#Sir I Am Just a Holmes

[paradises-library]

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position."

“The Noble Bachelor,” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[sasha-whos-askin-racket]

My favourite thing about the Blackeyed Theatre Sherlock Holmes universe is that Watson is the clueless one. I know we typically say that Sherlock is the one who is emotionally unaware/stunted but not this time. Nope. This time, it's all John.

Like. Mary immediately cottoned on. She acknowledges shortly after their marriage that marrying Watson is like marrying Holmes as well because they come as a set. And she understands that. She even tells Watson that Sherlock needs him, just as much as he needs Sherlock. She just comes out and says it. She's realised it. She can tell. And more than that, she knows that John hasn't realised it.

And then, THREE YEARS LATER, Holmes, after having an argument with him about Moriarty and about trying to protect him and what have you, finally gets his head out of his ass and confesses. Straight up says he doesn’t exist without Watson.

And Watson still just. Does not comprehend.

[prism2674]

So I started writing my own book list for the Bungo Stray Dogs authors because I got bored yesterday and decided to read Gogol’s “The Overcoat" which was actually quite entertaining go read it-

But it somehow turned into me just making a list of authors I want to see in Bungo Stray Dogs and I need to tell someone about it so tumblr is now my outlet: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Ok literally anyone who knows me could have guessed this one

I have been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes since I was 7

Also I just want to see him interact with Ranpo and Poe

Franz Kafka

PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEEEEEEE

So we read "The Metamorphosis" for my AP Lit class last year and I did not expect to like it

it is now one of my favorite stories

idk I guess I just really like Kafka's writing style

anyway JUST PLEASE PUT THE BUGABOO MAN INTO BSD

I would be so happy

Zora Neale Hurston

I just think she would make such a cool character

her life story is just really interesting to me

For one she was an Anthropologist and I absolutely ADORE the field of Anthropology

She writes about the experience of black American women

as a poc myself it would honestly be so cool to see a female black author in the Bungo Stray Dogs universe

I don't think I've ever seen her mentioned in all the posts I've seen about adding authors to BSD so I think she deserves a spot here

So yeah, there were definitely more authors I've thought of but I don't want this post to get too long so I'll probably just add them on later or in another post, Let me know which author's you would include bc I honestly love hearing differenot people's reasoning

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed. 

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge. 

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage. 

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

[hyuckswoman]

« yoo, how are you? » mark asks waiting by your desk as you collect your stuff 

« when did you even get there??? also we’ve been texting the whole time you know how i am » 

« my class ended a bit early so i waited by the door and when people were leaving i thought i’d just come in, also it’s called courtesy the whole asking how you’re doing, so stop complaining this is me being nice » mark says as you both head out of the class 

« righhtttt my bad sir , where are we going by the way? I don’t have classes for the rest of the day so I’m free if you want to hang out » you say 

« I told you to stop flirting with me, you’re getting desperate and it shows » mark jokes as you slightly punch his arm 

« we could grab lunch if you want to? also i don’t know where your friend is, i don’t think i saw him in your classroom but we can wait for him if you’d like » mark says looking around for hanbin you presume 

« Bin went to a party last night, he sent me a text this morning he’s wasted and hungover and basically skipped class so we don’t have to wait for him this time, also i wouldn’t act like I’m the one that likes you too much given how you practically begged me not to leave the music group » you said trying to get back at him. It was kinda annoying how he shrugged and told you that you were right without fighting back tho. 

« where the fuck are you taking me? this looks too expensive i don’t have that kind of money » you say as you guys near mark’s recommendation. you make a mental note to never trust the guy ever again when he tells you he knows a place

«  don’t worry, i got the bill » he says

« man, you’re as broke as I am don’t even pretend with this gentleman shit » you say laughing 

« dude you could’ve at least pretended for my ego, you suck. also it might look super fancy but it’s affordable don’t worry, not that i’d let you pay for your meal tho, i might be broke but I still know how to treat a lady thank you » he says holding the door of the establishment open for you 

«  I will wrestle you to the cash register don’t even play with me marcus lee » you say trailing behind him as he chuckles. you wonder if he’s making fun of your threat or if he’s laughing because of the nickname (the answer is both)

you were halfway through your meal when mark started to speak again 

« man.. isn’t it kinda crazy? » he says looking at you 

« what is? » you answer genuinely confused.. did this man think you’re sherlock holmes or something?? how would you know what he’s even talking about 

«  it’s kinda crazy how you, my diehard fan managed to be in the same music group as me. you hide your game pretty well though, sometimes i forget that you’re the president of my fan club » he says, you could see him holding back his laugh so hard. crazy how this man was openly making fun of you like that 

«  what happened to ‘let’s not talk about this ever again’? also, considering how you’ve been hyping me up these past few weeks i’d say that the roles have reversed and you’re my die hard fan now, you even said so yesterday » you reply 

« i never said any of that you are mistaking me for another man on your roster » mark answers

« let’s not lie like that we both remember the messages… and stop slut shaming me we are in public. and considering the amount of girls that want you i’d say you’re more likely to be the slut » you says hoping that’ll shut him up 

« ooo are you jealous that everybody wants me?? » he says. the answer is yes but you’ll never tell him that of course. 

« stop being so cocky before i slap that smirk off your face » you reply lowkey glaring at him

«  you didn’t deny it though » he says cockily. this man was aggravating you 

« god you’re becoming worse than hyuck. actually nevermind you are worse than hyuck constantly asking me for validation and compliments » you say smiling

« ouchhh okay i get it my bad, i’ll stop asking for validation and compliments the minute I’m 100% sure that I’m your favorite. also i don’t think it’s fair how donghyuck and jisung get to have cute nicknames while you call me marcus » he says kinda sulking 

« oh sorry my bad dork lee » you say laughing while he just gives you the middle finger « also i call you markie so you do have a cute nickname stop complaining and eat your food » you say as he just goes like « oooooh, that’s right » remembering the nickname you gave him. 

as you guys were finishing the meal you excused yourself to go to the toilet (little did he know you were actually paying the bill like the gentleman you are)

as you come back to the table you see mark trying to grab the waiter attention 

« what are you doing? stop doing that you’re giving me the ick » you say sitting back down 

« man fuck you, it’s not my fault nobody sees me i just want to pay the bill. and don’t fight me on this please » he says continuing his gesture to grab the staff’s attention 

« mark i paid the bill already that’s why no one is coming please stop » you say grabbing his hand to put it down 

« WHAT???!!!! » he replies 

« man… i can’t believe you paid the bill. next time’s one me tho » he says holding the door open for you to get out 

« is this an attempt to ask me out on a date? » you ask. yea that’s right. uno reverse bitch 

« sorry i don’t date fans » he replies. ooooooooh this man is 100% aggravating 

« by the way I texted you earlier to give you something but I’m really fucking nervous so I’ve been delaying it this whole time, but no more delaying shit I’ve got this I think. Also if you think it’s weird thennn pretend i never gave you shit ok? » he says sorta hyping himself up in the middle before opening his palm revealing a black guitar keychain 

you burst out laughing 

« I think this is worse than if you would’ve told me that you hated it. I’m literally contemplating suicide right now don’t even play with me » he says as you laugh even harder because his antics were really making it worse 

A few seconds later and in between giggles you decide to speak « no.. wait, i swear I’m not making fun of you, I swear I find this unbelievably sweet, you’ll understand why I’m laughing just give me a second » you say reaching into your bag pulling out a spiderman lego keychain you grabbed from the same store earlier to give to him as a present 

« this is for you, i bought it earlier because it reminded me of you, since you said you liked spiderman and since your twitter header is a lego character » you say finding it amusing how you both got each other a keychain

« dudeeee you need to stop doing this to me I’ll cry i love it so much, also look i got myself a guitar keychain to match yours » he says showing you the other keychain 

« i also got a keychain to match the one i got you hold on » you say showing yours 

« it’s crazy how we thought of the same thing tho, we’re like… spiritually connected » he says as the both of you start walking to head back to your apartment because even though you’ve been making fun of him for his gentleman antics, deep down (you didn’t even have to look hard to see it) mark was a good guy and no matter the time of day, he’s going to walk you back home.

you wonder if it’s because you like him but you know that if he keeps on acting the way he’s acting, this whole crush was going to be even worse than it is…

39. double matching

previous chapter masterlist next chapter

notes: ended this on sort of a cliffhanger lolll, also this is not proofread at all sooooo idk probably a bunch of mistakes i just cba

taglist : @imsiriuslyreal @iscocohere @simpforarmihn @replayenthusiast @lovm4rk @youreintheclubb @polarisjisung @sour-chaos @jising-jisang-jisung @aerivrs @multifandomania @tiddygang2020 @roseangelxfuma @skepvids @morkiee @yangasm @artstaeh @pussyslayerhd @bacons-thighs @bugcattie @leefullsun @jkslvsnella @alethea-moon @marvelahsobx @haechansbbg @katsukis1wife @winuvs @n0hyuck @whats-my-question @dojaejunging @hibernatinghamster @user7520 @m1dn1ghtv1olet @starwonb1n @lostinneocity @miniature-tragedy @llearlert @haezyhyuck @inosfavgf @bluesinfinities @calumsfringe @cigarettesafterjae @defzcl @delfdiary @minkyuncutie @bunnyjaycheoluwu @sofix-hc7

[thebadboyfanclub]

Master list

I want to preface this by saying I’m sorry for forcing y’all to having to scroll to find my imagines this took like two days to make, also I hope you were not expecting some fancy and beautiful list I am not that talented but this will do the trick.

Also everybody needs to thank @pearlstiare cause she quite literally took me by the hand and walked me through the entire process out of the goodness of their heart, so thank you for being such a wonderful person. Without further or due, enjoy!

Part two of the masterlist

Full list of the characters I write for

Aemond Targaryen

You Are No Dragon

All For The Motherland

My Little Sea Snake

The Apple Of His Eye

Do You Love Me?

‘Till The Seven Rings Of Hell

Take Care Of Me, My Love

I Would Be Honored

Grow Forever, Never Yield

I Will Do It

Lead The Way

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Aegon Targaryen

The Man You Deserve

I Spill My Blood For You

What’s Your Name?

I Want To Try

After You Little Pet

Queen Of My Life

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Jacaerys Velaryon

Do You Want this?

Part One

Part Two

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Cregan Stark

My hearts soldier

My Beloved Wife

Daemon Targaryen

My Moonlight

You Bled For Them, You Decide

Part One

Part Two

An Eye For An Eye

Your Sweet Princess

Are You Mad?

The Death Of Me

She Has Your Eyes

Left Or Right?

It Is Time

What Are You Waiting For Then?

My Turn

We’ll Finish This Later

The Sunflower Of Highgarden

A Risk Taker

Gods Have Mercy

My Dragon

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Tywin Lannister

I Got You, Little Wolf

The Bloody Princess

Massimo Torricelli

Fire And Flame

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Sherlock Holmes

It’s Alright Darling

You Are Family Now

Napoleon Solo

I Got You

Henry Cavill

The Lady Of The House

Part one

Part two

Let Me Have This

Geralt Of Rivia

Protect The Queen

Part one

Part two

There’s Nothing Wrong With Submission

The Dream

Part one

Part two

You Are My Home

Rio

You Can Do Better

A Boy, A Girl And A Game

You Are My Light

She Will Learn

Pete Davidson

The Sun And Moon

Dating Pete Davidson (Spiritual Edition)

Cedric Diggory

You Sneaky Little Fox

Draco Malfoy

We’ll Get Caught

Carlisle Cullen

What’s For Dinner?

Do I Have To?

One Way To Find Out

Just Like You

Of Course Precious

What’s Your Biggest Fear?

Off To Bed For You

Aro Volturi

Lamb For Slaughter

Emmett Cullen

Sir, This Is McDonald’s

That’s My Girl

Edward Cullen

Let Me Do Better

Jasper Hale

Pleasure Is All Mine

Niklaus Mikaelson

You Started This?

Part One

Part Two

My Little Cub

Our Love Is Eternal

Mess Is Mine

Sounds Like Heaven

Maybe It’s Better This Way

Elijah Mikaelson

I Quite Enjoyed It

We’ll See About That

Kai Parker

You’ll Be Fine

See You Around Honey

Excuse Me?

Ivar The Boneless

She Is A Lady

Harwin Strong

I Promise

Look At Me, Princess

I Would Like That

Khal Drogo

Stay With Me

[respectthepetty]

A public apology to Never Let Me Go's Chopper:

Sir, I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry that I mistook you for every other side character in a BL series who is jealous of the lead, manipulative to get what he wants, controlled by his father, and disingenuous to everyone. That's not you! You could NEVER! You're in a league with To Sir, With Love's Yang, and both of you will go into the BL Hall of Fame.

Just so you know how sincere I am about this apology, let me recount the ways I wrongly accused you of being an undercover red flag when you are actually the biggest green flag in these BL streets. Full disclosure - I misjudged you a lot.

You looked at Nueng at the conference and hesitated to follow your father when he left. 1a) You're always worried about your cousin and 1b) from the beginning have shown you don't align with your father's beliefs.

1a. When you found out Ben, who you knew couldn't reciprocate Nueng's feelings due to his homophobic father, was speaking to Nueng, you directly asked Ben what he wanted from your cousin.

Because you care about your cousin, and you want to actually spend time with him.

You let him know that even though your parents are beefing, you still love him.

You are genuinely happy to see him.

And when he asked you about Ben and why you are no longer friends (since the 10th grade *sob*), you warned him that Ben is distant, but encouraged both him and Ben to pursue their attraction AND asked follow-up questions on separate occasions because YOU CARE ABOUT THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE even if it kills you.

And that is why Nueng trusts only you unlike your father.

1b. You told your father from the beginning that you didn't want what he was offering nor did you cave to his expectations.

You also told him you weren't competing with your cousin because, once again, you actually love Nueng and don't resent him .

You looked away when your father wanted you to watch him punish someone.

You picked up the photo of Tanya and Nueng when your father threw it, and you directly asked him AND scolded him for ordering the hits.

I know you know how to use a gun, and I know you can aim very well. If you kill your father, I will light every candle and pray that you only know good sex for the rest of your life, that your bed is always the perfect temperature, and that your earrings never snag your clothing. Amen.

2. You have always been kind especially to Palm and Ben. You immediately went to Palm and made friends with him, speaking casually, and told him if he needed help, to ask you.

When you saw Palm at Nueng's house, you were happy to see him, and spoke to him. When you realized you offended him by telling him he didn't have to act like a servant in front of you, you quickly apologized.

You were also quick to apologize to Ben when you knew your words hurt him.

When you found out about the incident at school, you went to Ben and comforted him. You even grabbed his hands in public, looked him in the eyes, and told him he wasn't to blame (for being the victim of a public outing).

I truly thought YOU were behind this, but once again, you are the BEST BOY and put Kimlock Holmes to shame by solving the case. However, you stopped Ben from hurting Aun, and I think you even felt bad for Aun when you found out his reasoning for doing it.

You have shown that you don't condone violence but are willing to do what is necessary for the people you love (*whispers* please kill your dad) and will literally kick someone's ass.

4. You are aware you are gay.

I know this seems wild that I misjudged you for this mostly since this is a BL series, so everyone is queer until proven otherwise, but Chopper, you KNOW who you are. You aren't holding on to a secret. You aren't pining over Ben from a distance. No! You told him in the 10th GRADE that you liked him.

And when he rejected you, you kept your distance, but still encouraged him to find happiness with someone else because you want the people you love to be happy even if it was with each other.

You also complimented Palm on his body because, baby, YOU ARE A GAY MAN WITH EYES!

I can't apologize enough for not believing in you even when you showed me exactly who you were time and time again. You may be okay that Ben rejected you, but know that Ben now realizes the sun and the moon reside in your eyes.

The way he looked at you while you took the time to carefully go through your skincare routine when you said you weren't his type told everyone that this boy wants Nueng to come home safe, but he wants YOU to come to his home and make him feel safe.

Chopper, I love you. I don't even care that you are into cryptocurrency. Baby, your game is so fire, that you could tell me to shut up, and I do it. That's how much I love you.

If you pull a switcheroo in the final act, I'll forgive you. If you die in the final act, I will never speak of this show again. If you kill your father, I will never stop speaking about this show.

Stay kind. Stay sincere. Stay a confident gay.

And kill your father.

[downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le]

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - Prologue

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - The Prologue Word Count: 4001 Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Warnings: major angst, major fluff, mentions of murder, crime scenes, near-death experiences, slow-burnish romance, death, canon violence, rape, swearing, guns, knives, prostitution, canon cuteness of the team. Spoilers: Maeve's death, mentions of previous cases or canon events from seasons 1-10.

Spencer and you have an unspoken connection with one another. Nothing has ever happened between you two, especially since everything went down with Maeve, but your love has grown and overcome and is now clear as day to everyone. However, just when Spencer builds up enough courage to ask you out officially, you're requested on an undercover mission that halts your budding relationship in its tracks.

Months go by without a word from you until bodies of prostitutes start showing up in New York and the BAU is brought in to help. Spencer and you finally reunite as both your cases collide, but your lives and your love are both on the line now.

Will you and Spencer be able to find the way back home this time?

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Epilogue

~~~

You released a tired, relieved sigh as you and the rest of the team exited the elevator and walked back into the bullpen. You'd just landed back after a week in Utah chasing a serial killer who turned out to be a mormon. He killed in the name of burning out the false children of God from humanity - literally. The Unsub managed to burn six innocent people alive before they apprehended him.

'I cannot wait to go home for a hot bath and a good glass of scotch,' Rossi said, rubbing at the kink in his neck from the sleep home on the plane.

'Ditto,' Alex said. 'James is home for the weekend, and he has promised me some home made pie that I am very much looking forward to.'

You smiled as you reached your desk, the echo of the others adding to the conversation of what they were looking forward to when they got home warming the usually busy room as they passed you. A sense of comfort and relief washed over you as you placed your go-bag on your desk. Hearing all your friends' voices back in the office after a mission was never a guarantee, so you relished every time you heard them, regardless of the conversation.

You looked up when a figure entered your peripheral vision, and that comfort and warm feeling spread further through you when you saw who it was.

'What about you, Y/N?' Spencer said by way of greeting, a soft smile gracing his own tired features. 'What is waiting for you at home on this fine Friday evening?'

You paused to think about it for a second, a content smile tugging at your lips at the thought. 'Well, unless I've been robbed in the last few days, I will be enjoying a nice glass of moscato while I order pasta from the restaurant below my apartment, and snuggle in with my book that I've spent literally months trying to finish,' you said dreamily, the thought of good food and good wine and a good book sounding almost too good to be true. But Garcia had informed the team before landing that no new cases had been submitted and so you had the weekend to yourselves.

'That all?' he asked, amusement dancing on his lips.

You chuckled, shaking your head. 'I know. First Friday night home in DC in a while and I am choosing to stay at home instead. The utter shame of it all.'

You both laughed, and it pleased you to see his amber eyes light up after the long week you'd had.

'I didn't mean that as a bad thing,' Spencer said, brushing a stray curl from out of his eyes. Even though it was the shortest length it'd ever been, some rogue curls still managed to dangle out of confinement every once in a while. 'What book are you reading?'

'Don't laugh at me, but... The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.'

Spencer's brow furrowed curiously. 'Why would I laugh? I love Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work.'

You shrugged, casually leaning against your desk as you crossed your arms. 'I know, it just seems a little silly that a federal agent is reading some old detective stories.'

'Actually, Doyle was one of the forefathers of detective fiction, as he brought in the concept that the science of deduction isn't just physical evidence but psychological observations. He created a space where all the sciences we know today can help in solving crime, and actually paved the way for more psychological avenues to be taken more seriously in academia and law enforcement. If you think about it, without Sherlock, you and I may not have our jobs as profilers right now.' Spencer paused when he realised he was rambling, and despite your soft, encouraging smile, he saw the tired blankness in your eyes.

Spencer licked his lips before speaking again. 'What I'm trying to say is... I don't think it's silly at all.'

You nodded your thanks although you knew you didn't need to. 'So what about you?', you asked in return. 'What will entertain Dr. Spencer Reid on this "fine Friday evening"?'

His words repeated back to him kept the smile on his face, more importantly the life in his eyes. But he began to fiddle with the strap of his satchel bag, and you couldn't help but notice he slightly swayed. Like he was nervous or something. It was cute.

He was cute.

You forced the rising heat in your cheeks to stay underneath the surface to not give away your embarrassment or your inner thoughts. Thoughts you'd been having since the day you'd met him six years ago. Thoughts that you'd suppressed so as to not interfere with your work, and then later so it wouldn't ruin your hard-built friendship.

When he told you about Maeve, you'd had mixed feelings. Of course, you'd been ecstatic for him that he'd found someone he could be himself with, and even more so when he disclosed to you that no one else knew about her - just you. But you couldn't deny the twinge of sadness that pulled at your heart knowing that that someone he could be himself with wasn't you.

But you hadn't hesitated, hadn't faltered when he'd needed a shoulder to cry on when Maeve was killed. Once he decided to open up and accept help, you were first in line to help keep the young doctor afloat in his sea of grief and loss.

It's been over a year since Maeve's death now, and while she would always remain important in his heart, he had, for the most part, moved on, slowly getting back to be his usual, quirky, logical self.

The past year and a bit has only brought you two closer together, and as much as you have tried to hide how amazing that makes you feel, you've had plenty of conversations with Penelope and others on the team about finally asking the boy wonder out. It's not like you didn't want to, but if Maeve was his type of girl, you just weren't sure you were what Spencer was looking for in a romantic partner. Besides, you were happy with your friendship.

It was by far the most precious relationship you had aside from your family - why ruin it?

You quickly realised you'd both been silent for a while, Spencer still not having answered your question yet. 'Spence?' you prompted gently.

The cute doctor managed to grasp his satchel strap fiercely and ground himself back in the present. 'R-Right. I too have a book at home. The one you got me for my birthday, actually.'

'Oh yes!' The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes. You'd been hooked from the first line, and by the time you finished, all you could think about was how much you thought Spencer would enjoy it. So you instantly wrapped up your own personal copy and waited for Spencer's birthday to roll around. You never told him it was yours, you just hoped he didn't notice the slight bend in the spine or minuscule tears in some pages from you flipping them too quickly. 'I've been meaning to ask you if you enjoyed it or not. I just assumed you'd read it already.'

'We've just been so busy with cases lately. I haven't had time to even consider picking it up.'

You rolled your eyes. 'Come on, we both know you could've finished that book on one of our plane rides.'

He shrugged, eyes dipping for a moment before landing back on you. 'I know. I guess... I just wanted to give it the time and attention it deserved,' he settled on, and the honesty in both his words and his eyes threatened to steal your breath.

A silence that rested between comfortable and awkward settled upon you two. This had happened many times in recent weeks although you weren't quite sure why. Regardless of your hidden feelings and the tragedy of Maeve, neither of you lost your comfortability with one another.

'So... we've both got book dates tonight,' you said in an attempt to break the silence. The rest of the team was still chatting just a little away from them, but it felt like it was just the two of you sometimes when you talked.

'Well, actually, maybe...' Spencer started, and his fingers were twitching again. 'I was wondering if maybe you'd want t-to bring your book over and... join me, tonight.'

The request wasn't an unusual one. In fact, you'd conducted your own mini book club between the two of you on plenty of occasions. Mainly because you both found out you were the kind of people that liked your personal time and space, but didn't like the thought of being completely alone. This wasn't new, but it warmed your heart all the same at the gesture.

'That sounds great, Spence!' you said heartily. 'Give me half an hour and I'll be around at yours-'

'Actually,' Spencer interrupted, 'I was thinking we could grab some dinner together first. You know, like at a restaurant or some place you can sit in at.'

'...Like a date?' you asked softly, breathlessly. The words just kind of slipped from you before you even contemplated how they would affect Spencer. It just felt natural and right.

Your heart pounded like a jackhammer between your ribs, but you were more concerned at what expression Spencer would pull in the next five seconds.

To your relief, he smiled that small little smile of his that spoke volumes of his insecurity but also of his genuine intentions. 'Yeah. I guess it is like a date,' he finally replied.

Oh my goodness. He was nervous. His words were rushed and higher-pitched in tone. but you still managed to understand him, as well as what dinner implied.

A half-smile pulled at your lips. 'Dr. Spencer Reid,' you began softly, half-scared, half-excited to speak the words you'd been holding back for so long. 'Are you asking me out on a date right now?'

At your words, his anxiety seemed to disappear, as he stopped fidgeting with the satchel strap and took a daring step closer to you. 'I guess I am.'

You couldn't stop it now, the smile of pure joy you'd been holding back from splitting your face open. After years of suffering silently, of repressing the truth, it was all worth it for that one question.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N,' he quipped cheekily. 'Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

The answer was right there in the tip of your tongue, almost spewing from you, when your name was called out across the bullpen for all to hear.

The globe of silence and serenity that had built around Spencer and yourself suddenly shattered as you both, alongside the rest of the team, turned to Hotch standing in his office doorway. But while you all looked at him, his hard gaze was honed in on you.

'L/N,' he called again, having your attention now. 'Can I see you in my office, please?'

You looked between him and Spencer, unsure who to answer first. In the end, you were still technically on the clock so you nodded at your boss and said, 'Sure, I'll be in there shortly.'

'This can't wait, I'm sorry.'

It was the seriousness and discomfort in his voice that caused you to throw aside your personal agenda, giving Spencer an apologetic look before quickly making your way through the bullpen, up the stairs and into his office. You tried not to look at your team too much as you did, but you felt their gazes on the back of your head nevertheless.

They were just as confused as you were, then.

'Close the door,' Hotch instructed gently, to which you obliged. He pointed to the seat on the other side of his desk. 'Have a seat.'

'Everything okay, Hotch?' you asked, taking a seat in the chair. 'Oh no. Did I make an error in one of my reports again?'

'No, nothing like that,' he reassured you, which didn't help your already built up worry. For a moment, it was just you two sitting in his office in silence; you waited for him to explain his mysterious actions, while he seemed to struggle to find the right words.

He never struggled to find the right words.

You leaned forward in your seat, worry furrowing your brow. 'Hotch. What's wrong?'

'Nothing is wrong, so to say,' he insisted, but his frown remained. 'I've just been in contact with your old unit chief from Organised Crime. They believe there is an underground operation being conducted by gang leaders in Manhattan that involves the transporting, selling and purchasing of girls and women in the prostitute industry.'

'Okay,' you drawled out, more confused than ever. 'What has this got to do with us?'

'It doesn't,' Hotch answered immediately. 'Just you. Your old unit chief wants you back to go undercover in the case.'

'What?' You stood up from your seat instead of shouting, but goodness it took all your strength not to. 'Why do they need me? They have a whole squadron of agents to choose from.'

'They want a profiler to help them find out who these people are first, then go undercover and become part of the operation's inner circle and report back to them,' Hotch explained, although his tone displayed his displeasure in saying so. 'Y/N, you have more experience in undercover missions than anyone else on this team, even before you joined us as a profiler.'

You knew his words to be true, but the reality of it all was an ever-growing weight on your chest. 'What they are asking, Hotch, could take weeks, months even. Those kind of people will not trust so easily,' you tried reasoning with him.

You couldn't help but look through the blinds to your team still standing and talking outside in the bullpen. To Spencer, who had joined the team since you had left, but just looked at the window as if he could find out what was going on behind the glass and blinds if he looked long enough. It broke your heart to think you wouldn't see him for months, maybe even years.

Because that was the thing with undercover missions. Once you assumed the life of someone else, your old life became non-existent. That meant no contact with anyone outside of the case as a safety precaution.

That meant no talking to Spencer, or anyone in the BAU, until the case ended. Or unless you were killed, in which case you wouldn't be able to do a lot of talking anyways.

You turned back around at the sound of Hotch standing from his seat and coming around the desk to speak directly in front of you, no walls to hide behind. 'You know I wouldn't be asking if I hadn't tried to change their mind first. But even I can't argue that you are the best agent for the job.'

You nodded your understanding even if you hated to admit he was right. 'I guess it's not one of those jobs that I can decline, is it?'

Hotch shook his head regrettably. 'Head Chief requested for you personally. You've already been taken off the roster here at the BAU so you're not disturbed by other cases.'

Hearing that was just rubbing salt in the wound, and you hated the burning feeling of tears rising at the back of your eyes. You were already gone from here, like a ghost that didn't realise she was one to begin with.

Hotch's hand rested heavy on your shoulder as he comforted you. 'We can discuss your return to work when your mission is over. You will always have a place with us, Y/N.'

You attempted a smile, but it was strained as you tried to force back tears. You wiped at the strays that dribbled down your cheeks, pulling yourself back together before speaking again. 'All right. How long do I have before I am expected in the Big Apple?'

'There's someone waiting for you at your apartment already. They'll take you to their headquarters when you're done packing tonight.'

You sucked in air as you felt your whole world tilt unstably. Tonight. You had to leave tonight. Again, you found yourself seeking out Spencer through the half-closed blinds.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

You bit your lip as you blinked your tears away, trying but failing to ignore the cry of your heart as its strings were pulled harshly. 'Tonight?' you asked in the hope you'd misheard.

But no such hope existed, unfortunately.

'Yes,' Hotch said, that one word the final nail in the coffin of your impending suffering. 'I'm sorry. This goes without saying, but don't mention any of this to the team as you leave. Only myself and Section Chief Cruz will know where you are and the details of your mission.'

You huffed out a joyless laugh. 'Hiding truths from a team of profilers is like playing poker with a mirror attached to your face,' you said, and you didn't bother to hide your displeasure and sadness when you did. 'They're going to ask questions, and they will find out the truth eventually.'

'Let me worry about that,' Hotch said gently, letting go of you and leaving a cold mark where his hand once was. 'You've got bags to pack.'

'Right.' You sucked in a few deep breaths before making your way to the door. tears burned at your eyes again but you couldn't let the team see you like this. You couldn't let Spencer see you like this.

Because you had a job to do. And you always finished a job.

Before you could open the door handle, however, Hotch stopped you once more. 'Y/N.'

You looked at him, forcing an expression of blankness and indifference. 'Yes, sir?'

He must've seen your inner struggle, as he offered one of those genuine smiles of his that were oh so rare. 'We'll see you when you get back,' he said.

It wasn't a promise or a done deal, but it was the most hope you could ask for right now. So you smiled your thanks, nodded your goodbye, and opened the door back into the bullpen.

Immediately, all eyes set upon you and the room grew quiet. Your first instinct was to cry, then to run, then to blurt everything out because you hated keeping secrets. But you remembered what had just been said, and you whipped a bright smile onto your face to hide your despair.

'Don't you guys have homes to go to?' you asked cheerily, walking down the stairs as casually as possibly. You would've bee-lined for your bag, but if you moved too quickly they would suspect something. 'I recall hot baths and scotch were awaiting most of us, are they not?'

Thankfully Rossi took the bait, and picked up his go-bag in a huge huff. 'The lady is right. I spend enough time with you people as is, I am not wasting anymore not drinking and soaking.'

'Soaking in what? The bath or scotch?' JJ asked, also picking up her go-bag to make her way back to the elevator.

The group devolved into laughs and other jests, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you picked up your go-bag and followed them. Before you could though, a gentle call of your name halted you in your tracks, out of both politeness and frozen fear.

'Hey,' Spencer started, looking between you and Hotch's office. 'What was all that about?'

'Oh, uh, nothing super important,' you said, scrambled as you words were. 'Just a paperwork issue. Again.'

He broke out in smile that set your heart aflutter despite your inner turmoil. 'You know, you really shouldn't do paperwork on the plane when you're tired if you're just going to make a mistake. You're better off leaving it to the morning when your brain and body has rested enough to comprehend what the paperwork is asking of you.'

'Well sorry if I don't want to do a mountain of paperwork when I come back into the office,' you countered, grateful for the playful distraction as you made it over to the elevator. The others were just piling in when Spencer halted you again.

'So...' he dragged out, eyes flickering between you and teh floor nervously, '...what do you say?'

'To what?' you asked.

'To dinner. You didn't have time to give me an answer before.'

Shit. Your voice failed you now as you grasped at words - any words - to tell him. Your heart screamed yes, but there was someone waiting for you back home. A home you wouldn't be visiting for who knows how long.

Capitalising on your gaping mouth, you forced out a yawn and feigned covering it up out of embarrassment. 'Oh my goodness, sorry about that. Um, actually, now that you mention it, I am pretty beat. I'm just... going to go home and sleep it off if that's all right.'

It pained you to see his smile drop at your words, to see the hope leave his beautiful eyes at your rejection. And you knew you shouldn't say anything or make promises you couldn't keep, but you couldn't just leave him with no hope.

'Maybe next week sometime,' you offered, hoping your smile could bring some of that light back. 'You know, you've never tried the Italian Restaurant under my apartment before. We could go there. On me.'

Instinctively, you reached for his hand, relishing in the warmth it held and brought into you. To your relief, he didn't pull away. Instead, you got your smile back, and a little light returned to his eyes. You were kind of glad you wouldn't be around when the light left him completely.

'Okay,' he said softly, surprising you with a gentle squeeze of your hand in his. 'It's a date.'

'Yeah,' you replied, trying and failing to push aside the fluttering sensation his words gave your heart. You were only prolonging not only your pain, but his.

Selfish. So selfish.

'Come on, you two,' Derek called out from the elevator. 'I can't hold these doors open forever. Savannah will kill me if I miss our dinner reservations.'

You both quickly made it in to the elevator before Derek let them close on you, and then you were caught up in the chaos that was your team. You weren't sure how you got onto the topic of what scotch goes best with what foods, but you didn't care. It made you happy to know they never let the weight of a dark case get in the way of living their own lives to them fullest.

You all reached the car park and before you could make a run for your car, Spencer called out to you. 'See you Monday, Y/N!'

You turned back around to face not only him, but Derek, JJ, Penelope, Alex, and David as they all slowly went for their cars too.

You caught yourself staring at them, taking their happy faces in one last time before you left them behind. Hotch said you'd always have a place with the BAU, but you weren't sure how long this mission would take. And if you'd be replaced by then.

You forced a smile onto your face and waved them farewell. 'Yeah, see you then.'

You hated the bitter taste the lie brought to your mouth, but you managed to keep it together long enough that you got in your car and drove out of the car park without any more issues. That's when the tears came.

You wouldn't be there next Monday, and were not getting that date with Spencer next week.

It hurt you more to think that you may not get that date at all.

[anza-redstar]

Previously from the P.G. Wodehouse archives, there was comedy about Sherlock Holmes returning and comedy about characters from classic literature talking like Americans. I am now more delighted than I can say to bring you comedy about Sherlock Holmes returning and talking like an American:

THE PRODIGAL. Punch, September 23, 1903 [It is rumoured that Sherlock Holmes, when he reappears, will figure in a series of stories of American origin.] I met him in the Strand. It was really the most extraordinary likeness. Had I not known that he lay at the bottom of a dem’d moist unpleasant waterfall, I should have said that it was Sherlock Holmes himself who stood before me. I had almost made up my mind to speak to him, when he spoke to me. “Pardon me, stranger,” he said, “can you tell where I get a car for Victoria?” I told him. “Do you know,” I said, “You are astonishingly like an old friend of mine. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” “My name,” he said coolly. I staggered back, nearly upsetting a policeman. Then I seized him by the arm, dragged him into an A.B.C. shop, and sat him down at a table. “You are Sherlock Holmes!” I cried. “Correct. Sherlock P. Holmes of Neh Yark City, U.S.A. That’s me every time, I guess.” “Holmes!” I clutched him fervently to my bosom. “Don’t you remember me? You must remember me.” “Name of——?” he queried. “Watson. Dr. Watson.” “Wal, darn my skin if I didn’t surmise I’d seen you before somewhere. Watson! Crimes, so it is. Oh, this is slick. Yes, Sir. This is my shout. Liquor up at my ex-pense, if you please. What’s your poison?” I said I would have a small milk. “Why, the last I saw of you, Holmes——” I began. “Guess you didn’t see the last of me, sirree.” “But you did fall down the waterfall?” “Why, yes.” “Then how did you escape?” “Why, I fell over with Moriarty. The cuss was weightier than me some, so he fell underneath. If two humans fall over a precipice, I calkilate it’s the one with the most avoir-du-pois that falls underneath. Conse-quently I was only con-siderable shaken, while Moriarty handed in his checks.” “Then you weren’t killed?” “My dear Watson, how——? No. Guess I sur-vived. But, say, how are all the old folks at home? How’s Sir Henry Baskerville?” “Very well. He has introduced base-ball into the West Country.” “And the hound? Ah, but I remember, we shot him.” “No. He wasn’t really dead. He recovered, turned over a new leaf, and is now doing capitally out Battersea way.” Just then a look of anxiety passed over my friend’s face. I asked the reason. “It’s like this,” he said; “I’ve been in the U-nited States so long now, tracking down the toughs there, that I reckon I’ve ac-quired the Amurrican accent some. Say, do you think the public will object?” “Holmes,” I said, “it wouldn’t matter if you talked Czech or Chinese. You’ve come back. That’s all we care about.” “It’s a perfect cinch,” said Holmes, with a happy smile.

[penig]

Everyone in the tag is reacting to all of Watson's descriptions of fat people as negative, and I just don't read them that way. Yes, he makes a point of saying certain people are fat. He also makes a point of saying that this woman is beautiful, that man is small, whatever. He's painting word pictures of people. Yes, he compared Mycroft's hand to a flipper. It's a vivid image. What has flippers? Seals, which are cute; whales which are vast and intelligent, porpoises which are lively and friendly. The animal comparisons he makes that have demonstrable negative connotations are skinny - rats and ferrets (I think he's described Lestrade's face in terms of both animals, but I could be wrong.) He compares Holmes to a dog fairly often. He likes dogs.

The thing is, we are so steeped in fatphobia today that we think the adjective is a pejorative unless explicitly denied in the text, and that's...a fairly recent development. I'm in my 60s; I remember when the stereotype of fat people was "jolly." When "Tubby" was a friendly nickname neither intended nor taken as an insult. My reading of Victorian literature introduced me to dozens of positive, morally neutral, and genial associations with fatness, which represents prosperity, good humor, sometimes silliness but often kindness and generosity, particularly in men. Mr. Pickwick is fat. Santa Claus is fat. Mycroft Holmes is fat and his skinny little brother loves and admires him. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was no sylph and neither is Watson. "Fat Men's Clubs" existed in Holmes's day, celebrations of men who had abundance in their lives and enjoyed their meals.

I am not repulsed by the fatness of Mycroft or any of the fat clients; and I don't think Watson is, either. He is not responsible for the prejudices modern readers project onto him.

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2023-11-11

Hi everyone, my name is Evelyn. Welcome to my blog! It's wonderful to have you here. I am just another university student finding solace and stress-relief in fandom and fan-fiction.

I like to think of myself as a fandom librarian and this blog as my library. I want to sharing all my favourite fanfics so that people in these fandoms have an easy way to find to a plethora of talented writers, both new and old and their many wonderful stories. Think of it as your one-stop-shop for fantastic fanfics.

Moreover, if you have a fanfic you'd like to recommend please D.M. me or send and ask!

A.O.S Star Trek

James T. Kirk || Khan Noonien Singh || Leonard 'Bones' McCoy

BBC Sherlock

James 'Jim' Moriarty || Mycroft Holmes || Sherlock Holmes

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid

Enola Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Game of Thrones

Robb Stark

Lucifer (Fox/Netflix)

Lucifer Morningstar

Marvel Cinematic Universe

James 'Bucky' Barnes || Loki Odinson || Stephen Strange

Tom Hiddleston + Characters

James Conrad || Jonathan Pine || Magnus Martinsson || Prince Hal/Henry V || Robert Laing || Sir Thomas Sharpe || Tom Hiddleston

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 15

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for the “If you walk out that door…” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Voss House was in an uproar when you and Sherlock slipped through the back door. Rounding a corner, Sherlock would have walked right into Lucy racing by if not for your hand shooting out and grabbing his elbow.

“Sorry, sir! Prayin’ ’scuse me!” cried the maid as she scurried off, not pausing to curtsy to Sherlock and evidently missing you entirely.

“She seems to be in a hurry,” he muttered.

“Brilliant deduction,” you quipped as you let go of his coat and straightened out the wrinkles you’d caused. “Lord Coltidge is likely raising Cain to find out where I am and what is going on. I can only hope that nobody has mentioned that I have been at your flat the past few days…”

The kitchen door flung open, and Cook bustled out with a harried expression. Her eyes widened even further when they met yours.

“Oh, Madam, you’re home,” she exclaimed. “Thank the Lord you’re well. Your father’ll be pleased.”

You couldn’t stop the sardonicism from leaping up and quirking your brow. “I suppose that would be the natural reaction of one under the influence of paternal affection, yes.”

Sherlock, very discreetly, choked and coughed.

“Well, I best be moving along,” said Cook. “His lordship’s asking for an account of our foodstuffs, and then, what with dear Mrs Rogers busy entertaining him in the front sitting room, I ought to help Lucy prepare the master’s suite… Oh, Madam, is it true that he is taking up residence in Voss House again? That you are leaving?”

Sherlock stiffened, and you tightened your hold on his arm to reassure him.

“It is not true,” you told her. “Though I am pleased to know you would have matters well in hand if it were. Carry on, Cook.”

She beamed at you, blushing lightly, before going on her way.

Turning to watch her disappear down the hallway, Sherlock commented, “She remarked not on our entry through the tradesmen’s entrance.”

“Please expound not on what that says about how eccentric she perceives me to be.” You hid your wince with a wide sweep of your arm. “To the front sitting room, then, sir?”

Nodding, he gestured for you to lead the way, but you caught the “You said ‘eccentric’, not I” that he said under his breath and shot him a look.

You were still some metres away from the sitting room door when you started to pick up on the raised voices within. Or, rather, the raised voice, and the soothing tones of battle-hardened Mrs Rogers. You and Sherlock shared a look before you swung the door open.

“Father, I apologise for keeping you waiting.”

Whirling around, the Earl of Coltidge blinked a few times at you, caught mid-rant. By the time Mrs Rogers made a discreet exit with a flashing smile in your direction, he managed to gasp, “Daughter. Where in Christendom have you been?” In the span it took you to grant yourself a fortifying breath, he lost his interest in your reply and said, “I have given you nearly a sennight complete. I trust you have taken care of whatever was so important you neglected an affair of the essence?”

You gripped your skirts in tense fists. “I did, but Mr Holmes worked quicker than I.”

Your father’s eyes slid to the detective standing at your shoulder, apparently taking note of him for the first time. “And what do you mean by that?”

Finding strength in the presence behind you, you smoothed out your skirts and spoke evenly. “As we speak, William is at Scotland Yard. He has been arrested for his crime.”

The earl stiffened, but his focus remained on Sherlock. “Crime?” His voice was just slightly too high-pitched. “What crime?”

Sherlock stepped forward, his sleeve brushing against yours. “The crime of soliciting a murder, of course, your lordship,” he said bluntly, not even bothering to handle Coltidge’s fragile anxieties with care.

They shattered before your eyes.

“Confound you, Holmes!” he hissed. “I hired you, damn it, I did! You had a single task, and you could not do it properly?”

Sherlock arched a brow. “My lord, you hired me to investigate your daughter’s husband’s death, and I have done precisely that.”

“Bah!” scoffed Coltidge with such force that spittle flew out of his mouth. “My heir shall be seen as a criminal! My name shall be tarnished—hang it all!”

You grimaced at his poor choice of words and of priorities. “Father—”

He turned his blazing eyes to you. You halted, allowing him to speak, but when he did, he was still addressing the other man. “You have done enough, Holmes. I must deal with my family business now, which has naught to do with your blasted meddling. Leave us.”

Sherlock huffed, muttering something that started with “How many times must I explain…?” before he turned to give you his full attention. “You did not ask me to accompany you here, so I shall understand if you wish to speak to your father in private. Petal, do you want me to leave?”

He was so soft in that moment, in his voice and in his eyes, that you would have lost your heart if you had still been in possession of it. But no, it was already securely placed in Sherlock’s vault of treasures, and for that, you could not let him leave.

“If you walk out that door,” you whispered, “I shall be alone against my tormentors once more, and I refuse for that to be so any longer. For too long have I been made by either external forces or my own fears to bear my burdens alone, so from now on, if I can have you by my side…” You tilted your head to regard him in the afternoon light streaming through the window. “I would have you by my side.”

Sherlock stared back at you, not smiling but still somehow drawing you in—the very promising way his eyes were darkening or the very thrilling way his tongue wet his lips, perhaps. But the moment was broken when, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed your father sneer and remembered that you had an audience.

“Is that what this is about, then?” said the earl. “You would sacrifice your brother to throw yourself at the first man to show you any hot-blooded interest?”

You were briefly stunned speechless—nobody had ever dared speak so crudely in your presence before—but Sherlock reacted without hesitation.

He whipped around. “How dare you?” he said, tightly, darkly, thundering but not like the crack of a nearby strike: like the low rumbles on the ground from a faraway storm rolling closer. “How dare you speak to her in such a manner? Do you honestly believe you are superior to her in any way? You are a poor excuse of a man—and a still poorer excuse of a father.”

“Speak not of superiority to me, Detective,” jeered your father before focusing on you. “Edmund might have preferred his mistress to you, Daughter, but at least he was the son of a peer and a respectable gentleman at that—Holmes is little better than a tradesman with the way he makes his living! Would you truly toss your honour on someone so beneath us, so unworthy of the Voss connexion?”

Your surprise gave way to fury. “There is no one worthier,” you bit out, stepping into your father’s space. “Peers, sons of peers, gentlemen, tradesmen—to me, they are merely the outside world.” You waved one arm at the window, and reached the other out to Sherlock. “He is the only one who knows me, who has seen the disarray that is my interior and has stayed by me. How can someone beside me be beneath me?”

Pulling his shoulders back, your father said, “Spare me your melodrama, it is—”

You barked out a laugh. “My lord, need I remind you that it was you who brought Mr Holmes into this? If not for your melodrama, your production of a case, you could have gotten exactly what you wanted.”

“What…?” He was pale, his voice shaken.

“If you had simply told me your plan to frame me for William’s sake, you would have succeeded because I would have gone along with it,” you explained, surprising even yourself with how patient you sounded. “By bringing Mr Holmes into the matter, you ensured that, instead, I came to see that my future is as bright as anyone else’s.”

“Blame this not on me,” he spluttered. “You do well to recall that though I had been prepared to let you answer for your brother’s mistake, I had hoped the case could be steered away from my progeny at all. The scandal of a murder in the family would have been distressing enough.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, and he glared at you.

“It is because you never fail to involve yourself in men’s business that we could not all be freed from this mess. After all, it was you who led Holmes to that tail-wagging hussy, Miss Allen or Miss Ayles or…” Flapping his hand in a dismissive motion, he narrowed his eyes at you. “Do you deny it?”

A cold sweat passed over you, and for a moment, you were frozen. Those years-old, not long vanquished fears of being a botch-up, of deserving nothing better than blame, crept up on you. But William’s kind eyes and gentle words warmed you. It was no evil to help and be helped.

“I do not,” you said, squeezing your forearms to ground yourself. “But you cannot make me regret working with Sherlock. We both were better off for letting each other in, and I shall not be persuaded otherwise. Indeed, there is naught you can expect to accomplish here, Father; your time would be better spent trying to convince William to recant or Scotland Yard to release him.”

Shadows fell across the earl’s face as he brought himself to his full height. You had not seen that expression on him since you were a misbehaving young girl under his roof, and you braced yourself for the patronising lecture that was about to come. But you were not prepared for the quiet words that came from him.

“Would that your mother had survived her third confinement and we had lost our first babe instead.”

Your mouth fell open as your thoughts ground to a halt. Their first child…

Towering over you, Lord Coltidge snarled into your face, “Or would that your brother had left you to your fate with Edmund!”

“Father,” you choked out.

He waved you off, shouldering past to get to the sitting-room exit. “At least then, I would not be the one burdened with you and your impertinence,” he sniffed as he turned around to look you up and down. He had never sounded so bitter, looked so vicious. “It matters not to me how; I would merely be grateful so long as I was free of you, you senseless girl.”

Staring at him across the room, you felt small and silly, shame prickling at your skin as though you deserved his contempt despite logically knowing you didn’t. Helpless, you didn’t know how to make the humiliation stop burning in your chest and feared it would flay you alive right there.

But then a tall, wide frame stepped in your line of sight, blocking your view of the source of your pain and mortification but above all shielding you from that which was doing you harm. Staring, now, at Sherlock’s back, tension rippling from his shoulder blades down, you recalled the thunderclouds that had been gathering on the horizon and—oh, now came the crash.

“What fitting idiocy from an addle-pate,” said Sherlock, his voice as sharp and dangerous as the cliff’s edge it teetered on. “Since you wish to avoid senselessness, my lord, these are the facts: Your daughter is here—has been here all this time, you myopic ingrate—and after all she has already made it through, there is little that could stop her from continuing to be here. And while she lives, you shall die, wifeless, friendless, and at this rate childless. While she prospers, you shall sink deeper into the realisation that you have wasted your years.” He jabbed a finger in his direction, just barely restraining his volume and the vehemence of his movements. “Do you think I cannot recognise the rumpling of your clothes from lying sleeplessly in them night after night, cannot detect the perfumes for hiding the diminished energies of a miserable tyrant?” Hands shaking and chest heaving, he caught his breath before snapping, “You reek of desperation, your lordship, and it is not the victory you think it is to be leaving us in a huff before the stench can settle deep.”

Coltidge simply stood, eyes wide and mouth unmoving.

Sherlock jolted him out of his stupor with a roared “Get out!”

Tail between his legs, Lord Coltidge yanked open the door and scurried out. Blinking away your shock, you hurried over to the threshold and peeked through. You spotted Mr Rogers standing in the hallway, and for the first time you felt gratitude that the butler had taken to hanging around when you were entertaining guests. You trusted him to handle getting Lord Coltidge out of the house without the earl destroying the property in a fit.

Shutting the door behind your father, you leaned against the knob and took a deep breath. “Oh, dear, that went terribly. Sherlock, I must apologi—mmf!”

The rest of your words vanished as you were whirled around, pressed back against the door, and descended upon by the full force of Sherlock’s tenacity.

With one hand gripping your waist and the other cradling the back of your head, he held you still under his unrelenting lips, stealing your breath, criminally, mercilessly, but so lovingly that you gladly gave up more and more of it to him. Although you could hardly move while pinned between the door and Sherlock’s insistence, you did what you could with your hands and mouth to give as good as you got.

When he coaxed your mouth open and pushed his tongue inside, you groaned and gave a particularly zealous tug on his bowtie. As you felt it come undone, a heated thrill shot through you: the levees of decorum Sherlock had valiantly put up against the storm the earl stirred up were decimated by this flash flood of passion, passion unprecedented, and you were the one to witness it.

He swallowed your whimper as your knees gave out, not letting up, only holding even more of your weight with even more tenderness. More and more control slipped out of your grasp as he continued his siege on your senses, but you let it slip—you had seen how he’d strained to keep a hold on courtesy in the face of Lord Coltidge’s utter discourtesy, and would happily let him be ungentlemanly now.

He broke away with a ragged gasp. And even as you fought to rein in your breathing, he dusted kisses across your face.

“I thank God that you are alive and well, darling.” His voice was gravelly, your head was light. “I pray you listen not to his lordship. He is a doddering fool and—”

You turned your head to catch Sherlock’s mouth on its way to your cheek. After another minute or five of bliss, you eased away and whispered, “I know, Sherlock. His words got through my defences because I was shocked by them, not because I believed them. Distress yourself not.”

He shook his head, gazing on you in such a way that you felt pierced, like your lungs were losing more air than they were making use of. “Consider me distressed until you know that… You must know that… Dear heavens, one’s world is better with you in it. Bigger, brighter. The earl deserves you not. He is a dunce to think he would be happier without you, flaws and mistakes and all, for I have lived ten and five years in your absence and hold it as indisputable proof that losing you is the worst thing that can happen to a person. Though, blazes, I deserve you not—”

“There is no one worthier,” you reminded him, arching an eyebrow.

After a beat, the anguish on his face fell with a startled laugh. “Heaven help me, you are an impertinent thing.”

Grinning, you looped your arms around his neck and pulled him back down so that you could hug him close and bury your nose in his collar. When he said that, you didn’t feel mortified: you felt seen, and you felt loved.

His hands drifted down to your hips, at once primally possessive and profoundly gentle. “Are you certain you are all right?” he asked softly. “I had never seen that expression on you before, and it disturbed me—gutted me—to see it then. I had tried to let you handle your father as you saw fit, but when I saw that look on your face… I could not stand by, my lady.”

Nodding, you squeezed him tight. “I am certain.” If you had been terribly overwrought, you would be calming down quickly now, with Sherlock’s arms around you and his light swaying back and forth. “And I thank you for stepping in, Sherlock. I thank you for staying.”

“You may depend on my doing so for the rest of our lives.”

“Sherlock…” You nosed his chest, burrowing even closer to his comforting warmth and familiar scent, and pecked his clavicle through his shirt. “I love you.”

His sudden stillness was your only clue that he had heard you.

Trying to mollify his apparent agitation, you dropped another kiss onto his shirt, a little higher this time, near the wrinkled fabric of his undone bowtie. “I love you,” you said again, knowing repetition often grounded him. “I love you.”

Still there was no response. He had not stiffened or cringed away, so you did not think he was uncomfortable. Startled, then—taken aback. You could picture the quizzical frown that had surely overtaken his expression, could practically hear the churning of calculations in his head. And who knew what conclusions he was arriving at? Who knew how long it would take him to share them with you? Flushing with sheepishness, you more resolutely hid your face in his chest.

“You need not say it back, of course,” you rushed out. “It is only that you mentioned love earlier, and it made me think, ‘Could he mean that he loves me?’ But— But of course, I know it is more complex than that. You could hardly be blamed if you are still hurt and cautious from my marrying another man without warning you, and surely you had the right of it to reprove me before for expecting you to trust me blindly…”

Much to your chagrin, he held you away from him and pulled back from the embrace. Your anxiety mounted with every passing second of his scrutiny.

“Sherlock?”

“This is the ‘something you had to tell me’, then?”

Disoriented, you nodded mutely.

“Definitely should have done yours before mine,” he muttered.

“Sherlock?”

“I beg of you, let not love be your second thought and my rashness your first. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. In short, this is the answer to your question: yes, he could very well mean that he loves you.”

A smile wormed its way to your face as you leaned back against the door to take in as much of Sherlock as you could.

“Its being complex makes it no less certain,” he said firmly. “I love you. I have loved none but you.”

“I as well,” you breathed, reaching out and resting your palm over the left side of his chest. “I have been married, heartbroken, alone, and free; through it all, there has only ever been you. I love you, Sherlock.”

He smiled then too, and it was the brightest sight you’d ever laid eyes on. Oh, yes, you had your life ahead of you, a future gold and aglitter indeed.

Can you tell I was reading JAFF before writing this? xD Thank you for reading, and feedback is always welcome! (You never know, you could end up like @marveldcmistress and inspire a line like “You are a poor excuse of a man—and a still poorer excuse of a father” with your lovely suggestions. ;P) Attention, readers: please be aware of this announcement about upcoming chapters.

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @livisss @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

[artofdeductionbysholmes]

Hey there Mister Holmes, I hope you're having a great day, I just had a little doubt..Are you a fan of jazz? oh! and also! I was wondering if you could tell me about your favorite tea..As much as I am a caffeine enthusiast, I have a soft spot for Teas...Let me know if you can, Sir. Good Day :D

John @consultjohnwatson has a strong preference for jazz, whereas I don't share the same enthusiasm for it. I particularly enjoy classical music, especially German composers like Wagner, Bach, Beethoven.

Lapsang souchong!

[dathen]

“I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

I’M HOWLING OH MY GOD HOLMES I LOVE YOU

The noble: Heh I’m probably soooo much better than your usual clients 😏 I am honoring you with my presence and a relief from the usual riffraff 😌

Holmes: Ehhhh you’re a downgrade*

*I cant even make this one more of a zinger “I am descending” is already PINNACLE

(and ofc we just heard how Holmes prefers the company of those ‘lesser people’ which makes this power move even more delightful)

[a-forbidden-detective]

I remember while reading the manga, I jokingly had a theory that Toto's family is somehow connected to the Watsons. But the more I think about it, I think it's odd that the Watsons are rarely brought up. John Watson was only brought up once when Mylo made a comment on Toto being so similar to him (which was when I made the joke).

When you think of Sherlock Holmes, you also can't help but think of John Watson. But no other character besides Mylo mentioned him, even then it wasn't by name, just as "Sherlock Holmes trusty companion" (ch. 45). No one names John directly, which is suspicious (it might be a translation thing, but I haven't checked yet). Whether Toto is related to him or not, I'm not sure, but regardless, why is John never named directly?

Heya anon! Thank you for dropping by.

That’s true. Akira in this case has never mentioned the name John Watson, but only alluded to his role as SH’s companion. At first, I thought if it was the case of copyright thing-y. She already ran away with Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty ideas, but on the other hand, in light of Japanese relationship with SH, they never extended the same reverence to JW. There has been a deep connection with SH ever since Sir ACD’s stories reached the country in 1894. But JW has always been left behind. So methinks there lies the disconnection with SH’s only partner and friend.

I don’t think it is the translation woes as well, my German version also says the same thing.

It is formulaic. You have the detective, which is always patterned after SH, and give him a companion, whoever that is.

With Moriarty you have the perfect nemesis. So yes, I also find it odd. I also don’t understand the need not to mention his name so yes.

I am tempted to say this: Amano-sensei, his name is Watson, John Hamish Watson.

Maybe, just maybe she’s biding her time. Toto’s background and JW, what a perfect mystery.

However, we know the implication if Akira would name JW. We know that SH and JW are more than detective partners. Them being roommates and Sir ACD’s treatment of JW’s wife like Schrödinger’s cat spawned so many countless papers, both scholarly and otherwise, will give more fuel that RonToto is canon, even though we know in our hearts what they really are based on what we read (between the lines) in the manga. I feel like Akira is more into “let me show them,” than telling us so as not to get dunked by homophobes or others who are not aiming for the “romantic” solution between those two.

[turtleneck-crowley]

Wake up babes of the GO fandom turtleneck-crowley just dropped their most recent Magnus Opus🥰🥰🥰

Hey guys I am a eccentric genius artist of the century whose works will probably only be appreciated post mortem (self-diagnosed)

Im also very certain you would all blorbos me if I were a fictional character but alas I am a boring meat package that got birthed out of an afab physiology and thus a sack of mouldy potatoes might have been a more interesting source writing this post. (Pure hubris, part irrational resentment that you are all quite familiar with *cheeky hot wink*)

I happen to own a get out of jail free card called catch 22 which is crafted out of part sarcasm, part idgasinglefgtfoofmyfacei180dmycringethroughyearsofpainandselfrelctionthatim toocoolforyounow public image

(if you actually read that you deserve, well nothing actually except perhaps my condolences and a consensual pat on the back that implies my unlicensed diagnosis that you are in fact, not dyslexic)

Anyhow cracking on back to the sentence *sighs and rolls eyes with you*

(-I mean in the streets, not with you guys, here im babygirl with half a brain cell/true form), part wholesome idiocy, years of experience in masking, part looking presentable, part knowing how society and science and art works and trying to be in tact with my own sense of humanity as much as possible -at least to the point where I’m not breaking any humanitarian law…

And yes bitch the whole eccentric genius /madly passionate or passionately mad paradox catch 22 license holder is you af - want a gold star? ⭐️ (crowley ref) (affectionate banter)

Fact is tumblrinas like to heighten and balance their EQ and IQ agreed?

I’m hyper aware that you guys are smart enough to assess me as going through a manic phase that is on the verge of psychotic-having observed hints of madness in my recent posts deducing via your own experiences that I have gone through a strict diet of coffee, whiskey, smut that Neil Gaiman himself would tear his locks and Sir Terry Pratchett would roll in his grave, finished off with a nice slice of Hozier songs as dessert

(that’s on top of of a yet to be discovered food chain which I call the Antichrist diet footnote: please credit me after I die before my Tesla gets Edisoned

‘Tis actually a great alternative way to invoke a psychedelic experience in substitute of the more expensive and questionably unlawful way that is smoking crack *disclaimer not recommended for the faint hearted or those self-diagnosed as mentally stable)

You are perfectly correct! Here’s another gold star!!! ⭐️

In fact I am currently being yelled by my parents to come downstairs because I need to be dropped off to the asylum while I’m trying to actually do something that gives me joy (Joan of Arc eat your heart out) and I assure you I have eyes and witness my very legs , naked and hairy (and did I mention Im only wearing a slutty black bra and skirt that I wore as a swimming suit AND a pajama and now my back to the looney bin outfit?) leaving a perfectly good soup with baguettes as evidenced here

However, I would like to UNO reverse such a caring notion by giving you a purple heart 💜

and divert you with a fun little clip that displays our para social relationship that I am hoping has deepened through my superficial charm to portray our rendezvous as warm and familiar and human as our beloved Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson:

No worries, Watson also came with the conslusion that the person he’s engaged with (more like to amiright- not us i mean, them, that’s where the analogy is cut off back into our real identities) is “not human”

Anyhow it might not be your cup of tea but at least hold the mug for a few minutes it’s worth it

Head fic: Gods of Sex and Idiocy

(If anything please see it as a game where we can title it better cause I’m shit at naming things - I call one of my plants Joe)

Hey Good Omens fandom

With the note of:

“who needs sane when you have creative”

-turtleneck-crowley

I have made a meta season 3 in my head and the stars have even sent me a playlist ??? (It’s the only one that seems to be downloaded on my wifi less phone)

Here’s the link:

Check out some of my latest posts

It’s really immersive and otherworldly

Down the rabbit hole and through the mirror you go 🐇🎩🪄

And what if season 1 is the ace route and season 2 is the sexual route so season 3 might be an aro route to defeating the enemy?

Ngk idk idc idgaf

I’m just like phone rn

(side note: why do I have the infinite capacity of taking pains (Sherlock reference) for being a mad artist instead of working on the next big physics formula answer? Good question: I’m actually just an emotional idiot aka sexy trash ✨ that’s addicted to blogging and I wouldn’t trade it for any other praise worthy status in the world 💜)

Honestly guys I sound like a sociopath but I’m really just very pained and fucked royally by circumstance that is too dramatic and gay for anyone except the loonies on tumblr to understand. I’m so disappointed by all this unjust pain and agony of the world- the children, the animals, the environment, the people that I have conditioned myself to display an eloquence so pungent it seems like I’m a cold manipulator. For if I ever showed myself for who I was to them- the judgers, the perverted, the scheming, I would surely be dead either by my own or someone else’s hands. Maybe I’m God and they just like tumblr and good omens and want to eat crepes in peace with the personality they split into 2 -preferably in Paris. Maybe they have been placed all the blame by the enemy and they are powerless to the human condition as you all are by an unknown enemy and is fated to be tortured in anxiety and pain invisible to all and the only infinite power they have is love that bleeds.

But I’ll give you and I both the peace of mind that I am an in fact just a mentally ill human whose life span is between the zones of expiration and fermentation, with a god complex, whom their closest people will never truly know how to care no matter how much they try- and in fact the more they try to help me the more they leave me in my original state- alone.

I leave you (no I’m not killing myself you idiot I’m going to the mental hospital to be molested by nightmares of demons - I literally experience it everyday- as they force me to take my sleeping pills which sinks me deeper into it-oh wait that’s kind of worse lmao) with this favorite piece of classical music of mine

Stay safe yall I love you