbing like a heartbeat — slithering rapture coiled up tight in the base of you, made your vision blurry and your mouth wet — on a cry you came, it ricocheted out from your perfervid clit in shockwaves that turned your vision white, and you did your best to stifle your cloying noises with a fleshy palm between your teeth. 

Legs went weak with it, nearly buckling if not for the hands that held you up by the hips, and he finished his meal with a gentle swipe of your anguished clit, flat tongue. 

Not like Tommy, he didn’t mock you for your orgasm, didn’t chortle and torment you with pokes or pinches just to make you squeal. Johnny was grateful for it, reverent, took his time to breathe in the heat of your rapture directly from its source, exhaling cool air on your glowing pussy as if to comfort it.

“Ah, fucken’ needed that,” he vented, panting, forehead on your belly. “Ma perfect kitty, mh, couldn’t wait any longer, bonnie.” 

You thought he might bring himself to stand, pull up your trousers for you, perhaps apologise for the incursion in a place as depravedly inappropriate as this — but, he didn’t. He instead tore your jeans down your thighs with unhampered haste, past your knees, hoisting up your ankle to yank the pant leg from your foot. 

That was all he needed, evidently, once your legs were no longer tethered by your trousers; he stood up and had you by the thighs in an effortless ascent, adroitly hooking your legs around his waist and wedging you against the window. His fist tore at his belt, and it clinkled as he unbuckled it — followed the flick of a button, the zip of a fly. 

“You’re a degenerate, Johnny,” you puffed, with a whine, and he all but chuckled at you. 

“M’just a man,” he grunted, cock unsheathed in a blink, you felt it smear against your sodden pussy and saturate his shaft with your needy syrup. “Y’won’t let me take y’out, won’t let me call ye, won’t let me—”

Bitten off by a groan as he nestled the blunt head between your folds, broke through your entrance without pause — sunk deep as he fell against you, and you bleated as he split you open — he was thicker than Tommy, the girth a painful shock every time you let him in, and you didn’t believe your cunt could ever be inured to the stretch, it could only rip itself to fit him. 

“—Fuck ye,” he groused, low voice breaking as he sealed his lips to your neck. “Christ, bonnie—”

You only whimpered, turned stupid, as you hung your arms over his shoulders and clawed at his back, nails catching in the stiff straps of the holster that cladded his scapulae. Herculean shoulders worked facilely to hold you up, thick and straining against the thin cotton of his shirt. His thrusts were steady, hard, bounced you up and down against the glass — your sweater rode up with every rut, until your bare back smeared against the cold window, you felt it grow damp with the condensation of your sweat. 

“Feel tha’, hen?” He growled, the resonance of his ragged voice wracking through you like a quake. “Fucken’ made for me, eh? Perfect fit—” 

So greedy, insatiable, he fucked you with a simmering rage, one that had been bubbling under the surface and whose temperature had only risen with every visit you turned him down — one, two, three months since you last let him inside, figuratively and literally — and he let you know of his spite, fucked you with the ferocity of a man boiled over, you worried that he’d push you through the window and the shards would cut you to pieces. 

You bit down on little cries with each rut, the upward curve in his cock had his rigid head battering your bladder from inside you to the point of ache, and it turned you pudding soft — all defiance siphoned from you, pooling around the base of his cock until it went foamy in his bed of trimmed dark hair. 

He groaned, feverish and needy, and you knew what that sound portended. 

“Agh — fuck, can I—”

Come inside you went swallowed, because he was too close, and he wouldn’t have had time to pull out if you were to say no. 

His teeth chewed reverently at your shoulder and he moaned into your skin, bucking in, to the hilt, ruts turning erratic and volatile. His cock jolted hard within your constricting walls when he finally reached his climax — spurting scalding hot come into the depths of your cunt until you were glutted with it, filling you up to the fornices, and you could almost taste its brine on your tongue. 

A slow whimper leaked out from behind your teeth, perhaps a moan of relief, now that he was hopefully surfeited — he slumped into you with a puff of air, kissed your shoulder where he had bitten you, chased a final thrust to squeeze out every drop. 

“Been too long,” he purred, winded, humid with sweat. “Dinnae make me wait like that again, eh?”

“M’sorry,” you slurred, fucked drunk, brain knocked against your skull one too many times in the last twenty-four hours for it to make much sense of what had happened. 

You felt stuffy, filled up to the ears with come and confusion, and you wanted nothing more than to climb out of the corpse-ridden basement he had just fucked you in and take a breath of real air. 

He slipped his cock out of you once it had marginally softened, and a glub of come oozed out of your cunt and dribbled down your thigh. You groaned as you bent down to put your jeans back on — but to your surprise, he helped you. Took your foot (sneaker still on) and fed it through the leg of your underwear, then your trousers, pulled them up both your legs with a shimmy, fixed them over your hips. 

Even did your button back up for you, pulled up your zip fly as if he was undoing the damage he had done. 

“There, hen,” he said gently, petting your cheek as if to praise you. “All better.” 

In your stupor you could only be grateful. “Thank you.” 

“Will y’come get a bite with me, now?” 

You were dizzy. You needed to put Jane Doe back in the fridge. You needed to give him a copy of your pathology report. You needed to send the toxicology samples to the forensics lab. 

Maybe you could leave it all for Jenny. 

“Okay,” you said. 

[theamberparadise]

~~ 🩷HELLO PRETTY BABY!

its my first time requesting something, because I’m new on Tumblr, but when I see for the first time your profile and the stories that you publish… like, I need to request something! 💞

I really love ticci Toby… it’s one on my favorite creepypastas… and I was wondering if you could write something, like the reader! innocent, sweet and naive girl, like a civil person and Toby the obvious killer that he fell in love with her… I would love if you do fluff and smut the same time, like headcanons I think? sorry if it’s long and confusing… English it’s not my first language! Thank you for your time dear! 🩷

TICCI TOBY X INNOCENT, SWEET, AND NAIVE READER

SYPNOSIS; Toby gains an interest in a sweet girl who is oblivious of his antics.

TW; Toby being creepy, humiliation, manipulative habits

A/N; can u tell I have no idea how to write fluff😆

FLUFF (+a little backstory!)

Toby had just finished mutilating an old lady he did housework for some extra money. His sweater was stained with her blood and he was going back to where he came from before a sweet, light voice stopped him in his tracks.

You would be there, standing all pretty in your cute little skirt, taking in a stray cat right in the middle of the road at 8 pm on a Sunday night. You hadn't noticed him yet, but the way your eyes softened in empathy made you glow in the dark like a firefly.

He stood still, watching you carry the poor creature inside your house while you cooed.

Toby never understood the point of waiting around for a victim, but this time, he wanted to wait.

But that doesn't mean he wouldn't have his share of you.

So, as a first-step approach, he stole a full suit and tie from whatever store he could find and put it on. (He ripped something in the back)

He would knock on your door, posing as an inspector sent by the neighborhood council (you didn't even have one) to “observe your housing condition”

Seeing as you said yes to every sketchy product offered to you by randos, Toby knew this was an easy trick, and as soon as you let him into your house he had to hold himself back from just taking you right then and there.

Unfortunately, he had a plan and needed to stick to it.

He would shuffle around awkwardly around your house, pretending to inspect your appliances. (He's just tapping around and looking closely while hovering his fingers over it)

He does this for a week or two, coming by daily mysteriously in the same suit every time you see him.

Then, he goes in for the kill.

One day, he unexpectedly comes without warning like he usually does when he got your number. He looks… terrifying. Goggles now clouding his eyes, heavy breathing and his sweater is stained with… something.

“Toby? Is that… is that you?” your cute little voice trembled when you see him. You see his axe in his hand. “Did you cut firewood?” your question was so stupid it almost made him full-on giggle in your face.

“Ye-yeah hic! Mind letting me in? It's co-cold o-outside.” He rasped through his muzzle, fully expecting you to step aside and let him in.

You did.

From then on, he started visiting not as a house inspector, but as him. Toby. Toby the axe wielder. Toby the killer. Toby the one who killed more people than he could ever count.

And you didn't mind! Or at least, didn't notice.

Toby has tried to imply every time he's able to that he is a serial killer and has spilled gallons of blood that isn't his.

“I-im not as in-innocent as you thi-think I am,” he muttered, standing behind you while you made tea in your kitchen. “That's fine, everybody has their own flaws!” you say, as he is dripping in blood when you turn around.

He crashes in your place at least three times a week because you said he wouldn't mind if he snuck through the window. Although you have never questioned how he got the key to unlock them…

He purposefully cleans his axe in your sink while you sweetly help him, not minding how much of that red, sticky liquid really goes down your sink pipes.

Toby tells you to turn off the TV as soon as he knows his name and picture will surely appear on the news.

He brings you back trinkets– those of which he stole from his victims. He never bothers to clean them and so you end up wiping off the red stains from whatever he brought you. It can either be a teddy bear keychain with mud, lipstick that suspiciously looks used, and even bloody headbands.

You once saw his picture and his full name on a newspaper article one day and he braced himself to trap you in your own basement, but you just pointed at the article and laughs about him looking exactly like his picture.

“Oh, would you look at that! You look just like this guy, huh?” “... You're ho-hopeless.”

Whenever he drops by at an ungodly hour of the night, he grimaces at how much locks you really kept open. “Damn b-bitch, n-not even the do-doors?” he mutters to himself before letting himself in

In a way, he admires your kindness and your trait of not judging anyone. This makes him feel guilty for being with you, but then again whenever he heavily implies that he's a killer you don't look into it much and keep doing your thing.

There are many nights on when you and him spend movie nights on your stuffy couch, along with the cat that you brought it wedged I'm between you two. He would be on you, laying on your chest while you unconsciously played with his hair, his hand massaging your cat's fur.

There also many times you have given him a bath in your bath tub free of charge. His favorite part? You saying he's handsome while washing his hair.

You have never flinched at seeing his fase gash like anyone else outside the mansion, in fact you actually try to clean it once in a while to prevent it from getting infected.

“D-do you wanna kno-know how I g-got this thing on m-my face? I a-ate m-my own cheek, just f-for fun. Didn't feel a single thi-thing.”

“That's… good, I guess. Stay still, okay?”

He lives for the fact that you don't flinch of scream whenever he has a tic. He jolts violently? You ask if he needs water.

He likes being cheeky and does favors you didn't even ask for so you feel obligated to kiss him on his cheek or hug him really tight. Yeah this guy knows whats up

Toby also sends you pictures while on duty in the forest, purposefully leaving parts of dead corpses here and there but not once did you question it. Or even notice it.

Absolutely loves it when you laugh at his very dark jokes, even though sometimes you don't know what the punchline was.

He has an addiction for smelling your hair whenever wherever. His mental process is if you don't scream while he does it then it's okay.

He holds your hand firmer than usual whenever you display an act of kindness toward anyone else but him, even though it was your kindness that drew him inside in the first place.

Lets you keep his favorite sweaters because he knows you would take utmost care of it.

He comes out of your house smelling fresh as a daisy because you quite literally pamper him despite his appearance

SMUT

He takes advantage of the fact that you're innocent.

Haven't kissed anyone before? He's deviously making out with you in your kitchen. Haven't seen a real dick before? He sends you dick pictures so he can come back seeing you red and flushed. Never had somebody look at your pussy before? He's staring at it for a full five minutes until you're crying for him to stop looking

You're the only one he's with that can make him feel like he's the one with power. So, he pins you down in every place possible so he can feel you struggle and squirm under him.

Toby loves seeing the flash of fear in your eyes whenever he wants to try something new. Bondage, knife play, choking… he could stare at your face forever.

He likes dragging you out somewhere in public to finger you. “Naughty g-girl, getting o-off on people potentially s-seeing you be a w-whore for me?”

Purposefully makes the loudest noises to see you flustered.

Makes you go on calls with your friends while he's fucking you from behind just so he can see how far you can keep that not-so-innocent expression of yours before falling apart.

Just as much as he likes being in your scent, he also likes it when you smell like he does. So he keeps you as near as possible to his body during missionary.

Speaking of positions, he picks all of the nasty ones before letting you ride him as a reward for being such a good girl.

Leaves bite marks where people could obviously see and loves watching you stammer while you think of a good reason on why it's there.

Cumming on your body does something to him– it feels like watching something so pure turn to a great mess of sin.

Licks you, licks you. It makes him feel like a wolf finally taking his meal.

Edges you multiple times until you get frustrated and hiss at him to stop teasing. Toby proceeds to overstimulate you to hell.

Loves it when you act out or give him even a smidge of attitude because it gives him a reason to brat-tame you.

He buys vibrators off of the internet and makes you go to work with them inside your cunt while he controls the speed. He later beams while receiving a message from your boss that you have been suspended from your job for a little while.

He lays off on using his dick because you look so pretty while cumming on his fingers, especially if you're sensitive.

[duvetfawn]

A Case to Die For

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The bones told stories only you could read. As an anthropologist, you were brought in to assist on a chilling case—a serial killer carving intricate patterns into the bones of his victims. It was meant to be about the work, about solving the mystery. But then you met Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant, maddening, and utterly magnetic, he challenged you at every turn. The case pulled you both into the depths of human depravity, but it was the tension between you and the detective that threatened to consume you entirely.

PAIRING: Sherlock x fem!reader

WARNINGS: This story contains SMUT (it's at the end, I put a warning before the scenes), MDNI, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (different position), cursing, etc.

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

A/N: Hello people! I've had this idea for a while. As you may have guessed I enjoy writing one-shots quite a lot. Don't worry though, I'll update my main story soon. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The knock at the door was brisk, almost impatient.

You glanced at the worn numbers marking the address—221B Baker Street—and adjusted the strap of your bag, the weight of the files inside pulling at your shoulder. The letter from Detective Inspector Lestrade, which had summoned you here, was crumpled in your coat pocket, and you briefly considered turning back. You weren’t sure what unnerved you more: the gruesome details of the case you’d been asked to consult on or the man you were about to meet.

The door swung open before you could knock again.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, taller than you’d expected, his lean frame emphasized by a dark suit that seemed tailored to the millimeter. His sharp cheekbones caught the light filtering in from the window behind him, and his piercing blue eyes swept over you with clinical detachment.

“Finally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re late.”

“I was told noon,” you replied, stepping into the cozy yet cluttered sitting room. The air smelled faintly of tea and books, with an undertone of something more chemical.

“It’s five past,” he said, his tone clipped as he gestured toward the couch. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

“Charming,” you muttered under your breath, but you complied, placing your bag beside you.

As you settled in, Sherlock was already pacing, his eyes darting over you like a scanner. He tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a puzzle. “Forensic anthropologist. Academic background, but you’ve spent time in the field—South America, recently, given the faint traces of mosquito bites on your arms. You’re meticulous, perhaps overly so. Single—though not by choice. No pets. Late nights working have left shadows under your eyes. Addicted to caffeine. And—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “I drink tea, not coffee. And I left South America three months ago, not recently.”

Sherlock stopped mid-step, his lips twitching upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Impressive,” came a voice from behind you. Turning, you saw Dr. John Watson standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a warm smile on his face. “Not many people interrupt Sherlock.”

“Someone has to,” you replied, shooting a pointed look at Holmes.

John chuckled. “Well, you’ll fit in just fine here.”

“Enough pleasantries,” Sherlock interrupted, his smirk fading as quickly as it had appeared. He moved to a cluttered desk piled high with books, papers, and vials of indeterminate substances. “Lestrade claims you have insights into the carvings on the bones. Show me.”

You bristled slightly at his abrupt tone but reached into your bag, pulling out the folder containing photographs of the remains. You set it on the table, and Sherlock was on it immediately, his fingers quick and precise as he flipped through the images.

“These carvings,” you began, pointing to one of the photographs, “aren’t just random marks. They’re runic, but not purely historical. Someone’s added their own cipher to them, which is why no one’s been able to decode them yet.”

Sherlock didn’t look at you, but his lips parted slightly, and he let out a low hum of interest.

“They’re not just decorative,” you continued. “They’re instructions—or warnings. And they’re meant to mislead.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmured, finally glancing up. His gaze was intense, the weight of it almost physical. “And you’ve decoded these… instructions?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But I’ve narrowed down the language and symbolism to something that originates from Norse mythology. Whoever is behind this knows their history but is using it to obscure their true intent.”

Sherlock straightened, his tall frame towering over you as he considered your words. Then, without warning, he turned to John. “Get the laptop. Now.”

John sighed, muttering something under his breath as he retrieved the requested item. “You could at least say please once in a while, you know.”

Sherlock ignored him, his attention already back on you. “Your methodology. Show me.”

You opened your own notebook, flipping to a page filled with notes, sketches, and translations. As you explained your process, Sherlock’s eyes darted between your notes and the photographs, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “Almost obsessively so.”

“I have to be,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Lives depend on it.”

His lips twitched again, as if he were on the verge of another smirk, but he turned away abruptly, the moment passing.

Hours passed as the three of you worked. The initial stiffness between you and Sherlock began to dissolve, replaced by a grudging respect. John chimed in occasionally with practical observations, but most of the time, it was you and Sherlock, your minds sparking off one another as you dissected every detail of the case.

The bones belonged to multiple victims, all of whom had vanished under mysterious circumstances. The carvings on the remains suggested a connection to a cult, one that used ancient rituals as a cover for their crimes.

As the day wore on, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. The implications of the case were grim, and the pressure to find the killer mounted with every passing moment.

It was well past midnight when John finally stretched and stood. “I’m calling it a night. Some of us need sleep, you know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, then glanced at you. “Good luck keeping up with him. He’ll be at this all night.”

You smiled faintly as John left, but the tension in the room remained.

“You should go, too,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop.

“I’m staying,” you replied firmly. “This case doesn’t just affect you, Sherlock. I’m involved now, whether I like it or not.”

He glanced at you then, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Stubborn.”

You shrugged. “Dedicated.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock’s lips curved into a genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it transformed his sharp features into something softer, more human.

As the hours dragged on, the weight of exhaustion began to set in. You leaned back against the sofa, stretching your legs as Sherlock continued to pace the room, his mind clearly racing.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Rarely,” he replied without missing a beat.

You watched him for a moment, noting the way his dark curls caught the dim light and the way his sharp jawline flexed as he mulled over the case. He was undeniably striking, but there was something more captivating about the way his mind worked—relentless, brilliant, and entirely singular.

“You should sleep,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“So should you.”

He stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “I can’t.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you. For a moment, you saw beyond the genius and arrogance to the man underneath—a man burdened by the weight of his own mind.

“Sherlock…” you began, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, almost pleading.

You didn’t press further, but the moment lingered, the air between you charged with unspoken words.

The silence stretched between you and Sherlock, thick with unspoken thoughts. He returned to pacing, the sharp lines of his face etched with concentration.

You rose from the sofa, crossing to the table where the photographs of the bones lay spread out. The weight of the case had settled heavily on your shoulders. The carvings weren’t just the work of a killer—they were the work of someone meticulous, someone who enjoyed leaving a trail, daring others to follow.

“Why bones?” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the room, sharp and sudden.

“Why bones?” you repeated, turning to face him. “The killer could’ve left messages in any number of ways. Why carve them into bones? It’s labor-intensive, messy, and… personal.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. “Because they want us to see the victims as something more than flesh. Bones are timeless. Eternal. To them, this is art.”

The thought made your stomach churn. “So we’re dealing with an egotist. Someone who wants to be remembered.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s lips curved into a grim smile. He stepped closer, his movements fluid and purposeful. “And egotists always leave clues. They want to be found—eventually. It’s a game to them.”

You nodded, your mind already racing ahead. “But the runes—there’s a pattern. I don’t think they’re random.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, a spark of excitement flickering in their depths. “Show me.”

You reached for your notebook, flipping to the page where you’d sketched out the carvings. As you explained your theory, Sherlock leaned in, his proximity making the air between you hum with tension. You could feel the heat of him, the sharpness of his gaze as he absorbed every word you said.

When you finished, he straightened, a rare look of approval crossing his face. “You’re good,” he said simply.

“Better than you expected?” you shot back, unable to resist the jab.

His lips twitched. “Much.”

Hours later, the two of you stood side by side at the kitchen counter, a map of London spread out before you. You’d identified a pattern in the runes—coordinates, perhaps, or some kind of geographical marker.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a section of the map. “The killer’s movements trace a path through these locations. They’re circling something.”

Sherlock leaned over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours as he followed your line of sight. “They’re closing in on a central point,” he murmured. “A hub. But what?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the door opening interrupted you. John stepped into the room, his expression curious.

“You two still at it?” he asked, his gaze flicking between you and Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, not looking up.

John sighed. “Of course you are. Did either of you eat? Sleep? Do anything remotely human?”

“I had tea,” you offered.

John shook his head. “Right. Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. Try not to burn the flat down.”

As John left, Sherlock straightened, his attention fully on the map once more. “We’re close,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

It was well past three in the morning when the breakthrough came. You’d been poring over the map, exhaustion tugging at the edges of your mind, when Sherlock suddenly froze.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“What?”

He grabbed the map, pointing to a section near the Thames. “The carvings aren’t just coordinates. They’re dates. Look—each location corresponds to a disappearance, and the runes indicate the order.”

You stared at the map, your pulse quickening. “So the central point…”

“Is where the killer will strike next.”

The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. But before you could react, Sherlock turned to you, his expression serious. “You’re staying here.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The killer knows who you are. If you come with me, you’ll be a target.”

“And you won’t?” you shot back. “Sherlock, I’m not staying behind while you run off to confront a murderer alone.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And you’re overbearing,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

The tension between you remained thick as you prepared to leave for the central location. Sherlock was quiet, his usual sharp remarks absent as he packed a small bag with tools and evidence.

“You’re worried,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes unreadable. “I’m always worried.”

“About me?”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the mask he wore slipped. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The admission hung in the air, heavy and charged. You stepped closer, your heart pounding. “Sherlock…”

He didn’t move, his tall frame unnervingly still. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I can’t afford distractions,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I’m not a distraction,” you said, your voice steady.

His lips curved into a faint smile, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you. His kiss was sudden and consuming, all the tension and frustration of the past days boiling over in a single, electrifying moment.

The kiss lingered for a moment—unspoken emotions breaking through the controlled veneer that Sherlock so carefully maintained. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled back, his sharp features hardening as if he’d remembered himself.

“This is a distraction,” he muttered, turning away abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “A distraction?” you echoed, your voice edged with disbelief. “You kissed me, Sherlock.”

“And I shouldn’t have,” he said, his tone clipped. He grabbed the map from the table, his long fingers gripping it tightly. “The case comes first.”

You felt a flush of anger rise in your chest. “You don’t get to decide what’s important for both of us. I’m here because I want to be.”

Sherlock turned to you then, his blue eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. “And what happens if you get hurt?” he snapped.

“I could say the same to you,” you shot back, stepping closer. “You’re not invincible, Sherlock.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. But before either of you could speak again, Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table.

He snatched it up, his expression darkening as he read the message. “Lestrade,” he said shortly. “There’s been another body.”

The air was cold and damp as you arrived at the scene, the faint mist of the Thames clinging to your skin. Lestrade met you both at the edge of a cordoned-off area, his face grim.

“Another one,” he said, nodding toward the forensics team working under a floodlight. “Same carvings. Same precision. This one was left out in the open, though—almost like they wanted us to find it.”

Sherlock pushed past him without a word, his long coat billowing behind him. You followed closely, your heart pounding as you approached the body.

The victim was laid out on the ground, their arms folded across their chest in a disturbingly serene pose. The runes were etched deep into their skin, trailing up their arms and across their torso.

“Another message,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside the body. His fingers hovered over the carvings, his sharp eyes scanning every detail.

You knelt beside him, your stomach twisting at the sight. “It’s different,” you said, pointing to a series of symbols near the victim’s collarbone. “These weren’t on the last body.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his expression sharp. “A variation in the pattern,” he said softly. “Why?”

“Because they’re escalating,” you replied. “The killer’s becoming bolder, more confident. They’re taunting us.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Or they’re telling us exactly where to find them.”

Lestrade approached, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Anything?”

Sherlock stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the scene. “Yes. The killer is leaving breadcrumbs—and we’re about to follow them.”

Back at 221B, the two of you worked furiously to decipher the new symbols. The atmosphere in the flat was charged, the earlier tension between you and Sherlock now overshadowed by the urgency of the case.

“These markings,” Sherlock muttered, pacing the room. “They’re not just coordinates. They’re a challenge—a riddle.”

You stared at the notes spread out before you, your mind racing. “It’s a location,” you said suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. “The symbols form a map—a rough one, but it’s there.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “Show me.”

You grabbed a pen, sketching out the pattern of the runes and overlaying them onto the map of London. It was crude, but the alignment was unmistakable.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a spot near the outskirts of the city. “An abandoned warehouse. It’s isolated, easy to control. If I were them, that’s where I’d be.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a rare smile—one that sent a jolt of electricity through you. “Brilliant,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent.

Your breath caught, but you quickly pushed the moment aside. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We go,” Sherlock said simply. “And we end this.”

The warehouse loomed before you, its broken windows and rusted exterior shrouded in darkness. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you and Sherlock stepped inside, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, your heart pounding as you followed him deeper into the building. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, and every creak of the floorboards set your nerves on edge.

Then, you saw it—a figure standing in the shadows, their face obscured.

“Mr. Holmes,” the figure said, their voice smooth and cold. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his posture rigid. “And here I thought you’d try harder to hide.”

The figure chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why would I hide? This is my masterpiece, Mr. Holmes. And you’re the final audience.”

You felt Sherlock’s hand brush against yours—a silent reassurance. Your pulse quickened, but you held your ground, ready for whatever came next.

Sherlock’s hand brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it steadied you. His blue eyes flicked toward you for the briefest of moments, and you nodded, understanding his unspoken command to stay close.

The figure stepped forward, their face finally illuminated by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. A man, tall and gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a glint of madness in his eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, as if he were a host welcoming guests to a party.

“You’re braver than I expected,” the man said, his voice eerily calm. “I didn’t think you’d come here so willingly.”

Sherlock tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been practically begging for my attention. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

The man’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. “And you’ve brought company,” he said, his gaze shifting to you. “How… quaint.”

You stiffened under his scrutiny, but Sherlock stepped slightly in front of you, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but she is,” the man said, his smile returning. “She’s part of this now. Part of my design.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Your design is flawed,” he said coldly. “You think yourself a mastermind, but you’re nothing more than a petty narcissist playing with symbols you barely understand.”

The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. “You don’t know me, Holmes. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I know enough,” Sherlock replied, his voice like ice. “You carve your messages into bones because you crave permanence. You want the world to remember you, but you don’t understand what true brilliance looks like. You’re a coward hiding behind theatrics.”

The man lunged forward, his face twisted with rage. But Sherlock was faster. He moved with a precision that took your breath away, sidestepping the attack and pinning the man against the wall in one swift motion.

“You’ve made your last mistake,” Sherlock hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “This game is over.”

The man struggled, but Sherlock held him firm, his tall frame towering over the killer. You felt a surge of relief mixed with admiration as you watched him work, his sharp mind and physical prowess in perfect sync.

It wasn’t until the police arrived that the weight of the confrontation truly hit you. The man was dragged away in handcuffs, his defiance replaced by a sullen silence. Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttering something about a job well done, but Sherlock barely acknowledged him.

Instead, his attention was on you.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his piercing gaze softening as he stepped closer.

You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. The adrenaline that had carried you through the night was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice wavered.

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock’s hands were on your shoulders before you could protest, his touch firm but gentle. He guided you away from the chaos, into the quiet corner of the warehouse where the shadows offered a semblance of privacy.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he said, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“I had to be here,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “You needed me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his hands tightened on your shoulders, and something in his expression shifted—something raw and vulnerable.

“I did need you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The confession hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt your breath catch as he stepped closer, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

The first kiss had been a crack in the wall. This one was the collapse.

The warehouse was silent save for the echo of your hurried breaths. The tension in the air had reached a breaking point, and when Sherlock’s lips crashed into yours, it was like a dam breaking.

The kiss was urgent, heated, his hands coming up to cup your face with an uncharacteristic lack of control. His body pressed into yours, pinning you against the cold, dusty wall. His lips were surprisingly soft, but his movements were anything but gentle. His teeth grazed your lower lip, his tongue slipping past as he deepened the kiss, leaving no doubt about the desperation behind it.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tangling in the dark curls you’d wanted to touch far longer than you cared to admit. A low groan escaped him as you pulled him closer, the sound vibrating through you.

But just as quickly as it started, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his blue eyes dark with something primal.

“This isn’t the place,” he said, his voice strained, but his hands remained on you, his thumb brushing over your jaw as if he couldn’t quite let go.

You nodded, your chest heaving, unable to form words.

He stepped back reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. “Come to Baker Street.”

It wasn’t a request.

You followed him outside, the cold night air doing little to cool the fire raging beneath your skin. The drive to 221B was a blur—Sherlock barely spoke, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, the tension between you palpable.

By the time you arrived, the front door was barely closed before he had you pressed against it, his lips on yours once more. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel just how affected he was.

“Upstairs,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you up the narrow staircase to his flat, every step building the anticipation to a breaking point.

Sherlock’s lips were everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your collarbone. His hands roamed with purpose, as if memorizing every curve of your body. But it wasn’t hurried. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in his movements, a contrast to the raw hunger in his kisses.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and strained, as if he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth.

The sound of him—usually so controlled and precise—undone in this moment sent a jolt of heat through you.

You let your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the lean muscle beneath his pale skin, the way his body seemed almost sculpted, yet undeniably real. He was all sharp lines and ridges, a perfect contradiction of strength and vulnerability.

“Sherlock,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips without thought.

He paused at the sound, his head lifting to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were blown wide with desire, yet there was something else in them too—something softer.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I care to admit.”

Your breath caught. “And?”

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile—so unlike him it made your heart ache. “And now that I have you, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you go.”

The vulnerability in his words stole your breath, but before you could respond, he was on you again—his lips searing against yours as if he couldn’t stand the distance for another second.

He guided you to the bed in the corner of the flat, his hands never leaving your body. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down, pulling him with you.

“Lie back,” he commanded softly, his voice like velvet.

You obeyed, your pulse racing as you reclined against the pillows. Sherlock followed, his tall frame looming over you as his hands trailed down your sides.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your stomach. “Let me show you.”

His hands slid to your hips, and with a fluid motion, he rid you of the last barriers between you. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body, but any nervousness you felt dissolved the moment his mouth replaced his hands.

The first touch of his lips against you sent a shockwave through your body. He worked slowly at first, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark curls.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. He was meticulous, as if solving a puzzle—reading every gasp, every shiver, adjusting his movements until he had you unraveling beneath him.

His tongue pressed harder, his pace quickening, and you couldn’t stop the moans that spilled from your lips.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, his hands tightening on your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. When his fingers joined the fray, slipping inside you with a skill that left you breathless, it was too much.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed as his name tore from your lips. 

But Sherlock didn’t stop—not until you were trembling, every nerve in your body alight.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and the smug look on his face would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t still recovering.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You managed a weak laugh, your chest heaving. “Cocky bastard.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

As the haze of pleasure began to fade, you found yourself wanting more—needing more. You pushed against Sherlock’s chest, flipping him onto his back with a boldness that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Your turn,” you said, your voice low and teasing.

His eyes darkened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Be my guest.”

You moved down his body, taking your time exploring every inch of him. His sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading lower—it was all intoxicating. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“Off,” you demanded.

His smirk widened, but he complied, lifting his hips to help you. When he was fully exposed, your breath hitched.

“You’re staring,” he teased, echoing your earlier words.

“Shut up,” you shot back, leaning down to kiss him in a way that wiped the smirk off his face.

You started slow, letting your tongue trace along him, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you. His hands fisted in the sheets, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smiled against him, taking him deeper. His reaction was immediate—his head falling back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as you worked him with a combination of precision and fervor.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his voice strained. “If you keep that up, I won’t—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Good,” you said, your voice laced with mischief.

He growled, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you back up to him.

Sherlock’s hands tightened on your hips as he hovered above you, his breathing ragged, his dark curls falling into his face. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, his lean frame pressing into yours in a way that made your pulse race.

He slid into you in one fluid, deliberate motion, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath. A guttural moan escaped his lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled, letting you adjust.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and strained. “You’re… incredible.”

You dug your nails into his back, urging him to move. “Sherlock, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He didn’t make you wait. His hips began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that left you gasping.

Each thrust was measured, precise—just enough to leave you wanting more. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you arched into him.

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder. You could feel every inch of him, the way his body fit perfectly against yours. The sounds of skin against skin, of his low groans and your cries, filled the room.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his voice raw with desire.

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the sensation of him. His hand slid down your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip to pull you closer. The new angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back.

“More,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He obliged, shifting again, this time pulling your legs over his shoulders. The depth was overwhelming, every thrust hitting a spot that left you trembling.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

You opened your eyes to find his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours. The intensity of his stare was almost too much, but you couldn’t look away.

“You’re stunning like this,” he said, his tone reverent. “Completely mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through you, and you tightened around him, pulling a sharp gasp from his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his control slipping.

He slowed suddenly, his movements deliberate as he leaned down to kiss you. The change in pace was almost maddening, but there was something intimate in the way he took his time, as if savoring every moment.

“I want to see all of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours.

Before you could respond, he pulled out, leaving you aching and empty. He flipped you onto your stomach with ease, his hands guiding your hips into the air.

“Stay like this,” he commanded, his voice dark with lust.

You shivered as his hand trailed down your back, pausing to squeeze your hips. When he entered you again, the angle was deeper, more intense, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips.

“So good for me,” he praised, his hands gripping your hips as he set a relentless pace.

You braced yourself against the bed, each thrust sending you closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving marks you knew you’d feel tomorrow, but the pain only heightened the pleasure.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, your voice muffled by the pillow.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as he murmured in your ear, “You feel fucking incredible. Do you know that?”

You could only whimper in response, the words lost as he hit a spot that made your vision blur.

“I need to see your face,” he said suddenly, his voice softer but no less commanding.

He pulled out again, guiding you onto your side. He lay behind you, one hand lifting your leg as he slid back inside. The position was intimate, his chest flush against your back, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“Touch yourself,” he murmured, his hand trailing down to guide yours.

You obeyed, your fingers finding the spot that had you spiraling. His thrusts grew slower but deeper, his lips never leaving your skin as he whispered filthy praise into your ear.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice a mix of reverence and need. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The intensity built again, the pace quickening as he turned you onto your back once more. His body covered yours, his weight grounding you as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

“You’re close,” he said, his tone confident.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words.

“Let go,” he commanded, his hand slipping between your bodies to push you over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, your body arching as you cried out his name. The waves of pleasure were overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Sherlock followed moments later, a guttural moan escaping him as he buried himself deep inside you. 

His body tensed, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he found his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing.

Sherlock collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he buried his face in your hair. His body was warm against yours, his breath still uneven.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.

You smiled, your head resting against his chest. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and soothing. “I suppose we make a good team, then.”

“You think?” you teased, looking up at him.

His blue eyes softened, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. “I know.”

And for once, Sherlock Holmes had nothing else to say.

[lilyinavalley]

Refractions🪞

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 - 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛

You go on a mission with Sinostra's Ghouls, but as usual something goes wrong. Taiga gets trapped in his own psyche, where past, present and future are nothing more than words written in pencil. Thanks to the anomaly's power he can relive some memories that he had completely erased - Will he be able to uncover even more, especially about his kitty-cat?

Taiga Hoshibami x mc Ao3 Ao3 versione italiana Warnings! stigma speculations [Masterlist] Welcome to my new series!

The velvety notes of a jazz song sweeten the evening in this discreet nightclub. Violet lights caress the rosy cheeks of people speaking in hushed tones among the scattered tables. Sparkling glasses of the most diverse shapes are languidly brought to the lips by fingers adorned with priceless rings. These people, with scarlet-stained lips and immaculately trimmed beards, exude wealth from every pore.

From a table in the corner of the room, I’m closely observing everything unfolding in front of me. It feels like watching a Manet painting—people chatting with honey-drenched words pouring from their lips, while pure poison drips from their eyes.

An olive, skewered by a toothpick, floats alone in my Martini. From time to time, I bring it to my lips to avoid drawing attention, without drinking a single drop. I can’t afford to lose clarity.

“Romeo, have you noticed anything strange?”

I say in a bored tone.

Romeo: “No! What a waste of time…”

Taiga: “Lulù’s right, let’s go look for this anomaly ourselves.”

Ritsu: “Absolutely not, we can’t draw attention. Do you want to cause chaos like last time? If we stir up trouble, we lose four times as much time.”

At my table there are also the three ghouls from Sinostra, elegantly dressed in tuxedos—as usual chosen according to Romeo’s impeccable taste. Even my midnight blue evening gown isn’t bad. The only thing that worries me are my high heels, which could be a problem if we have to run.

We’re here on a mission assigned by the headmaster, and as usual, I’m the inspector. In this venue, at least one person vanishes every night. After some investigation, the Darkwick agents discovered rumors about an individual who lures people by promising to let them relive memories from their past, asking for nothing in return. Those who agree vanish without a trace. With the possibility of a serial killer ruled out, we’re left with the assumption that it’s an anomaly.

And so here we are, pretending to drink while trying to understand what’s going on—everyone except Taiga, who’s already on his third whiskey and seems completely uninterested in the mission.

So nothing out of the ordinary...

It’s already a miracle he hasn’t vanished to do his own thing. So it’s fine...

While I absentmindedly watch a couple whisper sweet words to each other, I finally notice something strange: a woman, sitting at the table behind them, looks distraught and is speaking with a man in his thirties.

They’re too far away for me to hear the conversation, but I can do a bit of lip-reading.

…Come with me…memories…offer…

Excited, I elbow Romeo.

“Romeo, look! I think we found him.”

Annoyed by the sudden blow, Romeo glares at me, but still leans in to align his gaze with mine.

Romeo: “You’re right, BB. So you are useful sometimes.”

Not impressed by the vulgar nickname he’s been using for months, I don’t even bother to respond.

Ritsu: “So, what do we do? Follow them?”

“Yes, but not all together.”

Taiga: “I’ll go. I’m sick of sitting around doing nothing.”

Romeo: “No way, BTH! I’m not letting you destroy or devour another anomaly. This time, we need to capture it.”

With a theatrical sigh, Taiga throws his head back and downs the rest of his whiskey.

Ritsu: “We better decide quickly, or we’ll lose them.”

I watch the movements of the potential victim and think for a moment.

Yes, this is probably the best idea

“Taiga and I will go.”

I set my drink down decisively and stand up.

“It’s better to keep him close and give him something to do than let him cause trouble out of boredom. Don’t you agree?”

Ritsu and Romeo stay seated, thoughtful. They don’t argue, but they’re not fully convinced either. Not that it matters—Taiga doesn’t give them time to disagree. He stands right after me, taking my arm.

Taiga: “Gyahahaha, let’s go, kitty-cat, before we lose them.”

Romeo: “Keep your phone handy. Call us if anything happens.”

“Of course. Talk soon.”

No one pays us much attention as we leave our table. Without raising suspicion, we begin following the woman and the suspicious man from a safe distance.

We walk down a long, winding corridor. When the couple turns a corner, we follow, leaving the previous one behind.

The dim lighting, black carpet, and mahogany-red walls create an eerie atmosphere. The melancholic music fades into the distance. The sound of my heels is muffled by the soft floor, and an unsettling silence surrounds our steady breathing.

The eyes of the crowd have long since left us. Yet, my hand is still wrapped around Taiga’s arm. He doesn’t show any sign of wanting to let go either. If I didn’t know him, I might think he was helping me walk in these heels.

Let me dream...

After four turns, they stop in front of a door. The man opens it and, with a half-bow, invites the woman in, the he enters after her, closing the door behind.

We wait a few seconds—no sound of a key turning.

Perfect, he left it unlocked.

Taiga: “So, what’s the plan, kitty-cat?”

“We approach the door and try to listen. Then we call the others and decide what to do. It’s better not to act alone without informing them.”

I look into Taiga’s eyes, but they show no emotion. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. Even if he did show something, he remains highly unpredictable—calm one moment, unhinged the next. His mustard-colored irises are fixed on me, silently. I start to feel uneasy. Sometimes his empty stare is even more piercing than his crazed one. It’s like he’s rummaging through your soul while also looking straight through you.

Unable to bear the pressure any longer, I turn toward the door.

“Let’s hurry.”

We approach the room quietly. I lean my ear against the door, making as little noise as possible. Through a few centimeters of wood, I can hear faint voices. The room must be small, otherwise I wouldn’t hear them this clearly.

“…I just have to go through this mirror, right?…”

“…Exactly, miss. Once inside, you’ll finally reunite with your son…”

“…And you want nothing in return? Nobody does things for free in this world. Who are you?…”

“…I’m just a gentleman trying to bring peace to lost souls. You should feel lucky to have found me. After all, what do you have left in this life? Would you rather suffer in solitude until death?…”

A long pause follows that statement. I turn to Taiga, who is also listening, and see that his brows are furrowed.

A terrible premonition gives me the chills…

Whispering so that the two behind the door don’t hear, I lean into Taiga’s ear.

“Taiga, is anything wr—”

I don’t even finish before he flings open the door I’m leaning on, causing me to fall flat inside.

My heart races—from both the shock and the fear of what’s about to happen.

The two inside turn toward us, startled.

Taiga pulls out his special artifact and points his submachine gun at the man.

Taiga: “Step away from the mirror, bastard.”

The man smirks defiantly and disappears into the mirror in a violet cloud.

Taiga groans in frustration, lowers his weapon, and turns to me.

Taiga: “Tsk, take care of the woman. I’m going after that bastard.”

I leap to my feet and step closer, keeping a two-meter distance.

Just in case...

“Don’t even think about it. Stay put. We’re calling the others. You have to stop acting before thinking. One day it’ll get you killed.”

Frustrated, I open my shoulder bag to grab my phone and call the others. As I raise my head— Taiga is gone.

Only I remain in the room now, along with the woman still in shock on the floor, and a large mirror with an ornate golden frame on the wall across from the door.

It’s my fault. What the hell was I thinking bringing Taiga? I’m an idiot. Yes, a complete idiot!

I approach the mirror. As soon as I look into it, I stumble back, shocked.

“What the hell?...”

Instead of my reflection, I see Taiga—standing, head lowered, eyes closed.

I try calling out to him, but there’s no response.

Better not touch anything—or I’ll get pulled in too.

Frustrated, I press my hands to my face and rub my eyes in circles. I inhale, exhale deeply, then call Romeo—bracing for the ear-splitting scream I know is coming.

Shit.

Once I cross the mirror, I’m greeted by absolute nothingness—I'm suspended in a place without boundaries, no way to tell up from down, no shapes, no corners. Everything is black. The only thing I can see clearly is my own body.

Which doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, considering there’s nothing illuminating it.

With no other options, I try walking. There’s no solid ground under my feet, I feel like I’m floating in midair, yet somehow I can move forward.

The kitty-cat is probably pissed off as hell, but following the anomaly isn’t the only reason I threw myself in here.

Because of my stigma, I feel like I’m living in the eye of a hurricane—my memories are swept away by its violent currents. Sometimes they flash before my eyes, only to be sucked away again by its centripetal force.

Maybe here, I can trick this curse. If not, I’ll just destroy everything and get out.

Simple.

I’ve been walking for almost an hour when I finally see a white glow in the distance. I pick up the pace, and soon I find myself at the center of a strange art gallery. Instead of paintings, there are enormous rectangular mirrors suspended in the void, arranged in two parallel rows that seem to stretch into infinity—or at least, so far they blur into the surrounding darkness.

With hesitant steps, I approach the first mirror on my left. At first, I see only my reflection. Then the image distorts, and a kind of video begins to play.

Romeo, the kitty-cat, and a familiar guy with ash-gray hair and blue eyes are arguing with each other, but they move their lips without producing a sound. Every now and then, they look in my direction—as if they really are speaking to me.

So these are my memories…?

In the other mirrors, countless different scenes are reflected. Some familiar, others completely wiped from my brain.

I continue forward, staying in the middle of the two rows. In most of the scenes, Romeo is there in various stages of fury, yelling at the screen—or rather, at me.

Then the scenes shift: bloodbaths, remnants of anomalies I was devouring on the floor, poker tables, and memories of a past I don’t want to remember.

Further ahead, the kitty-cat starts to appear more and more often. A mischievous grin spreads across my face—her terrified expression always cheers me up.

In many memories she stays in the background, hidden in Romeo’s shadow. Then little by little, she starts to gain courage, stepping into the foreground, talking to me, even getting mad.

But at a certain point, something changes. The bloodstained and violent memories are gradually replaced by the kitty-cat’s innocent face, caught in various activities.

Her sitting on the grass, sipping a drink.

Her laughing carefree in front of a Sinostra slot machine.

Her napping on the Galaxy Express, and my hand brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

Something’s off.

I stop in front of one mirror. In this "memory," the kitten seems a few years older, her hair longer. Wrapped in sheets, she’s lying in bed reading a book. Then she looks up—subtle expression lines frame her face. She gazes in my direction with an expression I’ve never seen before, reaches out a hand toward me, gets closer—and then everything goes black.

…

These aren’t memories of the past—or the present. This must be the future I saw… and then forgot.

?: “I’ve never seen a corridor so vast and chaotic.”

I spin around and see the man I’d been chasing earlier just a few meters away. This time, a white mask covers his entire face. I reach for my artifact, but it’s gone—just like everything else I brought with me.

?: “Welcome to the realm of your consciousness. Here, you can’t bring anything but your soul.”

I glare at him without saying a word. I’m not in the mood to argue with an anomaly.

?: “Oh, come on, don’t act tough. I know you’re curious.”

The man steps closer to the mirror where the kitty-cat is still immersed in whatever story she's reading.

?: “I know perfectly well you and your friends came here to eliminate or contain me, but I’ve never hurt anyone. In the end, the people I bring here choose to stay of their own free will.”

He turns his back to me and walks toward the beginning of my memories.

?: “Come with me.”

I shouldn’t be listening to a fucking anomaly, but something urges me forward—a sharp temptation prodding me from behind. So I shove my hands in my pockets and follow him.

He stops in front of a memory where the kitty-cat is sitting at the end of a worn wooden pier, still wearing her Darkwick uniform—must be a recurring memory.

Next to her, a pair of shoes and a wicker basket full of fruit.

?: “To relive this moment, all you have to do is step through the mirror. You’ll exit when the memory itself ends.”

Taiga: “Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?”

A laugh echoes from under the anomaly’s mask. He draws a vertical line in the air with his index finger, opening a kind of portal. On the other side, the kitty-cat is on the phone, and the older woman from before is sitting on the ground with her back against the wall.

?: “The exit is this way. The choice is yours.”

And with that, he vanishes into nothingness again.

…

I turn my back to the exit and tentatively touch the mirror’s surface. As soon as I brush it with my fingers, they pass through—rippling the image with tiny waves that expand outward in circles.

Slowly, I push my whole arm through, but as soon as I reach the elbow, some unknown force pulls me entirely inside.

And once again, I’m swallowed by darkness.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[veryfastnighuncatchable]

So I'm currently workshopping two (2) different original Holmes adaptations and they're eating my brain all the time and I really want to talk about them so I'm putting this here for anyone who might enjoy it:

The (Extra)Ordinary Life of Mycroft Holmes is a modern retelling set in London that follows the titular character in his desperate attempts to convince people that he is a completely ordinary guy--which, as we all know, is simply not true. Featuring Mycroft's golden retriever boyfriend, Fem! Sherlock, pining John, dad Lestrade, BAMF Irene, perplexed Yarders, and a genuinely unhinged Moriarty. This story begins after most of the original ACD stories but before The Final Problem, which is adapted within this story (although in this version, neither Sherlock nor Moriarty die, and the plan goes wildly wrong for both of them). It begins with Mycroft, who hasn't seen his sister in 12 years and goes by the pseudonym Mycroft Smith, working as a tax lawyer in Central London with his boyfriend, James (no, not that James). When a murder occurs in their building, things escalate quickly, and all of Mycroft's secrets come out into the open--including his own genius and his relationship to famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The story evolves from there, with mystery, romance, and quite a heavy dose of angst.

Quite Contrary is a Victorian story following Mary Morstan as she navigates her marriage-of-convenience to Dr. John Watson and her begrudging friendship with her husband's eccentric flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, a serial killer is stalking London, and the Yard is clueless. Featuring oblivious idiots Sherlock and John, a BAMF but tired Mary who wishes they would get over themselves already, and Police Inspector Lestrade, who is convinced that there is more to Baker Street than meets the eye. This story is much more mystery than drama, and begins with nurse Mary Morstan announcing her marriage to former army doctor John Watson, and Watson's flatmate's displeasure at the announcement (along with Watson's and Mary's, but they do a better job of hiding it). As they spend time together, however, Holmes finds a companion in Mrs. Watson and vice versa (made all the better when Holmes learns that Mary and John are not interested in each other romantically, for their inclinations both lie...elsewhere). With a good mix of intrigue and humor, all three work together to solve the serial killer case with the help (and hindrance) of D.I. Greg Lestrade.

[kaivenom]

My favourite book came to life?

Summary: you went with your brother's to solve a case but when you get there you start to realize similarities with the murders and witnesses with your favourite book.

Pairing: Gabriel x Winchester!reader

Warnings: none, murder scenes? but not explicit written

Masterlist

Finally the ride ended, you loved your brothers but being on a car with them for eight hours was suffocating sometimes. You closed your favourite book, the ride let you read it once again.

You checked in on the motel and create your covers, this time you were a FBI rookie again, you are always the rookie because you are the younger.

You three spent all the morning asking witnesses and seeing the murder scenarios. Something about the settings was strange, more strange than a creature killing people , this procedure sounds familiar to you somehow.

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

Two days passed since you got on the town and two new murders occured. Officially the assasin it's someonw who read your favourite book.

"I tell you guys, maybe it's a normal serial killer who it's a nerd for this book."

"I think we should be here one more day to check the theory."

That afternoon you visited the new witness, she opened the door dressed like a character from the book and refused to be called by her real name.

"Officially it's a monster, she is completely brain-washed."

"How can we talk to her? Use your book knowledge."

After one hour you convinced her to speak to you about it, you told her you were the inspector from the book and she started to open up.

You said goodbye to the woman and left the house, before getting into the impala, your Dean picked some candy wrapping from the floor.

"Son of a bitch."

"It's the trickster."

"Who?" you repplied confused.

"It's someone we dealed with twice, he is a total pain in the ass," by his faced you could see that he is, "he can alter the reality and change his appareance, all of this it's his game."

"Maybe the only way to get out it's follow it, back there i was the inspectorfrom the book, and this morning the witnesses weren't brain washed, his game its escalating, we need to adapt."

"And for what porpuse?"

"Reveal the mistery and capture the assain." you said quoting the protagonist of the novel."

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

Your strategy worked, you advanced a lot on the case, you almost got him. It was raining outside but you needed to clear your mind, just like the inspector you think, so you got outside and leaning against the motel wall under a shelter from the rain.

You noticed someone with a coat and a black umbrella, just like the final witness of the book, the one who gives the final hint to get the killer.

He got to your side and hand you a letter, you couldn't recognize his face from the town but that doesn't matter. You run to your brothers to give them the information. The chart talked about the police officer and his name, just like the book.

You three went fast to the police man's house to get him in hopes that the game ends and find the trickster. The man was in fact in his house and you arrested him because he was human but no trace of the supernatural one.

"So, we were wrong?" Dean was starting to get frustated.

"No, the trickster it's on town, how else can the victims have that personalities..." while they continue to argue you realized somethin.

"Shut up, i think the letter it's an anagram."

Half and hour and you were going to the location on the chart, a storage outside the village. When you entered you found the man who gave you letter.

"It was you, you killed those people," you are not able to hide the rage of having been fooled by that man, creature.

"I didn't kill them, the officer killed them and i didn't care but then i read this book," he showed to you like it was a comercial, "and thought about taking the opportunity to try some new ideas."

"Disgusting."

"I made it obvious for your brothers to come but i didn't thought about you gorgeous," he started to get close to you, "how are you related to them?"

"Hey, relax with our sister, mate."

"But at first they where just settings, later they started to be characters, why?" you asked, trying to ignore your brothers's attack of protectivity.

"Because i saw you and i was intrigued. You read the book and you found the similiarities but you needed a little hint, i supposed you would love a litte roleplay."

"I like it, not the killing humans part but the yes."

"Are you guys really flirting at this moment?"

"Perhaps we can meet again some other time."

"If there are no murders yet."

"I will have that on mind." he smiled playfully and blew you a kiss from the air before snapping his fingers and dissapearing.

"Son of a bitch, he escaped again, if you weren't flirting with him..."Dean almost screamed at your ear.

"Sorry okay? i didn't know he can do that, you should thell me more about him the next time."

"Oh no, we are not going to talk about him, we don't want you to date him, seeing how you two were right there."

Sam only laughed a little behind you and you three made your way to the impala. When you sat on the backseat and oppened your book, there was a paper with some numbers, a phone number. Smart and pretty Trickster.

[ogcalesgf]

windbreaker | suosakunire prompt!

i frankly dk what to name this prompt so- (also, bonus umetsuba at the end!)

where in journalist! nirei wants to make his first ever breakthrough piece, by accepting tsubaki’s assignment of covering the infamous cold case that has recently resurfaced in makochi.

cue to him meeting detective! suo who seems adamant he leaves the case to authorities alone, and that he could just give the relevant information for nirei’s article as they work on the case.

maybe it was his pride, but nirei stood his ground by offering his help of knowing not only the nook and cranny of the town, but also its people unlike the foreigners detective! suo, and the chief inspector! sakura.

seeing the benefit of knowing the town like the back of his hand, as well as the local people who are reluctant to give the authorities their statements; the three of them sets out on a dangerous mission of finally putting an end to makochi’s serial killing case that has been around for over fifty years.

who knew that a mission full of danger would evoke much more than their desire for the achievement of finally closing a cold case?

bonus plot (prequel!) :

chief of police! ume, knew that they can’t keep the cases that concerns makochi under the wraps like they usually do. as they deserve the truth regarding what is happening in their town, and so, he accepted the proposal of a publishing company’s editor-in-chief/publisher! tsubaki who suggested they work together.

promising to only keep the honest truth of the town’s situation in their newspaper, as tsubaki will be the one overseeing all the publishing materials— they work together as they regain the town’s trust in the police force who wanted to help the people especially now that it is under ume’s leadership.

a series of unconventional friendship, fostering trust, and blooming love; all while they are set out to correct the things that has been made wrong by the people they are connected to, in the past.

a publisher and the chief-of-police, together? who would’ve thought.

[tavvles]

[Act I, Scene IV: The Police Station]

(The police station is bustling as constables rush around, under the irritable eye of the police inspector. At a desk sits ARTHUR, CORDELIA’s cousin and newly promoted detective.)

(As everyone busily moves about, the brass and woodwinds play a frantic melody. The time signature is mostly in 7/4 but also swings between 5/8, 6/8, 12/8 and 9/8.)

INSPECTOR How’s that press briefing coming along?

CONSTABLE 1 On it chief!

INSPECTOR What about that autopsy?

CONSTABLE 2 On it chief!

INSPECTOR Arthur! Any new leads?

ARTHUR Not yet, sir. We’re still questioning the witnesses.

INSPECTOR Keep at it, detective. You show great promise!

[SUCH A MESSY CASE THIS IS]

ARTHUR Such a messy case this is Four people dead, three missing What will we tell the families If we cannot recover the bodies at all?

(EDWIN, also a junior detective and ARTHUR’s closest friend, enters stage left and collapses onto his chair.)

EDWIN Such a messy case this is No new leads, witnesses confused How will we get anywhere If we don’t even know the victims’ identities? Anything, Arthur?

ARTHUR Nothing yet. We just need to keep looking.

ARTHUR and EDWIN People disappearing off the streets Not a single suspect to be had Every law enforcer at a loss Such a bloody messy case this is.

(CORDELIA rushes in from stage right. ARTHUR sees her and stands, surprised.)

CORDELIA (breathless) Hello Arthur, you invited me to visit you so I came at once.

ARTHUR Cordelia, I meant at my home, not my workplace!

CORDELIA No time Arthur, I must tell you about the amazing thing that happened.

EDWIN Cordelia!

(CORDELIA offers EDWIN her hand, and he kisses it.)

CORDELIA How are you, Edwin?

EDWIN I am doing well, just busy, as you can see. How do you fare?

CORDELIA I am doing well, thank you. Better than well! You see, I was at a ball and met the handsome, dashing Lord Victor Wakefield!

(Breaking free of the continuing underscore, the harp plays the accompaniment to WHAT IS THIS STATE.)

Oh what a night, what a dizzy delight! To think that I met a gentleman—

(The harp’s attempts to hijack the music is thwarted as ARTHUR interrupts.)

ARTHUR Cordelia, that is incredible to hear, but we are currently very busy investigating a serial murder.

CORDELIA Murder? Oh how horrible!

ARTHUR Indeed. Please, come visit me for dinner tomorrow, at my home. Susan would love to see you too. But I just do not have the time right now, I’m afraid.

CORDELIA Oh I am so sorry, rushing here without thinking! Still, thank you for having me here, now I will leave you to work. It’s great to see you, Edwin!

EDWIN Of course. Cordelia—

CORDELIA And I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur!

(Cordelia runs out, her cheeks flushed.)

EDWIN Goodbye…

(ARTHUR looks between CORDELIA’s retreating form, then over at his friend. He sighs and shakes his head.)

ARTHUR Such a mess…

(ARTHUR and the ENSEMBLE all exit, leaving EDWIN alone on stage.)

(A flute plays alone, high and sweet, like CORDELIA’s singing. It fades as the violins swell around it.)

[I LOVE IN VAIN]

EDWIN Cordelia, to just say your name Feels like a privilege I don’t deserve Even so I love in vain Knowing you don’t feel the same

Your smile tugs at my soul And your laugh, it breaks my heart Even so I love in vain Knowing you don’t see me here

How much more can I withstand? Hiding away Too afraid to say What I really mean Because I know It won’t change a thing But even so I can’t stop wishing

Here I am dreaming you would see me These feelings burning inside my heart Even so I love in vain Knowing you’re too good for me

(He holds his final notes as the music fades. The lights go down.)

---

Guys check out this incredible piece of fanart by mightysprite!

Thank you again mightysprite, I'm so grateful you took the time and effort to make this, I love it so much ❤️

---

Beginning | Previous | Next

[serialadoptersbracket]

Round 3, Match 3: Inspector Barnes vs. August

Submitted kids:

Inspector Barnes: Anthony Lockwood, Lucy Carlyle, George Cubbins/George Karim, Holly Munro, Quill Kipps

August: Hisoka Mikage, Chikage Utsuki

Propaganda under the cut!

Inspector Barnes:

1. “Mustn't be easy keeping those three (Lockwood, George, Lucy) alive”

2. “Serial adopter of waifs and strays, carefully hidden behind the guise of strict enforcer. He's a softie and we all know it.”

3. “Even though he'd never admit this be of his grumpy character Barnes really became a father for all members of Lockwood & Co. He was the only adult who cared about their lives and he tried to keep them safe and sound, but like all teenagers they didn't listen to him. But they always knew that if they had some prolems (which they actually often had) they could always ask Barnes for help, advice or support”

4. “Barnes adopted a smiling giraffe with a death wish and a blinding smile, a 5 foot Northern bitch who can and will fight god on a Tuesday, a researcher who likes sticking his nose where he shouldn’t and three people max, and a secretary who shot at least a dozen people and is way more badass than she seems”

August:

1. “august is the adoptive older brother of hisoka mikage and chikage utsuki. for context, these characters are all spies, and were invited into the organisation by august. (also known as misha sometimes). hisoka is december, and chikage is april! their collective group name in fanon is "gekkagumi."

the first interaction we see of him in game is him adopting hisoka off the street. he was a dying homeless child, and august invited him to join the organisation. at first he declined, but august kept coming back to him until he followed (despite chikage's protests about it) he fed fed hisoka gingerbread, and declared "we're a family now."

chikage was adopted before hisoka, but we only learned more about it later in the story. chikage was living in a "facility" when he runs into august who lives in the organisation.

despite their very harsh life, august really did everything he could to give hisoka and chikage the best life he could. he loved the idea of family, and always encouraged them to celebrate christmas and birthdays, and play games!

august had a cover job where he owned a candy store. despite it just being a cover, august loved it and had a genuine care for the children. he used to give away free sweets to the point his shop was actively going out of business, and whenever he saw a sad kid he'd try his best to cheer them up. people around the town came in just to talk to him, to the point where hisoka said when he was covering the shop for him, the first thing people would ask was "where's misha?"

in his shop, he also used to have a myth that if you wrote a wish on a certain brand of cookie's wrapper, the wish would come true. august spoke excitedly of the wishes kids would wish for.

events in the story lead up to august's untimely death. years later, hisoka runs into a kid who used to go to his shop. this child had wished to be a painter, and was now painting. he actually ended up in possession of a wrapper august wrote on which said ""a happy family."" however, the boy couldn't read japanese and didn't know what it said. despite that, he held onto the wrapper for years after august's disappearance. he also manages to draw a picture of him from memory. :((“

2. “he's so . gwahh he just wants to give them a nice family”

3. “please vote for august!! he is such a kind soul who shows so much generosity and selflessness despite the cruel circumstances he was stuck in.”

[aceofwhump]

Broadchurch - Alec Hardy Whump Fanfics

Heart and Lungs by orphan_account Summary: Set between S02E05 and S02E06. While Ellie is at his house working on the Sandbrook case, Hardy passes out and falls in the river. Ellie rescues him and is determined to get him warm again. Whumps/TWs: near drowning, heart condition, heart attack, shower to get warm, water trauma/ptsd, caretaking, worried Ellie,

a habit takes twenty-one days to build and two years to fester by PUNK_MENACE Summary: Ellie finds Alec on the floor of his kitchen one morning. She's worried it's his heart again but when he wakes up, she realizes he hasn't been eating or sleeping properly, and it's been going on for a while. It's time for Alec to really start healing. Whumps/TWs: exhaustion, malnutrition, not taking care of oneself, collapsing, passing out, emotional whump

Deep Wide Ocean by orphan_account Summary: Post S2 AU. Claire Ripley revives the accusations of rape and abuse she made against Hardy, leading to the arrest of both Hardy and Miller. As the detectives race to clear their names, things are complicated by the revelation of new secrets and the return of Joe Miller. Whumps/TWs: rape mention, accused of rape, arrested, nightmares, ptsd, emotional whump, crying, heart condition, panic attacks, poisoned, collapsing, hospital,

Understanding of the Dark by everythingmurky Summary: Hardy becomes the focus of Joe Miller's revenge after he's forced to leave Broadchurch. Tipped off by his daughter, Ellie works to find him before it's too late. Part 1 of Valley of the Shadow Whumps/TWs: non con touching, rape/implied rape/sexual assault, kidnapped, tied up, strung up, pacemaker/heart condition, hospital, rescue, recovery, nightmares

Losing the Light by everythingmurky Summary: After being the target of Joe Miller's revenge, Hardy stayed in Broadchurch and resumed his duties as detective inspector just before a serial rapist attacked another victim. An alternate telling of season three, following the events of Understanding of the Dark. Part 2 of Valley of the Shadow Whumps/TWs: sexual assault/rape/rape recovery, trauma, nightmares, collapsing, hospital, heart condition, not taking care of oneself, intubation, worry, heart attack, non con touching,

Down By The River by nannyogg123 for Hazelmist Summary: Have you ever wondered how Alec Hardy’s and Ellie Miller’s lives would have gone, if the pendant would never have been lost? Fate still brings them together in this AU story, united in seeking justice for those who can’t speak for themselves. A slightly different take on the story we are all familiar with (eventual Alec/Ellie). Whumps/TWs: AU/alternate meeting, heart condition, exhaustion, sick, passing out, hospital, collapsing, past trauma, heart attack, aed usage, he's basically a walking mess the whole fic and it's amazing

A Million Holes Poked In The Soul - Part One by nannyogg123 Summary: This is Part One of the story - Alec Hardy's weeks leading up to the Sandbrook case... Where Alec is planning on taking his daughter to a wedding, but life gets in the way. (AU as we don't know much about life before Sandbrook) Part Two will focus on the Sandbrook case and how it rips Alec Hardy's life apart. There is no Ellie Miller in his life yet, but there is Daisy...Part 1 of A Million Holes Poked In The Soul and is a prequel of sorts to Down By The River Whumps/TWs: AU, heart condition, lightheaded, dizzy, passing out, hospital, heart attack, nightmares, emotional whump/angst,

A Million Holes Poked In The Soul - Part Two by nannyogg123 Summary: This is the story of the Sandbrook case and how it will rip Alec Hardy's life apart. It's a direct continuation of "A Million Holes Poked In The Soul – Part One", and we will meet familiar OCs. So, reading Part One is recommended to put certain things in context, but you can chose not to. A brief synopsis is provided. It may all be AU. Naturally there are spoilers for both seasons. Part 2 of A Million Holes Poked In The Soul Whumps/TWs: This is insanely whumpy and so good. Lots of scenes related to his increasingly worse heart condition, emotional whump and angst, hospital stays, passing out, nearly dying, and more.

A Million Holes Poked In The Soul - Part Three by nannyogg123 Summary: This is the conclusion of “A Million Holes Poked In The Soul”. It’s the final part that deals with the Sandbrook case aftermath and leads up to Alec Hardy coming to Broadchurch. Reading Part One & Two is strongly recommended as this story is a direct continuation. Part 3 of A Million Holes Poked In The Soul Whumps/TWs: Pretty much the same as part 2

the light fails and the fog rolls in by Anonymous Summary: Of course it's Miller who finds him crying on the office floor. Whumps/TWs: emotional whump, crying, tears, comfort,

Wrong Moves by marshmallowfluffiness Summary: Alec decided to stay in Broadchurch and got his job back, and his daughter's life is in danger. An unexpected and highly unliked character returns and it's up to the people to defend themselves. Can the people of Broadchurch take another emotional blow? Can Ellie and Alec survive this? Whumps/TWs: kidnapped, waterboarded, torture, beaten, left to die, hospital, nearly killed, coma, nightmares, strangled,caring broadchurch members, caught in an explosion, character death, severe depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, major character death, unhappy ending

Her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me by SubwayToHellAndBack Summary: Breathe. He can’t stand watching Miller be so much better at this than him. He doesn’t know how to help and keeps asking Trish the wrong questions. Even though they are the only questions he knows how to ask right now. He can’t tell her what he would like to tell her. So, he keeps on asking these bloody, insensitive questions and letting Miller do all the comforting and talking with that stupid soft voice she’s got. He’s mostly just concentrating on trying to breathe and keeping a calm exterior. It's been working quite well so far if he says so himself. It is making him seem a little grumpier than he would like to be at the moment but it's fine, it’s nothing Miller’s not used to from him by now. She’ll get over it even if she looks at him with this sort of motherly disappointed look. Breathe. Or. A season three rewrite in which Alec deals (tries to avoid) with some past trauma of his and when Ellie finds out about it she's there to help him with it and they become closer than ever. Whumps/TWs: rape, panic attack, past trauma

Alt. Day 28 - Sensory Overload by biscuits_and_whiskey Summary: There’s a reason Hardy hides in his office. Why he generally abstains from prolonged socialization. Why he only has Ellie as a friend. Because generally? People are a lot. And massive social gatherings are not his forte. Whumps/TWs: social anxiety, sensory overload,

Garbage Bins and Denial by twelvehotairballoons Summary: Alec Hardy did not take sick days. Except for when he did, apparently, and Ellie was not about to let him take it all alone. Whumps/TWs: sick, nauseous, emeto/vomiting, caretaking

Broken/Break by InSpaceYoghurt Summary: Hardy was going to murder the person who lost their booking. He had specifically called in and asked for two SEPARATE beds. He would have asked for separate ROOMS if he could afford it. And for good reason, too. The last thing he needed was for his colleague // only friend to find him crying, alone, sitting on the bathroom floor. Whumps/TWs: nightmare, heart condition, caretaking

Save Me by Ilovecastiel18 Summary: Post-series. Hardy almost drowns during a case. Ellie has to calm him down. Hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff. One-Shot. Whumps/TWs: near drowning, panic attack, caretaking/comfort,

Never Again by Rosencrantz95 Summary: In which Alec gets hurt while pursuing a suspect, but he’s fine, really. At least he thinks so. Nothing can be wrong with him because he’s had that damn surgery! He’s fine now! Nothing can be wrong with him. He can’t go back to the worst year (what was almost the LAST year) of his life. He can’t do it. Never again. Whumps/TWs: hit in the chest and goes down hard, heart condition, lightheaded, exhaustion, chest pain, emeto/vomiting, collapsing, passing out, Ellie whump, surgery, Daisy is kidnapped, choked,

Kinsley Road by biscuits_and_whiskey Summary: Broadchurch is dealing with a street gang problem. Hardy and Miller have arrested the leader of a local gang, the Kinsley Road Boys. The gang, in turn, retaliates by targeting Hardy. Whumps/TWs: badly beaten, nearly killed,

Petrol Burns by biscuits_and_whiskey Summary: Alec has been kidnapped; Ellie and Katie are on the trail of his kidnapper and discover the terrifying fate he'd planned for Hardy. Whumps/TWs: kidnapped, captivity, emotional whump, tied up, gagged, beaten, rescue, crying, hugging

Seventeen Suits and a Beacon by RuntotheForest Summary: Ellie and Alec find themselves in a dangerous and seemingly impossible situation. How will they get out of it? Part 1 of Forged in Fire Whumps/TWs: shot, bleeding out, can't get to medical treatment, field medicine

The Grief That Does Not Speak by RuntotheForest Summary: Ellie and Alec deal with physical and emotional fallout from their harrowing day (as described in "Seventeen Suits and A Beacon") Part 2 of Forged in Fire Whumps/TWs: recovery, injury recovery, emeto/vomiting, emotional whump, bleeding, passing out, pain, nightmares, fever, hospital

The Trouble With Normal by RuntotheForest Summary: After the events described in the previous two installments in the series, Alec and Ellie attempt to ease their way into a 'normal' life and relationship, but various issues arise that seem to make 'normal' more challenging than it needs to be. Part 3 of Forged in Fire Whumps/TWs: injury recovery, physical therapy, pain, drugged, non con cuddling, passing out, sick, nightmares, fever

A Shoulder to Lean On by RuntotheForest Summary: When Alec and Ellie head out to make an arrest, things don't go as planned. Whumps/TWs: hit by a car, shoulder injury, pacemaker, injury recover, concussion, sick, dizziness, emeto/vomiting, caretaking,

Pacemaker series by TheBasilRathbone Summary: Alternate First Meeting - If Hardy had never taken the job in Broadchurch in the first place. 7 part series Whumps/TWs: heart condition

Late night in the police station by fan_fics_are_life Summary: Alec ignores his headache and ends up passing out on Ellie. Whumps/TWs: headache, pain, passing out, caretaking

Open Water by biscuits_and_whiskey Summary: Post-S3 For Ellie Miller, life can only be normal for so long. When a figure from her past reappears and takes D.I. Hardy, Ellie struggles dealing with fears both past and present. D.I. Hardy, meanwhile, struggles to survive when his fear is leveraged against him. Whumps/TWs: kidnapped, torture, tied up, starvation, hallucinations, drowning/near drowning as a torture technique, fear, whipping, rescue,

The shift by keyrousse Summary: Alec gets hurt as a consequence of his last case. Ellie has to help him during his recovery and discovers a new side of him in the process. Whumps/TWs: hit by a car, attempted murder, hospital, broken bones, traumatic amnesia, inujry recovery,

Stopgap by sunbeamruins Summary: A slight season 2 AU picking up between the events of episodes 3 and 4 where Lee uses his break in to Hardy's house for more nefarious purposes, and the fall out from said actions. Whumps/TWs: Graphic depictions of rape, rape recovery,

Friends and foes by marlowe78 Summary: Even as he realized where he was – in a field, wet and wobbly and confused, about ten miles out of Broadchurch – he knew that something very, very not good had happened. Because the last thing he clearly remembered was picking up his daughter from school. Whumps/TWs: traumatic amnesia, kidnapped, casefic, noncon touching, strong language, drugged,

Stained Red by Ellezaria Summary: Alec gets in the way of a bullet aimed for Ellie and Ellie is not pleased. Whumps/TWs: shot

Cold Case by shambling Summary: A man has been reported missing, and its all routine; Alec goes off to talk to his boss and Ellie stays behind to direct resources. But things are never that simple. Whumps/TWs: knocked out, locked in a freezer, hypothermia

There Is One Consolation In Being Sick; And That Is The Possibility That You May Recover To A Better State Than You Were Ever In Before by Lord_What_Fools_These_Mortals_Be Summary: When Hardy doesn't turn up to work one day, Ellie goes round to his house to investigate. She finds a very sick, or in his words "completely fine" Hardy, and takes it upon herself to care for him, even if that means force-feeding him chicken soup. Whumps/TWs: sick, emeto/vomiting, caretaking,

Five Times Alec Hardy Was Inconvenienced by His Pacemaker (And One Time He Wasn’t) by GnomeIgnominious Summary: Ellie notices a lot about Alec in the year following his pacemaker surgery. He goes through a very subtle personality change, as though the Dorset weather is finally eroding him into something a little more happy. It's not without its teething problems, though Whumps/TWs: pacemaker, heart condition

She Hates Him, She's Sure of It. At Least, She Was Sure of It. by WhumpTown Summary: "No more broken heart." Episodes come far and few between, nightmares send him into wheezing fits but they don't nearly kill him anymore. One episode, one he can't even remember, ruins everything they'd fought for. He finds himself on the table again but this time, it's not nearly the same. Whumps/TWs: struggling to breathe, pacemaker, heart condition, surgery, collapsing, defibrillation, recovery,

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Absolutely nobody was prepared when Alpha reappeared in ‘Line of Finiteness’,

10 years after his last appearance, when he was supposedly destroyed by exposure to the matter of our universe.

[miwhotep]

THE JACK THE RIPPER CASE IN YUUMORI AND IN REALITY

One of my favourite arcs is the Phantom of Whitechapel because it adapted the real Jack the Ripper case quite well and the story was full of elements what actually happened. I wanted to write a little about the similarities as recently was the anniversary of the first murder.

The Jack the Ripper murders or Whitechapel murders took place in 1888 in the East End of London, the infamously poor Whitechapel district where the underclass people lived. Lot of women here earned their money for the living from selling their bodies and a serial killer, Jack the Ripper started to target them. The number of the victims is unsure, the police accepted five murders to be surely connected to Jack the Ripper, they are often referred to as the canonical five. The women got murdered by their throats being cut away and some of their inestines were also removed from their bodies.

The first victim was called Mary Ann Nichols whose body was discovered at 3:40 a.m. on 31th August. She was last seen alive by a woman she lived with in a lodging house. These all are very similar to how Moriarty the Patriot described the murder details, except that there, the victim's name was Melanie Nichols and she was seen with a blond man.

The second victim was Annie Chapman, her body was found at 6 a.m on 8th September and she was last seen half an hour ago in a company of a dark-haired man. The details shown in Yuumori are again similar, just the victim was called Adeline Bergman.

(Interesting addition to here - just like you see, the fan translation uses the victims' real names while the official gave them fake ones. In the original Japanese, also the fake ones are what are used.)

When it comes to the later murders, Yuumori's story deviates from the historical events, since here, the last three victims of the canonical five was just a stage-play by William who tried to catch the killer(s) with setting up a fake Jack the Ripper. In reality, two of the victims, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were found on the same morning of 30th September - the Morigang placing two of the dead bodies at the same place so they get discovered at the same time must be a reference to that. The last victim, Mary Jane Kelly was discovered in the room where she lived on 9th November - her murder was the most gruesome out of the five, what I think Yuumori also referenced with Jack's show who pretended to kill a woman brutally on the roof.

Several letters signed as Jack the Ripper were sent to the newspapers. The media, especially the Central News Agency where some of the letters arrived, also overexaggerated about the details when they wrote about the murders, spreading a lot of misinformation just to sell more papers. In Yuumori, the group of people responsible for the murders who committed them to cause fear in the public and make a revolution by the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee and the police forces collide, hired Milverton to create the Jack the Ripper agenda with the help of his media power and he also manipulated the public opinion. The quotes shown from the letter sent to the Central News in the Moriarty the Patriot manga are from the first letter (called as Dear Boss letter) signed as Jack the Ripper what was also sent to Central News in reality - now researchers say it was written by a journalist to sell the papers better. The real letter was longer and the writer threatened to send the lady's ears to the police instead of her organs (however, with one of his later letters, Jack truly sent one of his victims kidney to the police), otherwise they are the same.

The Scotland Yard, just like in Yuumori wasn't really on the top when it came to solve the murders what resulted in riots and conflicts with the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee in reality too. And just like Chief Inspector Arterton was removed from his position in Scotland Yard - tho, for a slightly different reason - for not solving the Jack the Ripper case one of the police chiefs of London back then was also fired. In Moriarty the Patriot, a doctor was wrongly arrested and sent to prison in order to silence the raging public and in real life, lot of doctors were suspected to commit the murders.

In Yuumori, the identity of Jack the Ripper was solved by both Sherlock Holmes and the Morigang - who killed them - but it stayed unsolved for the public. In reality, the identity of Jack the Ripper either remained unsolved or not - few years ago, there was a DNA test what was said to determine the killer's identity, but lot of researchers believe that the test was incorrect and don't accept the answer.

I adore this arc for how well the series merged reality with fiction and it was especially exciting to read knowing the details of the real Jack the Ripper case.

[pokespefangirl]

Fic List

Archive of Our Own account: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafpuff/works

Fanfiction.net account: https://m.fanfiction.net/u/8214755/

Ko-fi account: https://ko-fi.com/leafpuff

Most Recent works

Fandom(s): Pokemon/Pokespe adventures manga, based on Pokemon gameverse

1) Vigilante Case Files 2042 

Ongoing

Long fic

Ships: SpecialShipping, Corrupted/VisorShipping, Preciousmetal/HunterShipping

Summary:

In the dystopian futuristic crime-filled city called "KANTO"- Red, Yellow, Green (Oak), Blue (Leaf) and their acquaintances from other regions join forces to rid the city of corruption and crime.

Chasing the true evil forces that poisons the city from within, and lead by a man by the name of Giovanni, will they be able to find it and stop it in time? (Gen I arc)

-

As a newly recruited officer who is under extreme pressure to perform in a crime filled city separated by the controversially labelled "crime zones", Rookie Officer Rosa Mei Whitley must prove to the others that she belongs in the highly-functioning UPD investigation team. (Gen V arc)

-

Rowdy Inspector Gold (Ethan) must work with the Team Rocket Leader's banished son, Silver, a notoriously suspect thief, to find the dangerous serial killer known as "Persian", Giovanni's treasured heir. (Gen II arc)

2) Feel Me 

Complete

Short fic

Ships: CorruptedShipping

Summary:

It was three years. Three years since they broke up. Three years of fucking the wrong people and sleeping in the wrong places. Wandering on earth from one end to the other.

Whitley was still in the middle of her tradition of getting black-out drunk after work, only this time- this time, while scrolling through their text history, Whitley accidentally pressed 'send'.

It was a picture of both of them. From when they were young.

Drunk as she was, Whitley decided to roll with it.

3) Loving Your Charade

Ongoing

Medium fic

Ships: Corruptedshipping, Agencyshipping

Summary:

Psychopathic movie Star Nate Kyohei 'Blake', workaholic BW agency Producer Hilda Touko 'White', exhausted employee and aspiring Champion Hilbert 'Black' and nervous newcomer and anxious rising star Rosa 'Whitley' - join them all on their star studded journey while shenanigans ensue! (As well as PR stunt scandals and disasters...)

Lastly, I write cute stuff on here under the tag #leafpuff writes stuff

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

The Quatermass Xperiment

Writer Nigel Kneale may not have been happy with what Hammer Films did with his classic TV serial, but audiences loved Val Guest’s THE QUATERMASS XPERIMENT (1955, Prime, YouTube). It not only inspired a run of British science-fiction films but also led its production company, Hammer, to go further into horror with their revised versions of classic monsters like Dracula and Dr. Frankenstein.

When Prof. Bernard Quatermass’ (Brian Donlevy) British-American space rocket crashes in a British field, only one member of the three-man crew is discovered on board. He’s kept in hospital, but escapes (thanks to an idiotic wife) as he’s slowly transformed into an odd blob that threatens to shoot spores around the planet and absorb all life on Earth (which may explain the origins of Elon Musk).

One of Kneale’s chief objections was the casting of Brian Donlevy to make the film more marketable in the U.S. His Americanized Quatermass is far less thoughtful than the role Kneale had written for TV, but it works in Guest’s reimagining of the material. He’s brash and often ruthless, which Donlevy plays with authority. He’s certainly better than the other American import. Margia Dean was cast as the astronaut’s wife either because she had a long-term relationship with the film’s American co-producer’s, Lippert Films, or was having an affair with 20th Century-Fox chair Spyros Skouras, who wanted her to do most of her acting outside the U.S. Sadly, she doesn’t really do any acting. I mean, she moves across the frame and says words, but there’s no conviction behind any of it. Nor is there any attempt to explain her American accent. It’s a mercy that she disappears halfway through the film. She doesn’t even get a death scene, since there’s no life in her for her alienated husband to suck out. We’re just told she’s in shock (how could they tell?) and is left in hospital until she can find a more suitable career.

Fortunately, Richard Wordsworth is much better as the astronaut. Guest keeps his dialog to the minimum, but his gaunt face and physical commitment make him both frightening and sympathetic. He captures the essence of a man fighting against whatever is taking over his body. Jack Warner is also good as the police inspector who insinuates himself into Quartermass’ investigation, and there’s welcome comic relief from Harold Lang as the man Dean hires to get her husband out of the hospital and Thora Hird as an old drunk who spotted the transformed astronaut scaling a wall. You may also notice UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS’ Gordon Jackson as a TV producer and a very young Jane Asher as a girl who finds Wordsworth sleeping by a canal.

Guest’s direction is intelligent and well-paced. The early scenes of police and military dealing with the crashed spaceship have a documentary feel, which helps ground the story, and he wisely substitutes suspense for gore. It’s also not too out there to suggest the film has s sexual subtext. The rocket ship sticking out of the ground has a distinctly phallic look. Lang gets Wordsworth out of the hospital easily because the male nurse on duty is busy trying to pick up two female nurses, And Donlevy’s bull-in-a-china-shop approach to his character points to a critique of toxic masculinity before the term was coined. At the film’s end, despite the destruction wrought by his earlier experiment, he’s planning to resume his space program. The last shot is of another phallic-shaped rocket about to take off and violate the natural order.

[myemuisemo]

Suddenly we're three Letters from Watson into The Valley of Fear. I'm fairly sure I didn't read it during my late-childhood discovery of Sherlock Holmes, so my tabula is more than usually rasa.

In chapter 1, Watson refers to the date as being in the late 1880s. Since the serial started publication in September 1914, and was presumably written not too long before that, this would be like you or I writing a novel set circa 1999. Some of the readers who eagerly awaited their updates, back in the early weeks of World War I, would not have had adult memories of 1889-ish.

The events of chapter 1 appear to hang on Whitaker's Alamanack, which it turns out was in continuous publication until... wait for it... 2021. Here's the site with some information on the final edition. Whitaker's was a compendium of useful facts, updated annually. For Americans like me, the near equivalent would be the World Almanac, which may still be published. Both Whitaker's and the World Almanac started up in 1868, so apparently that year was a cultural moment of feeling that a person needed some handy way to understand an increasingly connected world.

The idea that "everyone" owns the same book, in the same edition, feels absolutely wild now, in 2024. This was true in my childhood for the World Almanac, though, and probably for a couple other books.

For Holmes' era, "Bradshaw" was, of course, the big railway guide. What ended its importance was not the internet, but railroad consolidation, with its influence waning as early as the mid-1920s.

As we get into chapter two, I am quite liking Inspector MacDonald, who is in on the stereotype of the practical, energetic Scotsman.

Jean-Baptiste Greuze was a real French painter in the 18th century, working in a soft, but very nearly photorealistic style (catalog). Per Wikipedia, La jeune fille a l'agneau also exists and sold in 1865 for more than a million pounds. I'm not surprised that Holmes is most interested in one of the "genre" paintings (scenes of everyday life) rather than the portraits of the famous, but it seems like an odd like insight that Professor Moriarty is, too.

I'm having a heck of a time identifying an online pic that is actually, definitely La jeune fille a l'agneau, rather than one of the many copies, reproductions, and pastiches. This raises a question that Holmes and MacDonald do not: could Moriarty's painting be a copy or reproduction? Greuze had multiple legit pupils who at some point copied his style: not only was copying a master's works a standard part of art education, but it would have been a normal practice for pupils to have painted portions of Greuze's works. Heck, if Moriarty is a master criminal, surely he knows a good art forger or two. I do not entirely buy that Holmes could distinguish a forged version from the original -- that's such a specific skillset. I do think Holmes would prefer his art to be originals, and he believes the same of Moriarty.

Master criminal Jonathan Wild is also a real person who was the real head of a crime ring, back in the last days of the reign of Queen Anne. Wild was also a professional thief-taker, recruited by London's Under Marshall (essentially chief policeman), Charles Hitchens. Hitchens was wildly corrupt, and his pals were known as the "Mathematicians"... at which point, honestly, is Moriarty a projection of Holmes' psyche? (I know that's the premise of The Seven Percent Solution, a movie I adore for its train chase. I just... never quite appreciated the fit before.)

Birlstone is the beneficiary (or victim, depending) of the phenomenon that reliable and extensive railroad travel made it possible to live in a quaint rural exurb while still conveniently doing business in London as needed. I feel like Birlstone wants very badly to be East Grinstead, which is about 15 miles from Tunbridge Wells, at the edge of the forest, and possessed of convenient manor houses.

As an aside, East Grinstead is known for the East Grinstead Martyrs, who were burned at stake for heresy in 1556, when (Catholic) Queen Mary I was slaughtering Protestants. I've been dabbling at 16th- and 17th century history a bit lately, mostly to appreciate how much Reign (which I adore for its batshit OTT drama) deliberately got wrong about actual history. I was surprised that although it was Henry VIII who split with Catholicism, it was not until Elizabeth I that English Protestantism was codified with distinct rituals and the Book of Common Prayer. Just not a thing I'd thought about!

We have a manor house with working drawbridge! Also, a suspicious couple, an even more suspicious brand on the mysterious (and dead) American husband, a suspicious friend, a butler, a note in code, and a missing wedding ring.

I started this one not sure how into it I'd be, since I'm not a great fan of the entire idea of Moriarty, but now I'm on tenterhooks to see what we find out about the dead American's past.