#baker silk sofa

[scottadlhoch]

Living Room Charlotte Example of a large classic formal and enclosed dark wood floor living room design with beige walls and a standard fireplace

[alicesbookshelf]

Living Room - Music Room

Example of a large transitional enclosed dark wood floor and brown floor living room design with a wood fireplace surround, a music area, white walls, a standard fireplace and no tv

[hezzabeth]

Revati’s eyes snapped open.

The ceiling above her was a faded azure with gold leaf stars.

In the center of the galaxy, someone had painted a very pointy yellow and gold sun.

Revati slowly sat up; she was lying on something that felt suspiciously comfortable.

It was a bed.

An actual bed with faded, clean blankets and lumpy pillows.

Revati was in a bedroom, complete with a dressing table and a wardrobe.

Revati hadn’t seen a proper bedroom in almost twelve years.

“Ayyo Rama! You’re awake!” Amma’s voice called, and Revati slowly turned her head. Something slid off her forehead, landing on her lap.

It was a small glowing square patch that read “Nanoaide healing patch: property of Old Landon Industries.”

Amma was sitting in the room's corner on a red silk-covered chair.

Her eyes were red, surrounded by dark shadows, and her hair was a mess.

“Where am I?” Revati choked, her voice sounding strangled.

“You’re in the Medieval Faire’s king suite. Incredibly rich tourists used to stay here so they could get a good view of the park,” Amma replied, getting up.

Amma walked towards the bed, gesturing at the fine, if dated, furnishings.

“The people of Medieval Faire insisted you rest in here, something about being the hero who freed them,” Mother said before sitting next to the bed.

“How long was I asleep?” Revati managed to choke.

"Three days, the healing patch instructions recommended seventy-two hours for head injuries," Amma replied, picking up the patch. Healing patches were small bandages filled with autopilot nanobots. During the first few weeks after the invasion, the park had thousands of them. Now there were only a few hundred left. "Dityaa," Revati stammered, trying to step off the bed, her legs wobbling. "Dityaa is gone," Amma whispered, her fists clenching. Amma rarely cried. Her sadness always lay in her hands. "Tell me the truth, is Dityaa really my sister? Is she really your daughter?" Revati asked her mother. "Of course she's your sister! You both have the same mouth and eye color!" Amma protested. "And yes, she is my daughter, but she's also someone else's… When your father and I found her, our DNA was blended with hers," Amma admitted. "You need to explain! I'm the elected leader of Baker Street! I need to know things," Revati pointed out, standing up. The room swam a little, and Revati realized someone had changed her into a long white nightgown. Amma got up and gently steered Revati back to the bed.

"This all occurred a long time ago when your father and I were just friends. It’s a sad story, best suited for winter," Amma explained. In the bright winter sunlight, Amma told Revati a story. A story about a time when she wasn't yet Amma, she wasn't a mother. Instead, she was Sugafana and father was Jay. When she was done, Revati didn't know what to think. "And you were never worried? About the king finding her? Or the appliances?" Revati asked. "Of course we worried! But she was hidden so carefully, our journey to BritinduSarvadharma was so chaotic," Mother said with a small shrug. Revati remembered.

First, there was the trip across the black ice oceans. Then the brief six months they spent in Indiyork, a small city hidden in the Gale Crater. By the time they reached BritinduSarvadharma, Amma was already eight months pregnant. Revati was born in the refugee medical center three weeks later.

"We need to get her back, that Duke was an appliance," Revati replied, getting off the bed again. This time the room was far less dizzy. "How are we going to do that? She could already be dead," Amma choked, her eyes watering again. Someone had left an aquamarine silk bathrobe on the end of the bed. Revati put it on firmly, along with a pair of slippers left on the floor.

"We don’t know if she's dead, we don’t know anything," Revati said firmly, opening the bedroom door. Behind the door, Revati found a small living room with an actual fireplace. Someone was sitting on one of their sofas, their pink curly hair peeking up from behind its back. "You’re still here," Revati said, completely surprised. Brigadeiro Bun shuffled about, facing her, his eyes wide with surprise.

"You’re awake! Thank Goup!" he cried, jumping off the chair. "Why are you still here?" Revati asked curiously. "I had to make sure you were alright! You saved my life twice," Brigadeiro pointed out. Brigadeiro looked exhausted, his jumpsuit zipped open at the front, revealing a dirt-covered undershirt.

Twigs were in his hair, and there were peculiar red stains on his fingers. "Well, I’m fine now," Revati said flatly. "Here, I spent all day making this, your Nanni helped," he replied, picking something up off the chair. It was a small glass jar filled with a dark red sloppy liquid. "You spent all day making glue?" Revati asked.

"No, it’s kakuda plum and strawberry jam," Brigadeiro smiled.

He seemed so proud of himself that Revati felt compelled to unscrew the lid and dip her finger into the jam. It tasted like bland, watery strawberries with a sour finish. "Thanks," Revati replied, putting the lid back on. "I’m sorry about your sister. I have prayed to Goup," Brigadeiro said. As far as Revati was concerned, praying to Goup was like trying to ask a tree for wishes. Still, she appreciated the sentiment. "Did you see what happened? After I passed out?" Revati asked, and he nodded. "Your sister tried to run, but he grabbed her, and they teleported," he explained, and Revati felt herself give a small sigh of relief.

Teleportation.

The appliances wanted her alive.

"I need to hold a council meeting," Revati said gravely.

The first council meeting in Old Landon was held by Miss Grassroots eleven years ago. She insisted that every park area needed to work together. It involved many necessary but boring tasks, such as securing the walls, fixing the power grid, and ensuring everyone had plumbing. Elections were supposed to be held every year, but only Baker Street took them seriously. Nobody listened to the "mayor" of Whistleton. Shakespeare Lane forced would-be leaders to fight to the death in bear costumes.

The council meeting was, as always, held on neutral ground: Tower Bridge. The massive fairytale bridge spanned a manmade river, connecting all sections of the park. The bridge's gothic turrets reached towards the sky, with the concrete carefully painted to resemble bricks. The inside of the towers was filled with the park's power grids. Revati, who had no time for power games, was, of course, the first to arrive, still a little exhausted and shaky, with Aurora and Bridgadeiro standing by her.

"There's Little Hardy," remarked Aurora. Little Hardy was marching in from the west side of the bridge, accompanied by the three actors who played the witches. He was wearing a bear mask and his brother's old robes.

"So, a council meeting then! I've heard rumors this could be about your sister," he remarked.

"I'm not discussing anything until the meeting begins," Revati snapped back.

Next came Queen Victoria from the East, fashionably late, of course. Today she was dressed head to foot in black crepe, her chest completely covered.

"Right, we're all here! Are we ready to begin?" Queen Victoria asked.

"We're not all here," Revati merely said, and from the north came the distant sound of plastic trumpets.

"You managed to get Lady Morganna to come? I heard rumors that she's dead!" Little Hardy asked.

"They're not rumors; I've had a flood of ghastly peasants invade Whistleton wanting to trade their honey for strawberries," Queen Victoria snapped back, rolling her eyes.

The party from the Medieval affair came into view, led by Camilo and someone entirely covered in a thick black hood.

"That's the robot man, how mysterious," Queen Victoria remarked.

"Sorry I'm late, we haven't actually elected a new leader in Medieval faire... people are just doing their usual work or running around looting," Camilo explained.

"It's fine, we're ready to begin," Revati said with a firm nod at Aurora. Aurora pulled out one of the many souvenir notebooks she kept notes in.

"So what's this meeting about? Are you here to blame me for the mess with your sister?" Queen Victoria asked, rolling her eyes.

"You let him in, you introduced them," Revati pointed out coldly, and Queen Victoria chuckled.

"Is that what she told you? Your sister said she met the Duke in the wastelands! She brought him in; this is all on her," Queen Victoria replied.

"Now now, I don't think Dityaa made the crack on the Medieval faire wall! It looked like it was done by a power drill," Camilo said.

"A power drill? How would an appliance be able to get close enough to drill the wall? The last invasion only happened because of that freak tornado!" remarked Little Hardy.

Little Hardy was right. The appliances' ability to think and learn were entirely dependent on being able to receive a signal. Most appliances collapsed and switched off once they reached the end of the parking lot.

"Oh, appliances wouldn't need to get that close; they could send their pets," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"Pets?" Queen Victoria asked, sounding completely confused.

"Pets?" Revati added, and Bridgadeiro smiled nervously.

"You know those cute little robot things they make with the blue fur that sing and make cupcakes? 'Cupcake Monster, your kitchen friend, it's time to bake and play, With every cupcake it creates, it brightens up your day!'" Bridgadeiro sang cheerfully.

Everyone stared at him.

"Wait, are you talking about Cupcake Critters? I asked my mother for one of those years ago! It was my twelfth birthday," Queen Victoria remarked, and Bridgadeiro shrugged.

"I saw them working remotely all the time! They were programmed to build receiving towers," Bridgadeiro explained.

"We're going to have to arrange guards for the walls and set up another building crew," Queen Victoria said, and Little Hardi nodded.

"Well, you're going to have to do it all without me; I'm leaving Old Landon. I'm going to go find my sister," Revati said.

"What?" Shrieked Queen Victoria.

"I will be leaving soon," Revati said, and Queen Victoria nodded firmly at Aurora. "This is Aurora Smythe; she will be acting as the Baker Street councilwoman until I return," Revati said to Aurora, who curtsied with embarrassment.

"I’m aware of who Miss Smythe is; can she handle your duties?" Queen Victoria asked doubtfully.

"She handles most of them already; I just yell a lot to make sure it all gets done," Revati said, and Little Hardi sniffed.

"Are you sure you don’t want to stay and marry me? This all seems like a lot of effort for a silly flibbertigibbet," Little Hardi said.

"Oh, Little Hardi, I have no interest in being your queen," Revati said, and Little Hardi glanced at Aurora.

"And what about you, then? Fancy wearing a pretty crown in my court?" He asked.

"Sorry, I only like girls," Aurora said, and Little Hardi sighed as if defeated.

"You’re going to die out in the wasteland," he said.

"I’m not going through the wasteland; I’m going through the train tunnel," Revati replied.

"The train tunnel! Nobody who goes into that tunnel ever comes back," Queen Victoria pointed out.

"Maybe they’re happy with what they find on the other side," Brigadeiro said cheerfully.

Everyone exchanged a look.

"Whatever happens to me isn’t your problem. If you have any further questions, Aurora will be happy to answer them," Revati replied firmly before turning around.

The only people who tried to follow her were Brigadeiro, Camilo, and the figure still dressed in the cloak.

[oklcmc]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀،̲،̲⠀⠀⠀𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 [𝟏𝟖+]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀゛⠀You was livin’ off of Dru Hill wasn’t Ready for the World，but baby，who is？ Know you prettier than all the El⠀⠀⠀DeBarges never worry ‘bout the Total of the charges ❪I got this❫.⠀〟

word count：8，602

pairing：demetrius edward ゛⠀big meech⠀〟flenory，sr. ❪demetrius edward ゛⠀lil meech⠀〟flenory，jr.❫ ✕ black!female oc ❪cheryl renee ゛⠀salt⠀〟james，circa 1988❫

forewarning：this imagine will contain use of drugs and alcohol，strong language and sexual content. read at your discretion.

fun-size playlist：i. anderson .paak，snoop dogg ⅋ the last artful，dodgr - anywhere，ii. slick rick - hey young world，iii. the art of noise - moments in love，iv.  tyler，the creator，frank ocean ⅋ lætitia sadier - partyisntover╱campfire╱bimmer，v. lloyd - streetlove，vi. earth，wind ⅋ fire -  can’t hide love，vii. amerie - i just died，viii. iggy azalea - the last song，ix. rené ⅋ angela - my first love，x. minnie riperton - inside my love，xi. marvin gaye - i want you，xii. anita baker - been so long，xiii. silk sonic，bootsy collins - blast off. yes，this is sequenced!  ‹𝟹

author’s note：⠀⠀⠀‘’ ⠀⠀⠀I’m slightly ashamed to admit that I’ve been working tirelessly on this piece since late November of last year. I don’t necessarily love it，but maybe it’ll grow on me later y’all，I don’t know？I’m honestly sick of looking at it at this point in time，so I’ma let y’all finally have it. Song lyrics provided by none other than Iggy Azalea with minor alterations done. In order to prevent confusion on y’all’s end，I also wanted to state that I had switched Pepa’s government name for Salt’s being that I thought it’d be more suiting to her character. Happy readings!⠀⠀⠀‘’

Detroit，Michigan · Mid-November of 1988

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓

⠀⠀⠀𝓢andra James had been suspended in a cyclone of her own creative process all afternoon. The habitual grey cloud of over-analyzation had swept in and funneled into a mass consisting of a slew of instrumental cassette tapes and paper balls full of unfinished song lyrics or absentminded scribbles scattered throughout the sitting room area of her very own single-family home.

After much deliberation, Sandra has finally subjected herself to the severe case of writer’s block, hurling herself against the back cushions of her navy blue leather sofa alongside the throw pillows and crumpled scraps of paper that simultaneously began to alight the seat upon her arrival with an exasperated sigh.

Her stomach growled ravenous. It was then that Sandra had come to terms with her biggest mistake that evening, she hadn’t eaten in a matter of several hours, and what was a storming brain without the fuel of glucose? She immediately began to brainstorm on a quick solution to her problem, internally battling between take-out Thai food or Pizza Hut, that is until the tone of her pager dissipated her train of thought completely.

Swiftly pushing the foam headphones to her Sony brand Walkman towards the back of her neck, Sandra stretched her hand out towards the Motorola Bravo pager sitting out on the glass top coffee table before her before her eyes skimmed over the triple-digit code currently being displayed on it’s LCD.

911.

Not an emergency, but more so an urgency to return her best friend’s call.

Retrieving her solid Motorola DynaTAC cell phone from it’s place on the abstract rug of the sitting room, her natural manicure danced along the keypad, punching in a number she had memorized since being an adolescent.

“Yo?” Sandra greeted her friend of twenty-two years with little to no enthusiasm at all, knowing that nine times out of ten the information that she was preparing to spew wasn’t that crucial to begin with, but she was wrong, and she knew that once Slick Rick’s “Hey Young World” began to drown through the transmitter. RollerCade had to be poppin’ at this time of night.

“Bitch, what the fuck do you mean ‘Yo?’ You were suppose to be meeting me outside RollerCade an hour ago! What’s the hold up?” Her best friend shouted over the accompanying Hip-Hop track although her voice tended to carry that way often. Sanda stood corrected.

“My bad, Roxxane. I got wrapped up with penning rhymes, you know how it is. Who’s all there anyway?”

“Ohh, no one special. It’s just me, Martin, both Chris’... Oh, and that music producer you like. What’s his name again? Herbert? Herb?”

“Hurby’s there?!” Sandra exclaimed, nearly flying off the couch in search of her Nike Air Trainer SCs.

“Yup!”

“Like right now?!”

“Yeah. Maybe you can slip some of your tapes to him while he’s here. You know they be dope.” Roxxane persuaded, but mostly for her own sake of the opportunity to flap her gums.

“Say no more, I’m on my way!”

“Not in that busted ass Pontiac you ain’t!”

“Why you always dissin’ my whip, Roxxy? You know it gets me where I need to be.”

“Yeah, when it wants to. You know that shit be breakin’ down, girl. I don’t why you be puttin’ on. Makin’ all that dough as a sales lead at Saks and still can’t afford a new whip. It’s a wonder how you even get there on time the way that you do.”

“Whatever, you know I’ma always make somethin’ shake. You just keep that in mind the next time you ask for a lift. I’ll see you in twenty.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Peace!” Roxxane hadn’t given Sandra the opportunity of biding her farewell before ending the call.

Sandra could only shake her head at her best friend’s usual antics as she carelessly tossed the hefty cell phone onto the sofa before going to slip her dainty feet into her SCs with her solid 24k rope chain and bamboo earrings swinging from their places on her neck and earlobes from her movements alone. Next came her navy blue leather fringe jacket that coordinated all to well with the “Medicine Ball” colorway of her sneakers and layered over her solid white turtleneck and high-waisted paperbag style acid washed jeans. She was sure to secure her pager onto her waistline alongside her Walkman, stash her notepad full of rhymes and no. 2 pencil inside her Gucci monogram shoulder bag and grab her lanyard before splitting the front door.

Though the baluster to her front porch had progressively froze over throughout the day, it hadn’t one stopped Sandra from using it in assisting her down the steps and into the harsh -15° weather. Ice flurries almost immediately came whisking past her petite frame, causing her to cup her bare hands over her mouth and huff into them before rubbing them together vigorously in order to gain some sort of body heat back.

She was well aware in tonight’s clothing pieces being rather scanty, but she’d risk coming down with a common cold any given day if it meant looking fashionable while doing so and that’s how she’d always been, even as an disobedient adolescent.

She cautiously trudged over the pathway covered in black ice in order to reach the door of the chain-link fence, thankfully without slipping up on her ass. She yanked the fence’s door closed with slight aggression due to the 8.4″ of snow blocking it’s usual pathway before securely locking it and racing towards the driver’s side door of her Pontiac Phoenix where she would unlock it using it’s key before climbing inside and slamming it back shut behind her.

She repeated the same three-step routine she once did outside the parked vehicle in order to keep warm before her trembling hands could even locate the ignition. Absentmindedly turning the key until it aligned with the start point in the ignition switch, Sandra could feel her heart palpitate as the dreadful sound of the engine stalling came to her dismay.

“Nooo!” She muttered between clenched teeth, her numbing fingers gripping the steering wheel in apprehension until her knuckles practically turned white. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” She coaxed the vehicle, finally witnessing the water vapor pour from her crimson painted lips as she slowly bought the key back to it’s lock point before swiftly bringing it to it’s start point again with the same result. Then again. “Fuck!” She bellowed in frustration, banging her closed fists against the steering wheel before sitting back with a heavy sigh of defeat. She had been jinxed.

She sat there for a stalling moment in contemplation of going back outside in the cold before snatching the key from the ignition, pulling the inner door handle and proceeding to do it anyway. She’d forgotten her quads anyhow. She retraced her every step up until she was standing in the middle of her sitting room yet again with her cell phone pressed against her ear after hitting redial.

“What’s up?” Roxanne answered the phone in such a jubilant manner over the party music that it pissed Sandra off. It pained her that her best friend was having the time of her life without her company.

“Bitch, you jinxed me!” Sandra exclaimed, falling back on her leather recliner with her head in her hand.

“How so? Wait, wait, wait, don’t tell me that, that busted ass Pontiac gave out again? I told your hardheaded ass to let that car go months ago.”

“Whatever, Roxxy. All I need is a quick jump and I’ll be there. You know anybody?”

“Shit, it needs more than that. Your neighbors can’t give you one?” Sandra picked her head up, staring straight into the imaginary camera of life with a stale expression.

“No. You know damn well Mr. Boyd works overnight and Mrs. Green got glaucoma! Why do you think I’m asking you?!”

“Damn, my bad then. What about a taxi?”

“Roxxane, please!”

“Okay! Um, let me think. There is this one man my pops works with at the Cadillac factory, Mr. Charles Flenory. He’s always fixin’ shit for other people, especially that conniving Pastor Swift, so I don’t see why he couldn’t help you out with your situation? Plus him and his family live in Ecorse, that’s closer to where you stay. Just be wary of his sons if they were to pick up, heard bad news about ‘em.”

“Ahh, but I thought you liked trouble?”

“Sometimes. but this ain’t about me right now. Take this number down...”

Once jotting the number Roxxane had given her down on the flesh of the thenar muscle of her left hand and properly bidding her best friend farewell a second time around, Sandra hadn’t wasted a stalling moment on boldly punching the unfamiliar number into her cell phone because she knew if she hadn’t pushed herself to do so, she would’ve been sitting there all night having psychological debates with her own form of anxiety.

The dark cyan corded telephone which was mounted to the floral patterned kitchen walls of the Flenory’s residence had simultaneously began to ring as the eldest child, Demetrius Edward Flenory otherwise known as “Big Meech” or simply “Meech” had discovered a new route into the same overfamiliar property he had been banished from merely weeks ago.

Placing the same exact wad of cash he attempted to grant his father the last time he had seen him beside the glass of tap water he had once sipped from on the kitchen counter, Demetrius raced his way over to the telephone with much attitude, snatching it off the hook before it could ring a second time and blow his whole cover, wondering who could be callin’ the house this time of night.

“Yo?!” His baritone range intimidatingly huffed through the transmitter, serenading Sandra’s eardrums and causing her legs pry shut on instant.

She couldn’t quite understand why her body reacted this way, but she quickly thought of a plan to redeem herself, putting on her best saleswoman voice which was something she was highly experienced at when dealing with all the upper class privileged folks at her day job. If she fucked this up, she was definitely in for the night. No RollerCade.

“Um, y-yes. Hi. I apologize for calling at such an inconvenient time like this, but I was wondering would it possible for me to speak with a Mr. Charles Flenory?” She forcefully grinned as if this stranger on the opposite end of the call could actually see her, double-checking the name written out on her left hand to ensure it’s accuracy.

Demetrius’ initial impression was that the woman speaking sounded fairly young, likely around him and Terry’s age group, if anything. He was oddly banking on her being a possible lead in the demise of his father. A plausible fling would finally put his plan of revenge into execution.

“He’s out right now,” Demetrius lied straight through his teeth, fully aware that his father was upstairs resting alongside his mother. “Who’s speaking?”

Sandra could feel her heart sink in disappointment, knowing she wouldn’t be apart of the RollerCade festivities tonight.

“My name’s Sandra, Sandra James, but everyone calls me Sandy.”

“With a name like that, you’ve got to be a bill collector.” Demetrius was seconds away from slamming the phone down on the hook until she began to reason with him.

“Oh, of course not! A-Actually my friend recommended me this number on a whim. I’m trying to get a jump for my car.”

“Mmcht!” Demetrius kissed his teeth, flicking his 18k Yellow Gold Patek Philippe brand wristwatch in a nonchalant manner. “That’s all? That’s slight work. I can do that for you. Where you stay at?”

“You can?!” Sandra perked up at his offer, but quickly came down on account of what Roxxane had stated in their last phone conversation. By now she had it figured out that she had to have been speaking with one of Charles’ sons which meant no inconveniences. “I mean... I stay on Garland Street. It’s going to be the house with the beige Pontiac parked in front of it.” She stated coolly, nodding her head.

“I know where that’s at. I can make it there in twenty.”

“Thank you so much! I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this!”

“No sweat. I’m Demetrius by the way, but everyone calls me Meech. I’m Charles’ eldest son.”

“Nice to meet you, Meech. I guess I’ll be seeing you soon?”

“For sure.”

“Thank you again!” Sandra ended the call with the phone pressed against her beaming lips.

She had so much optimism in a person she hadn’t been acquainted with over ten minutes ago. So much for that nuisance Roxxane spoke of.

Roxxane’s sentiments on the Flenor boys turned out to be indeed accurate or at least that’s what Sandra had assumed as she paced behind her security door with a pair of jumper cables in hand. She had been in that same position for the past thirty minutes and counting, anticipating Demetrius’ arrival. She was about ready to throw in the towel until witnessing a scarlet red 1988 model BMW E30 M3 accelerate down her block and park directly in the middle of the street as if they owned it.

She could make out the garbled instrumental of The Art Of Noise’s “Moments In Love” blaring from the custom sound system of their vehicle as she gawked at it, curious to know the occupant who sat behind those tinted windows. By the gold rim detail, she could almost guess a drug dealer of some sorts since that’s all whoever owned them in Motor City nowadays anyhow, but who was she to make assumptions this early on? All she did know was that the vehicle put her Pontiac to shame! She was almost embarrassed by it.

The German owned vehicle was indeed fascinating to Sandra, obviously, just not as fascinating as the driver making an exit from it. This was evident in her sudden symptoms of cotton mouth and piercing dark brown irises as they followed the stranger from the running vehicle to the door of her front gate.

Proximate in Sandra’s complexion if not darker, he stood at a solid 5′8″ in his navy blue colorway Adidas brand Campus 80s sneakers, jet black vinyl parachute trousers, navy blue satin button-up and black mid-length mink fur jacket. By the yellow polarized Cazal brand sunglasses sitting upon his nose, the hefty rope chains looping through an custom M initial and 50 Boyz gold plated pendant and his rattail, Sandra knew she stood correct on his occupation.

That hadn’t once stopped her from tucking the jumper cables beneath her arm as she aggressively scavenged her shoulder bag for her favorite tube of Chanel Rouge lipstick. She swiftly stepped aside in order to touch-up her lipstick in the entryway mirror, smearing a second coat over the dull first coat before tracing her pinky finger around the corners of her full lips to correct any imperfections, tightly rubbing them together and releasing them with a dramatic pop.

She aggressively fluffed and tugged at the loose curls of her honey blonde and chestnut pixie haircut with an exasperated sigh. All she could dwell on in that moment was her regret for not treating them with mousse, oil sheen nor oil itself earlier in the day.

Her train of thought was once again dissipated by three light taps against her security door.

Showtime! She thought, stepping into his view.

“Hi,” Sandra greeted, feeling her heart palpitate while bearing witness to all the features which made him attractive up-close. He could say the same about her. “Meech, is it?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Demetrius chuckled nervously, his clammy hands remained resting in the pockets of his mink because there was just no way in hell a woman, of all people was making him sweat. “You must be Sandy?”

“Of course! I’m so glad you were able to find me in this weather,” She quickly unlocked the security door, watching him carefully step back as she slowly pushed it open before leaning against the frame. “Would you like to come in?”

“Actually I have somewhere to be, so if we could just...” Demetrius whirled his index finger in midair with an animated whistle, the Patek Philippe now visibly glinting on his wrist as he hoped to expedite the process, but Sandra was on to his apprehension.

“You just passed it,” She smirked, nudging her head in the direction of where her vehicle was parked at, causing him to look between the two of them. “My car, I mean.”

“You mean to tell me that, that Pontiac is yours?” He squinted his eyes in disbelief.

“Well everybody’s not as flashy as you, Demetrius. Is there a problem?” She questioned defensively.

“Nah,” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Mind if I have a look at it?”

“Feel free!” She exclaimed, handing over her keys with no hesitation in which he happily accepted before proceeding to jog back down the flight of porch steps with her, the jumper cables and a flashlight in tow.

The last very last thing that Sandra wanted to do was make a nuisance of herself while being in his presence, but she’d much rather save him the trip back to her doorstep and herself the embarrassment since she evidently had an idea of what would be said. She had heard it all before.

Sandra stood at his side, aiming her flashlight directing under the hood once he went to prop it open using the support of the strut rod.

“Damn, girl,” Demetrius grunted, batting his full lashes in disbelief at what he was actually viewing as both his hands gripped the perimeter of the open hood. “I ain’t no mechanic or nothin’, but your spark plugs fucked up!”

“Are they really?” Sandra grimaced between clenched teeth, feeling her heart palpitate as she looked between him and the engine of the vehicle as if she could actually identify the problem.

“Hell yeah,” He responded, carefully letting the hood of the vehicle back down. “When’s the last time you had someone look at this?”

“Oh, I-I don’t know really?” Her hands gripped the flashlight with apprehension.

“Well I’m not trying to tell you what to do or whatever, but you better off leaving this shit alone the remainder of the night and comin’ to ride with me in my bimmer.” He stated, briefly brushing his hands off as if that would really rid the oil that stained them.

“Oh, no,” Sandra shook her head, tucking the flashlight beneath her arm along with the jumper cables after powering it off before pulling a pack of multi-surface wipes from her shoulder bag. She held out her hand for his in which he hadn’t hesitated on offering to her before she got down to business, scrubbing vigorously until every stain had been lifted from her sight. “As I was saying before, you’ve done enough for me already. I’ll be okay staying in for the night.”

“Yeah, well I insist,” Demetrius grinned, tucking his numb hands in the pockets of his mink after inspecting them front to back. “Go put up your mechanic shit and grab whatever else it is that you need. I’ll be out here waiting when you get back.”

“Well... If you insist...” Sandra dragged, treading back towards the open fence of her home once again. “It’ll only take a second!” She exclaimed, quickly plodding through the snow in order to reach her doorstep.

She split the security door, stomping the soles of her SCs against the entrance rug to rid the excess snow before gravitating towards the spandrel to exchange the jumper cables and flashlight for her solid white quads. After powering off all the appliances on the first level of her home and locking up, Sandra was climbing into the heated passenger seat of Demetrius’ M3 where Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Can’t Hide Love” played at a low volume and the pungent smell of marijuana and a vanilla scented Feu Orange brand air freshener enthralled her upon her entrance more than the butter interior.

Demetrius had just finished wrapping up an seemingly important conversation on the car’s custom telephone when he decided to finally place his focus on Sandra who was in the midst of placing her quads on the floor in front of her.

“Yo, you mind if I made a pit stop ‘round my way before I drop you off?” Demetrius asked, licking over his thin lips with his right hand gripping onto the gearshift and the other remaining resting on the steering wheel as his low eyes glanced in her direction.

“Sure.” She twitched a smile at him once they locked eyes to ensure her confirmation while adjusting the Cartier Love bracelet secured around her wrist and going to pull on her seatbelt.

“Coo’.” He responded, turning up the volume on his stereo before peeling off into the crisp night.

Fuck a Hurby at this point. Sandra was equally as happy being in the presence of Demetrius.

Demetrius Flenory discreetly pulled his BMW E30 M3 on the side of the overfamiliar GLS plant at a quarter past ten o’clock, a refuge in which him, as well as those apart of his mob used to sling drugs.

Without stalling the engine of his vehicle by recollecting that in fact, there was another occupant besides himself, he instead reached for the buckle of his seat belt, pressing the pad of his thumb into it’s release button before glancing down at his wristwatch for the time.

10：17 PM.

There was only a measly window of time before RollerCade were to shut down for the night, but he hadn’t thought she cared much anymore seeing how she had her face seemingly pressed into her notepad since they were halfway there. If all else failed, he didn’t mind taking her back home. He actually enjoyed the company for once.

“This should only take me a minute.” He stated, watching her aggressively press the led of her pencil into the acid-free sheet of paper within her notepad, from stanza to stanza.

“Yeah, sure.” She responded apathetically— Subconsciously, he was sure— not even bothering to meet his gaze.

“You hungry?”

Of course Demetrius felt a little empathetic of her situation. He took longer than usual arriving to her only to drag her there instead of where she actually wanted to be. Feeding her was the least that he could.

“I could eat.” Sandra played it coy with a simple shrug of her shoulders although the repetitive rumbling in her stomach— In which only she could hear over his preference of R&B— Came as a friendly reminder that she still hadn’t eaten since midday.

“Aight, coo’,” He nodded his head, pulling the inner door handle in order to step outside of the vehicle. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” Sandra smiled faintly, anticipating the second his door closed to lower the volume on his stereo so that she could actually hear herself think.

It was as if a burst of inspiration had hit her not even halfway through the ride and she couldn’t help but to take advantage of the situation, even if it all had hailed from Demetrius himself.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀゛⠀Damn，well... ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Without meaning to seems I ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Think I met someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀But he ain’t really my type，shit ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He only 21 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀His fingers do the talkin’ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Where he’s from，will be his coffin ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Every time this nigga drive me ‘round，think I might go down on arson，but...⠀〟

Sandra had only met Demetrius’ acquaintance well over three hours ago and had already begun to familiarize herself with his horrendous habit of time management. One thing she could applaud him on though was keeping his word.

He returned to the idle vehicle forty minutes after the hour with a kraft paper bag stained in grease and a joint rolled with Zig-Zag brand paper. The presentation of it was less than satisfactory in her opinion, but it was the aroma that really made her curious enough to want a taste. Who was she kidding? Hell, she was so hungry in that moment, in fact, she would’ve eaten a horse if he offered it to her.

“I got your food!” He announced, practically gleaming as he handed over the bag of raucous.

“Yeah, forty minutes later,” She scoffed, although politely accepting of it, welcoming it into her lap. “Thank you.” She expressed bashfully, unfolding the bag to spot a plastic hinged food container loaded with a chicken quesadilla, seasoned shoestring fries and Heinz brand ketchup packets.

“I got tied up in some business, my apologies. At least it’s still fresh.” He finally had the opportunity of sparking his joint, glancing over at her spreading light amounts of ketchup over the pile of fries before gracefully going to feed her appetite. “You always eat like that?” He couldn’t resist asking as clouds of smoke poured from his lips.

“Like what?” She inquired with her fist covering her mouth as she silently chewed on her food.

“Like a damn bird.” He chucked, casually taking another hit from his joint.

“I guess you could say that?” She shrugged, having no right or wrong answer to his question as she proceeded to feed her face.

“What about skating? You do that shit often?” He asked, and for a split second made Sandra realize where she was actually intending to be at this time of night besides caught up on his aura.

“Outside of bustin’ my ass at Saks and writing rhymes, yes.”

“Ohh, so that’s what this is about?” Demetrius playfully snatched up the open notepad that had absentmindedly slipped into the console when she went to reach for her meal earlier. Sandra could’ve sworn she felt her heart stop beating when he began to recite the lyrics written about him.

“No, please don’t—” She began to plead with him, outstretching her hand for what was rightfully hers, but she had came a second too late.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀゛⠀We haven’t even kissed yet ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀But that just makes me want him more ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Plus he love his momma，yep ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He a family man ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And even though the ratchets love him ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I still think he a gentleman，”

Sandra wasn’t afraid to admit to her own lyrics being subpar, hell, a satire of their initial acquaintance if anything, but it was the delivery of the nursery rhyme that made her embarrassed of it and that told Demetrious everything that he needed to know. This was evidently about him.

The way her cheeks flushed crimson before it came down to her trying her luck again further proved that. She slowly extended her hand out for the notepad that he had clenched within his left just outside the window when their lips coincidentally locked before execution.

The amateur kiss had really only lasted a few seconds, but seemed like forever in Sandra’s apprehension as she was the first to pull back and adjust herself correctly in the passenger seat once regaining possession of her notepad. There was a tingling sensation left lingering on her full lips as she was finally able to distinguish his preferred strain of Sour Diesal.

He had her right where he wanted her, flustered and flirting with the idea of going in for more.

“I-I’m sorry.” Sandra bashfully apologized with her head in her lap as she twiddled her thumbs though she wasn’t all at fault.

“N-Nah, you good,” Demetrius casually pinched the bridge of his nose while shaking his head in embarrassment before his hand found the gearshift again. “Don’t even trip on that. That was on me. I initiated it.”

“Wait, Demetrius...” She readjusted herself in the passenger seat, her leg pulled within it so that she was facing towards him before reaching for the key in the ignition switch and turning it until it aligned with the “ACC” point where “My First Love” by René & Angela could still be heard playing at a low volume on the stereo. “I’d be lying to myself if I said that I wasn’t feelin’ you as much as I said I was in my rhymes. I’m just... Scared? Scared of what you’ll think of me after tonight if I actually fell through with this. If I’m being honest here, I ain’t never did no shit like this before.” She snorted in amusement at the words that escaped her lips not even a minute ago as she raked her fingers through the loose curls of her pixie, her head remaining within her lap.

“You don’t ever have to worry ‘bout no shit like that happenin’ with me, ‘cause I ain’t the one to kiss and tell, baby,” His relatively large hand went from clutching the gearshift to caressing her beaming cheeks, causing her to finally gaze at him. “I’ll be as slow and gentle as you want me to be.”

“Promise?” She questioned in a whisper, finding herself already falling into his trap when she kicked her sneakers and peeled her jacket off before straddling his lap.

“I promise, momma. I promise.” He smirked, his hand going from caressing her cheek to snaking around the nape of her neck, bringing her into a open-mouthed kiss far more passionate than the first.

His lips engulfed hers, swallowing what was left in the traces of her favorite lipstick shade of Rouge by Chanel until they were completely bare and past the point of swollen from his alone. She was slightly inept in her approaches, but caught on to his actions rather vastly. If his head were tilting to the right then hers was tilting to the left, if his fingers were gripping her neck then chances are that hers was tracing throughout his scalp until reaching his rattail and if his tongue were exploring every crevice of her mouth than so was hers.

Their kiss had broken in infectious laughter when Demetrius unexpectedly decided to recline the seat back even further using the adjustment handle to the left of them, puling away from her lips prematurely.

Sandra took this time of separation to gather the hem of her turtleneck within her hands before peeling it off, her solid rope chain falling back in position between the valley of her C-cup breasts. Next would come her acid washed, leaving her in nothing but a satin red triangle bra, a matching high-cut thong and her slouch socks.

Demetrius couldn’t help but to admire her in that position of vulnerability, his seemingly perfect top alignment of teeth closing in over his bottom lip as his frigid hands went from teasingly caressing her bare thighs to squeezing at her dainty waist, her stomach flexing and goosebumps surfacing her flesh at his touch almost immediately.

He sat upright just as his hands found the clasp of her bra, skillfully unhooking it before watching the thick straps cascade down her arms. His mouth watered at the sight of her nipples, brown and taut from the air that was hitting them. As much as he craved the need to want to suckle on her, he instead chose to take the slow route as that was what he promised to her.

His hands cupped her diamond-shaped face, slightly tilting it at an angle where he could access her collarbone easily. She grabbed at his wrists in preparation as his lips pecked at the sensitive area before sucking feverishly on it and even daring to sink his teeth into it, leaving blots of purple and red behind. Subconsciously marking his territory. His lips trailed further down to the valley of her breasts as his hands fell to the small of her back.

Growing impatient with his teasing, Sandra tugged her fingers through Demetrius’ kinky fro while deeply arching her back against the steering wheel so that her perky breasts were right within his reach.

Demetrius really couldn’t help but to chuckle at her desperation as his tongue encircled her areola before welcoming her whole nipple into his mouth. Wanting to leave no breast unattended, a free hand crept up to toy with the opposite while the other caressed her lower back. He alternated these actions often, his almond eyes never leaving hers as he witnessed her jaw slack and her eyebrows crease in immense pleasure.

“Oh my— Shit!” Sandra found it extremely difficult to hold eye contact with him now as her head flew back. The seat of her panties became saturated in her own wake as she rode out her own subtle orgasm right in the comfort of his lap.

Demetrius was barely touching the young woman and she was already cum’n for him. Words Sandra never even assumed would leave her mouth were now flying freely. He bought out the best in her if he did say so himself.

His wet lips found hers again, his arms snaking around her trembling waist before impulsively going to switch out their positions in the seat. Now she lie beneath him, admiring his features as he overshadowed her with the same thought in mind.

Minnie Riperton’s “Inside My Love” couldn’t have chosen a better time to be a symbolic representation of someone else’s union up until the very moment it played at a low volume on the stereo.

“You sure you wanna follow through with this, momma?.” Demetrius asked, stripping out his mink jacket, satin button-up and vinyl trousers, each article of clothing carelessly being hurled into the passenger seat along with the rest of hers once discarded. “It’s not as easy as it seems.”

The tent in his boxer briefs was as evident as ever now, putting Sandra’s mind in a nervous frenzy. He wanted this, but he wanted to be sure that she did too.

Sandra nodded her head vigorously to his question, her hands covering her now sensitive breasts, but that evidently weren’t enough consent for Demetrius. 

“No, I want to hear you say it.”

“Y-Yes,” She whimpered out in desperation, bringing herself up on her elbows where their lips met again. “Yes, daddy, I’m sure.”

Demetrius thought he’d lose all composure to the woman lying beneath him in that very moment, but he persevered.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” He mumbled against her lips as her cheeks radiated at his compliment for the umpteenth time that night. “Okay, momma, I need for you to listen carefully to what I’m about to ask of you,” Sandra could only nod her head in agreement. “Lay back down in this seat and spread your legs for daddy.”

With his eyes not once parting from hers, Demetrius watched as she went to recline back in the driver’s seat before her knees slightly parted. She was definitely testing his patience.

“Wider.” He ordered, voice low and authoritative as his jaw clenched.

Her legs spread the slightest as she nibbled into the corner of her lips.

“C’mon, momma,” He spanked rather roughly at her thigh, causing her to whine at the stinging mark his personalized 3-finger ring left behind. He wouldn’t have to handle her so roughly if she had been doing what he had asked of her. “Open ‘em wider so that I can see that pretty ass pussy.” He coerced, witnessing her legs fall in completely opposite directions at his command. “Yeah that’s it.”

Though he could sense her body cowering beneath his gaze due to her own insecurities, Demetrius really couldn’t help but to admire the way the thin fabric of her thong was being devoured and drowned in the arousal of her fleshy pussy.

“So fuckin’ wet...” He whispered his praise in a rich baritone, desperately wanting to play in it.

The pad of his thumb pressed directly into the area of fabric that covered her clit with much pressure, swiping to and fro as if he was working a joystick of some sort.

“Ahhh...” Sandra hissed lowly at the feeling she assumed only her fingers were capable of causing.

The way her body spasmed beneath his touch told him that he was doing something right. Her dainty hands encased his wrist as her legs pry shut in order to still his movements, even only for a stalling second, but to no avail.

“Aht, aht,” He expressed as if she were a child, tapping at her thigh yet again. “I said open ‘em.” He witnessed pleasure wash over her expression, her knees splitting the very moment she felt herself slick from the pressure of his fingers. “Good girl.”

He hooked his index finger through the seat of her panties, yanking the damp fabric aside just in the nick of time to witness the opaque cream seep from it’s opening. He impulsively went to thrust his middle finger inside her in a beckoning fashion in order to get her warmed up for the substantial course of action. His free hand going to pull his solid piece from the restraint of his briefs. He tasked between working her up and lubricating his shaft in his own saliva and precum.

“D-Daddy, aren’t we suppose to be using protection?” She stammered, feeling herself about to leak in his seat.

“I gotchu, momma. Trust me.” He persuaded, edging her orgasm by only a second when slipping his fingers from her before proceeding to bridge over her with a reassuring peck to her supple lips. “You just focus on relaxing.”

She nodded, her hands and legs impulsively falling into place on his lower back and waist. She submitted herself to him completely. It was his for the taking.

His hand remained fisting the base of his dick the moment he decided to push the head in. His thumb tracing her clit in order to alleviate some of the pain that she were in. Still her sweet gasps unified with that of Marvin Gaye’s “I Want You,” pussy clenching around him just the same way her thighs were at his waistline in attempt to stop what was coming as the roots of her natural nail beds aggressively raked into his shoulder blades.

“Open up for me, momma.” He groaned against her jawline, lingering wet kisses there as he pulled back from her tacky heat for only a split second before sinking back inside, bearing more inches than with the first.

It took a minute but her legs eventually fell open like he had asked, feet falling into the grips of the steering wheel like stirrups as her toes flexed at his penetration.

“Ow, Meechie!” She mewled, eyes screwed shut as tears clouded the vision she once had of him on top of her.

“I know, momma. I know,” He kissed away any stray tears that once stained her face. “Just a little more.” 

Demetrius could feel his self-restraint regressing as his motion against her clit increased. He pulled back to his tip once more before plunging back inside her. Far more vigorous than the first, he finally felt himself break past her hymen. Even through a pulsating ache, her walls still welcomed him with a tight hug as they accommodated to his girth. They had sealed the deal. They were finally in sync with one another.

“Oh, shit!” Demetrius subconsciously groaned, face flushing febrile and jaw clenching at the traces of her juices and crimson ichor coating his shaft when he went to pull back.

“So much pressure.” She cried out, fingers marking up his rear window and legs flailing, but this had only given him more leverage.

His hands smoothed up the back of her thighs until her knees were touching her breasts. He made it his mission to reach her soul as he began slamming almost entirely all his body weight onto her. Though still in park, the car still moved at his actions, causing her mouth to fall open with no sound and her eyes to roll back until they were damn near white.

“Ain’t no angel no more now, hm?” He smirked condescendingly, biting into his bottom lip as he listened to her pussy talking back to him over his chains. “This my pussy, baby? Tell me that it’s all mine.”

“This your pussy, daddy,” She drawled, eye twitching the slightest at his pace as her nails pierced into his waist with the shattering thought of there being nowhere to run. “All yours! Uhn, Meech—”

“You cum’n for me, baby?”

“Yeah!” She squeaked, spots now clouding her vision as she finally sprayed against him.

Demetrius had scarcely given the young woman time to recover from her first real orgasm as he effortlessly tore the thong from her fragile body before flipping her onto her side. He hoisted her ass up, pussy spreading, just to see what he was working with as he pummeled back inside her snug cover without warning. His thrusts were deep and fleeting, continuously knocking at her spot.

“Oooh-a!” Her voice trembled, once hand kneading the flesh of her breasts as the other pressed against his abdomen. His eyes boring into hers.

Their rendezvous set them back. Any prior thought of them having places to go and people to meet was nonexistent up until the distinct chime of either of their pagers reeled them back in, Demetrius’ more than likely. Foolishly enough, Sandra still went reaching into the passenger’s seat only to have her arm snatched back and pinned against her chest, their fingers interlocking.

“Don’t move,” He slapped her ass aggressively, pressing his forehead against hers. “Don’t you fucking move. I wanna feel all this pussy.”

“Okay, okay, okay, Demetrius! Fuuuck!” He had sent her into another blinding orgasm just that quick. “What are you—” She gasped.

With what little space they did have, Demetrius had still managed to slink her lower half up to his mouth before his lips closed in over her aching clit. Normally, he wasn’t a fan of performing oral on women, especially not on a first encounter such as this one, but he made an exception for Sandra, wanting her first time to be memorable. Something she could finally gloat to her friends about.

“I just came, daddy! Please!” She begged to rest although her own body betrayed her when her ankles locked around his neck and her nails went digging into his scalp, pulling him in even closer.

“One more.” He groaned against her sex, knowing damn well he would be asking her for another round before their night ended.

He held her up by her waist, sinking his index and middle finger inside her entrance before his tongue rolled against her swollen bud again. Between him salivating against her clit and the gushing sound her body produced each and every time he went to pump his fingers inside of her, she didn’t know which one bought her to a climax faster.

“Uhhhn!” A guttural moan escaped her larynx as an overfamiliar feeling washed over her. She pushed at his forearm for release. ”Let go!”

Sinking back down into the driver’s seat, her hands cupped over her convulsing pussy as she curled up into a fetal position. She was winded and in tears over this one.

“You aight, momma?” Her body flinched at his touch as he rubbed her ass in order to calm her. She could only simply nod her head to his question as he gripped her chin, bringing her in for a small kiss. One that she could still taste herself with. “All fours.” He ordered in a gruff, lightly tapping at her ass.

Sandra sniffed, swiping beneath her nose before turning onto her stomach in the seat and bringing herself up on her hands and knees.

“Arch ya back, momma.” His hands pressed at the center of her spine, causing her head to lazily fall forward onto the rest as her hips spanned against him.

“Like this, daddy?” She seductively asked while wiggling her ass from side to side.

“Exactly like that.” His hand came cracking down on her ass once more, causing her to cry out before he was palming his stiff dick again and sinking back inside her warmth. Right where he belonged.

Her breath was shallow, toes flexing against the thick fabric of her socks as she took him to the hilt. His hands remained placed at her hips as he fed her pussy long strokes. Her ass clapped against his V-cut, his heavy sac slapping against her clit as he gained momentum. He’d occasionally slip out due to how wet she really was, but he’d dive right back in, carrying that same rhythm.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah...” Her moans imitated the cadence of his thrusts each and every time their hips would meet, putting him in a trance.

The windows were fogging at this point, the air around them becoming thick in their sex as their moans were loud enough to even drown out Anita Baker’s scatting over the stereo.

“Ohhh! Fuck me, Demetrius!” She moaned between clenched teeth, catching him off guard when she went to reach back for his chains.

“Shit, Sandy,” This groan came spontaneously as his body caved at the feeling of her walls contracting around his dick with a vice grip. He hadn’t expected her to catch on so fast and start throwing it back, hell, neither had she, but she wanted his nut just as bad as he had been chasing it. “Chill, chill chill!” He exclaimed, trying to restrain himself from doing something impulsive, but she hadn’t. Not even for a second.

His hands snaked around the front of neck, yanking her upright into his chest where his breath fanned over her ear and his thrusts began to dominate hers. If she even thought that she could fuck him into oblivion before he could do the same to her, she was sadly mistaken.

“Yeah, what was all that shit that you was talkin’ now? Must’ve forgotten who’s daddy ‘round here, huh? That’s okay, I’m here to remind you, baby girl.” His pounding hadn’t slacked. His fingers pressed into her neck furthermore as his lips pressed into her ear, making her dizzy. Sandra loved how vocal he was with her just the same way he loved to feel her get her rocks off by his stamina.

“I’m cum’n, I’m cum’n, I’m cum’n!” She squealed, her nails diggin’ into his hips as her eyes rolled back.

“Shit, me too, momma.” He groaned, his dick twitching inside her the second she seized against him while her cream slid off on his shaft.

With his hand remaining clasped around her neck, he pulled from her and immediately went to jerking his dick until spurts cum landed on her plump ass, lower back and his lower stomach. The sight was most rewarding.

He released her from his hold, her body falling into the chair once more as she struggled to keep her eyes open. The duo scarcely had time to collect themselves as there was a light tap against the driver’s side window.

The unwanted company was just a boy. Brown in complexion and unbelievably lanky in height and weight, an estimated 5′9″ at most if you had let Sandra tell it. He sported a hi-top fade, leather jacket and an overfamiliar 50 Boyz pendant identical to Demetrius’ which told her this wasn’t a stranger after all. He was an ally.

“Yo, Meech? You in there? Open up.” His knuckles impatiently drummed against the window again. He took a swift pull from his joint before attempting to peer past Demetrius’ tints.

“Shit!” Demetrius’ whispered, reaching for the glove compartment in a panic as Sandra went reaching for all the straps of clothing belonging to her that were thankfully still intact in the passenger seat.

Kraft paper napkins fell out onto the car floor where Sandra’s handbag and quads rested. Demetrius had still managed to catch a few, quickly going to wipe his jizz from his body as well as hers. She climbed into the backseat to pull on her clothes while Demetrius readjusted his seat, only bothering to toss on his briefs and button-up since there was only so much time to spare before the boy had gotten anymore suspicious than what he already was and called a whole SWAT team on his whereabouts. They didn’t need anymore intrusions as this was already embarrassing enough.

Demetrius cracked his window enough to where the boy could see his eyes.

“Yo? What’s up, B-Mickie?” Demetrius greeted his fellow caporegime.

“What’s up with me? Nigga, what’s up with you? I’ve been paging you since eleven. Here it is damn near going on one. Kato said she seen ya whip parked ‘round here, so I had to come check in.”

Demetrius had to catch himself from spazzing at the mention of Kato for B-Mickie’s sake. He understood his developing crush on the woman, but he had only hopes he was being wary of the company he kept. Her energy had been way off putting as of lately.

“So I guess you and Kato must be my parents now, huh?” Demetrius asked, his overfamiliar sarcasm finally leaking through.

B-Mickie could only kiss his teeth, taking another drag from his joint since it were the only thing keeping him warm then.

“Ain’t nobody even say all that, man. We were just concerned about you, that’s all.”

“Well you two should be more “concerned” about dishing out those rocks next time rather than me resting.”

“Resting?” B-Mickie chuckled at his audacity, flicking the ashes of his joint onto the pavement. “Yeah, okay, Meech. You got it.”

“Nigga, what’s so funny?”

“Nothin’, except the skates with pink wheels and Gucci bag in the floor of your passenger seat really add a nice touch to the finish.” Sandra’s fingers grew immobile against the fly of her jeans as she looked to Demetrius for an excuse of some sort, but he choked. B-Mickie was definitely on to them by now. “But before you lie about them being Nicole’s, I got a pretty good angle of the rearview from here. Great choice. She from ‘round here?”

“Get the fuck—” Demetrius was seconds away from stepping outside the vehicle until it registered that he was only clad in a top and undergarments. Maybe next time.

“Don’t answer that,” B-Mickie winked. “I’ll see you later, Meech. Goodnight, beautiful.” His palm came down on the roof of Demetrius’ bimmer a few times before he casually walked away.

Demetrius’ head fell back against the rest with an sigh of defeat just as Sandra had climbed her way back into the passenger seat with a sly smile tugging at her bare lips.

“Damn, girl,” Demetrius grinned sheepishly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You done got me caught up.” He could only hope that word hadn’t spread amongst those apart of his mob by now, but he knew B-Mickie’s intentions were nothing short of lighthearted. He had faith in him. He was loyal.

“No, you got yourself caught up when you decided to fuck me the way that you did,” Sandra stated, reapplying her lipstick in the mirror of the sun visor though it really did nothing in restoring her once kempt appearance. “Now come on and run me back home before more of your henchmen spin the block with a target on my back.”

“So I guess this is the part where I become grab-and-go dick for whenever you’re feeling spontaneous?” He questioned, aggressively pulling his trousers up around his waistline.

“Let’s just see how things pan out on the rug of my living room before I make that decision.” She smirked, his expression mirroring hers at the very mention of a second round.

“You tryna do it anywhere.” He chuckled, his hand fumbling for the gearshift and switch ignition before turning it to it’s “Start” point and peeling off into the night.

Sandra really hadn’t expected for this night to carry on further than their earlier phone conversation, let alone it ending with Demetrius being granted access to her most vital secrecy, but there she was. She didn’t know how far they were both willing to take this or where it’d even end, but she was definitely in for the ride.

“Hell yeah.” She nodded her head confidently before strapping herself in for the journey home.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀sandra ゛⠀pepa⠀〟jacqueline denton，circa 1988 as 𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐄 ゛⠀𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐗𝐘⠀〟

⤷ occupation：sandra’s best friend

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀myles truitt as 𝐁-𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐄 ❪d. meeks❫

⤷ occupation：caporegime of 50 boyz╱bmf

@forbeautyandlife╱@princesskillmonger╱@aislinnsilver╱@chaneajoyyy╱@loosewindmill╱@wawakanda-btch╱@muse-of-mbaku╱@eclecticblkgirl╱@raysunshine78╱@melaninmarvelgirl62╱@hidden-treasures21╱ @janelledarling╱@dameshaemonique╱@ljs-writing╱@ceeverse╱@aureahope╱@thadelightfulone╱@leahnicole1219╱@marvelmaree╱@fd-writes╱@myboyfriendgiriboy╱@yoyolovesbucky╱ @thiccdaddy-mbaku╱@lifelover4u╱@kaykay0829╱@theblulife╱@sheisexcellent-blog╱@thehomierobbstark╱@allhailqueennel╱@goldenfenxty╱@quietstorm-73╱@marysxo╱@tashawar╱@bitchacho25╱@diva-princess-on-fleek @tip222u╱@soulsparker╱@soufcakmistress╱@jimizwidow╱@lameasskara @dangerous-history╱@fiercedeception╱@btitannaaaaa╱@alittlejd╱@lilangelikaa╱@alookintohersoul╱@richonne4life╱@kemkem101╱@shyblackgurl╱@xsweetdellzx ╱@keyera-jackson╱@90sisthenew80s╱@judymfmoody╱@novaniskye╱@elocinnicole

author’s note：⠀⠀⠀‘’ ⠀⠀⠀This is me very humbly stepping outside my comfort zone this evening to spontaneously tag people in order to gain some traction and successfully make it into their Tumblr algorithm after a whole year. 

Allow me to properly introduce myself，my name is Paris，I’m slowly but surely migrating my work from Wattpad to Tumblr again after ten years and I love to write about the Black and Brown men who don’t seem to get enough attention in my spare time，but especially those of the Hamilton community. Other works include Keith Powers，Leon Simmons ❪Isaiah K. John❫ of Snowfall and Zion Kuwonu of PRETTYMUCH. My series and imagines are almost always set in my favorite periods of time. If these seem to be like somethin’ you’d be interested then please，don’t be a stranger in asking to be apart of my tag list， but if not，I want to thank you for your consideration of clicking this notification anyway. It’s greatly appreciated. Before I go treat myself to a face mask，I just want it to be known that us authors within the Black community need the audience to reblog the work! Y’all have a good night watching Euphoria now, ‘cause I know I will! ‹𝟹⠀⠀⠀‘’

[imeternallylove]

Bored Bored! - BBC Sherlock

Sherlock x Reader

reader insert 'The Great Game' sherlock: BBC tv series 1 ep 3

genre: slight angst, fluff (very)

words: 1,180

summary: Sherlock is boring AGAIN!

(gif not mine)

______________________________________________

221B Baker St. A couple of gunshots ring out as you walk inside the flat. First, you were panicked, moving a step faster to the living room. Mrs. Hudson hadn't been back here, might go to the supermarket.

Next, you hear John yells out something likes, "What the hell are you doing?", "Stop it!" You quickly know he snarls at Sherlock, your high-functioning psychopath boyfriend. And yes, he was BORED.

You walk into the room. Very discontent. "Satisfied now? Sherlock." Placed your paper grocery bags in the kitchen. Unloaded some items from shopping bags to the fridge. No one helps, Ugh GOOD boys. "Huh? Shot the wall, unwashed yourself, not eat anything since morning."

You step out " Look at you." You lean against the kitchen door. "What the hell you have done?"

"Because I AM BORED!" Sherlock shouts at you.

You frown. It's was you who should be angry! Today you bring the case file to Greg's office ALONE! On the way back to the flat you went to market buying the food ALONE! AND! Look at your boyfriend, he doesn't do anything else, just shot the wall to vent out. BECAUSE HE WAS BORED?!

You yell back pointedly. "THEN WHY YOU SHOOT THE GUN!!"

"Y/N, I said 'I'M BOR-' "

"Sorry. I'm better not be there." John interrupts, stop you both. The flatmate walks towards the living room door, putting on his jacket, heads for the stairs, which Mrs. Hudson is just coming up.

Sherlock turns his face away from you, pulling the cushion under his head nearer to the back of the sofa and curling up even tighter.

"Tsk." You roll your eyes. Straight to the bedroom, yanked the door open, and slam it loudly. "Fine. Go fuck yourself! Sherlock Holmes!"

Mrs. Hudson chuckles, knocking on the flat door. Talk to Sherlock. " You two had a little domestic?"

Flailing to get himself upright, he grimaces and drags in a long breath. "Ah! God damn it." Sherlock stands up off the sofa and takes the shortest route to his bedroom that you were inside.

"Go. Making up after a fight, dear. " The old landlady teases him. "She waits for you."

______________________________________________

In the bedroom, you were standing nearly the dressing table, blow-drying your damp hair. Wearing Sherlock's blue silk bathrobes, the top was a pink bunny headband. The Airpod in left ear playing your favorite songs.

Sherlock reaches inside the room, knows you didn't hear him. He gazes quickly to your back, walks stealthily to hold you in his arm, laid his head on your shoulder. He hugs you tighter when you begin to sigh. "Darling, I'm sorry."

You remain silent. You liked the way your boyfriend trying to make you up. The great Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant detective, knows anything except human sentiment. Nobody can see this side, a secret of his adorable side. You sigh again, glancing at the window while Sherlock forces you to turn your attention at him instead of the suck window.

Sherlock palms on your cheeks, nip it softly. "Let's play the game." He took your hand to sit on the edge of the bed.

You have come with him quietly. " Which game?" you purse your lips a bit. "Don't you dare to make something bastard?"

"Nope! It's won't!" He answers you in drama queen reacting and read a text on the screen of his cellphone. "A Staring Game, This may be a childish one in this list of games to play with your partner." He titters when saw you confused. "What?" You are frowning.

He continues, "A fun game to play at any stage of your relationship. However, it can be exciting to play it with your boyfriend or girlfriend. This game can be played anywhere and time. Whoever diverts the eyes first is the loser."

You tease. "Our great Sherlock will be the loser for sure. You know."

"An amazed at the color of your partner’s eyes, notice that lone freckle on their nose, or just look at each other without distractions. " He ignores you.

The part of 'the color of partner’s eyes.' makes your cheeks turn red for no reason. His irises and eyes shift from green to blue depending on the light, it's Sectoral Heterochromia that you liked. And more loved it much when he keeps his eyes only on you.

Sherlock snaps you back into reality, you weren't listening to him. You wither smile at your boyfriend. "Are you were thinking about me? Your face is red."

You cover your face with your hands. "Ugh! I'm NOT!" He knew you lying. Taking your hand place it on his lap tight, not let it go. "Come on Y/N, let's play."

"Alright."

______________________________________________

You turn wholes body straight sits with Sherlock, both knees touching each other. He looks at his watch. "Ready?"

You smirked and nodded.

Three,

Two,

One.

You look into Sherlock's eyes. He do the same. This may seem super simple, but it ends up being way harder than you might think. Staring deep and deeper into light green-blue eyeball makes your mydriasis shake, heart pounding fast. He must know it.

Your boyfriend smirked, you haven't seen the lip, but you saw his cheekbone rising up. But No! You didn't play this game to lose!

Sherlock smirk again. Gosh!

Nearly about 30 seconds, both eyes remain gazing. Sherlock hands to grab your wrist, his eyebrow moves a bit. He pulls himself closer to you. Try to make you lose.

About 60 seconds later, you thought you were heard Sherlock's read this a moment ago, 'When the eyes stipulate a chemical called phenylethylamine, which can make you feel like you've been shot by Cupid's arrow.' You feel weird, biting your lips.

"Stop it," Sherlock told you suddenly. You irritated. Is he trying to make you adrift? "Stop. What?"

Sherlock holds your wrist firmly. "Biting your lips."

"Okay, I won't stop." You smile bluntly.

"Don't use the trick, Y/N."

"Don't be touchy, love. It's all your weakness." You wink. Blow his mind.

Sherlock pulls you closer to his face. Now you can see his long eyelash, like the first time you and Sherlock have met. It's just an accident but, God no. You had already fallen hard on his charm.

"Your minded absent." He whispers, touching your silky cheek. You look down at his lip. Your face was extremely red. You both hitting the turns of neck to neck. "You lose now, Y/N."

You roll your eyes and laugh, kissing his lips quickly. "Ok, I'm losing." You agree with that. Sherlock pushes you to sit on his lap, his head placed to your chest. You stroking and playing with black curly hair.

"Still mad at me?" He finally asks.

"Yeah." You spoke tendering. He snickers in your (almost) bare breast, drawing you to talk in his face, but you both were cracking up hard instead.

p.s.

Behind it, at the door that won't stay shut. Mrs. Hudson and John steal a peek inside. They turned away with the mouth in a startled ‘Ohhh!’ shape, as you both continue to kiss noisily.

_____________________________________________

love ya! xx

[ogsherlockholmes]

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it, and I hope that every celebrating other occasions has a great time too! I have written an abridged version of The Blue Barnacle, written by Arthur Conan Doyle. To people who don’t celebrate Christmas, it’s not extremely Christmassy, so I hope you can enjoy it too. 

On Boxing Day morning, I visited Sherlock Holmes, wishing him a Merry Christmas. He was draped across his sofa, wearing a purple dressing gown, with a row of pipes on his right and a pile of crumpled newspapers (already read) on his left. There was a wooden chair beside him, and on the back of it hung a dirty, hard felt hat. Because of the equipment in front of it, I could tell that Sherlock had put it there to examine it.

  “You are busy,” I said. “Did I interrupt you?”

  “Not at all. I’m happy to discuss my results with you. This is a difficult matter,” He pointed at the hat. “But there are certain areas that might be interesting.”

  I sat in an armchair and warmed my icy hands by the fire. 

  “I suppose,” I remarked. “That even though it looks simple, there could be a story behind it. It could be the clue to the solution of a crime.”

  “No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “It’s only one of those strange accidents that happen when there are millions of humans all together in a small area. Anything can happen in that area without it being criminal, and we have experienced that.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Three of the last cases I have written were not illegal.”

  “Precisely. Do you know Peterson, the commissioner [in charge of how the company is handled]?”

  “Yes.”

  “He found that hat.”

  “It doesn't belong to him?”

  “No, the owner is unknown. Now, look at it. It came here on Christmas morning, with a large goose, which I strongly believe is currently being roasted on Peterson’s fire now. At four o’clock yesterday, Peterson was on his way home from a party. In front of him, he saw this strange figure limping, holding a goose on his shoulder. The stranger got in a fight with a group of men. When Peterson tried to help him, the stranger ran off, dropping his hat and goose. The group of men ran off too.”

  “Did Peterson return the goose and the hat?’

  “My dear friend, that’s the problem. There is a tag on the goose, and it has ‘For Mrs Henry Baker’ written on it. But, there are many ‘Henry Bakers’, so it’s difficult to find who it belongs to. Peterson brought the hat and the goose to me, but I gave him the goose today since it wouldn’t be safe to eat for long. The man did not put anything in the newspaper, so the only clues are what I can deduce.”

  “You must be joking, what can you get from that hat?”

  “Well, you know how I figure things out. What can you see?”

  I took the hat from the chair. It was an ordinary black hat with a hard, round shape. The red silk lining had changed colour. There was ‘HB’ written on it, but no other name. It was cracked, dusty, spotted, the elastic was missing, and the owner must have coloured it in to cover the marks. 

  “I can’t see anything,” I said, giving it to him. 

  “Actually, Watson, you can see everything. However, you can not create conclusions from what you see.”

  “Then, please, tell me what you can see.”

  Holmes picked it up and looked at it with his interested gaze that is very natural for him, “The man is quite smart, he was respectful within the last few years, but now he has fallen. This could mean some sort of influence, like drinking. And, obviously, his wife doesn’t love him anymore. He has some self-respect, though. He doesn’t go out much, is middle-aged, has cut his hair within the last few days, and uses lime cream on it. He also has gas laid on.”

  “I have no doubt that I am stupid, but I can’t understand how you found out any of that?”

  “Well, we can understand that the man is smart because of the size of the hat, a man with such a large brain must have something in it. The hat is three years old, and the edges curl at the end. It is very good quality though, look at the lining. If a man could buy a hat like this three years ago but hasn’t been able to fix it, he must be down on his luck. He has covered up some marks, though, so he has some self-respect. We can understand his age, hair type, and hair cream from looking closely at the hat. There are small hairs as well in the hat, meaning he has had it cut recently.”

  “And why does his wife not love him?”

  “Because of the state of the hat, it hasn’t been cleaned. When I look at your hat, Watson, and I can see the dust gathering on it, I worry for your wife’s love for you.”

  “-You shouldn’t be worried. This hat, though, maybe the man wasn’t married?”

  “No, remember the note? The turkey was a peace offering.”

  “This is all very clever,” I said, laughing. “But there is no crime, this all seems like a waste of time.”

  Sherlock was about to reply when Peterson ran through the door.

  “The goose!” he gasped.

  “What about it? Has it flown out the window?” Sherlock turned to look at the man.

  “Look what my wife found in it!” he held out a bright, blue stone. It was quite small, like a bean. 

  “My God, Peterson,” Sherlock sat up. “This is the treasure we have been looking for. You probably don’t know what it is?”

  “A diamond, sir?”

  “More than that.”

  “No, it’s not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle [a type of jewellery shape]?” I exclaimed. 

  “Exactly. Every advert in The Times is about it. The reward for finding it is a thousand pounds. It was stolen at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Now we have to find out how it ended up in a goose.”

  Sherlock began writing a note, saying that a goose and a hat were found and that it belonged to Henry Baker. The person must collect it from Baker Street. 

  “Peterson, you can leave now. Please, you should buy a goose to give to this man since your family is now eating his.”

  Both Peterson and I left Sherlock to further investigate the stone. 

  Later on that night, I returned to Baker Street and a man stood outside. We both walked in and Sherlock was sat inside. 

  “Mr Baker, I believe,” Sherlock said, getting up from his seat. “Sit down, both of you. Is this your hat, Mr Baker?”

  “Yes.” Henry Baker matched how Sherlock said he would look. 

  “Don’t worry, we got you another goose,” Sherlock said in response to the man’s worried face. “We still have the remains of the other goose, if you want.”

   Henry Baker laughed, “No, I think I’m fine with the whole goose.”

  “Where did you get that goose? It looked very delicious.”

  “I go to the Alpha Inn, and the host, called Windigate, had a goose club. He gave me the goose.” Henry Baker said goodbye and left. 

  “It is quite obvious that he doesn’t know anything about the carbuncle,” Sherlock remarked. “Are you hungry, Watson?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then we’ll eat dinner at supper and can follow more clues.”

  It was a cold winter’s night, and we walked to the Alpha Inn. Sherlock asked about the geese there, and the man told him that he got them from a salesman in Covent Garden, called Breckinridge. We left the inn to find this man. 

  “We need to be careful, Watson,” Sherlock said as he buttoned up his coat. “Henry Baker might go to prison if we don’t find the guilty person. 

  We arrived at Covent Garden and found Breckinridge. 

  “Good evening, sir,” Sherlock said.

  He nodded and frowned. 

  “You’ve sold out of geese?”

  “Yes.”

  Sherlock continued to talk about the geese, “Where did you get them from?”

  This annoyed the man, “What are you getting at, mister?”

  “I just want to know where you got the geese.”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “If you won’t tell us then the bet is off,” Sherlock said, talking about a fake bet between us. “I bet a fiver that the geese are from the countryside.”

  “Well, you’ve lost a fiver. They’re from the town.”

  “I don’t believe you. I bet that you’re wrong.”

  The salesman smiled. He brought out a book and showed him where he got it from. 

  “See, I got it from Mrs Oakshott. Read out that line.”

  Sherlock read out, “Mrs Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road-249, egg and poultry supplier, December 22nd, twenty four geese, sold to Mr Windigate.”

  “What do you have to say about that?” the man laughed.

  Sherlock threw a small amount of money on the table, and left as though he was ashamed. When we were out of sight, he laughed quietly to himself. 

  “You can always have a bet with a man like him. Should we go to Mrs Oakshott now?” Sherlock was interrupted by Breckinridge shouting at someone. 

  “I’ve had enough of people asking where my geese are. Get out of here!” He slammed the door shut. 

  “We might not need to go now. Excuse me,” Sherlock said to the man who asked about the geese. “I might be able to help you.”

  “How do you know anything about this?” the man asked, shaking in the cold. 

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” Sherlock explained to the man what they had been doing that evening.

  “Then you’re the man I’ve been looking for!” exclaimed them man. “My name is John Robinson.”

  “Yes but what is your real name?” Sherlock asked. 

  “Well then, it’s James Ryder.”

  “Yes, you’re the head attendant at Cosmopolitan Hotel. We can talk more about this at Baker Street.”

  We arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock asked what goose James was looking for, and if it had a black tail. James was shocked, and told him that it was that goose. 

  “It was an amazing goose,” said Sherlock. “There was also a jewel in it as well!”

  Our visitor’s mouth dropped in fear. 

  “Yes, you’ve been found out! You knew about the Countess of Morcar’s carbuncle and you just couldn’t help yourself!” Sherlock pointed his finger at James. “Why don’t you explain what you did next?”

  James was nervous to start, “When I found out that someone else had been arrested for stealing it, I knew I had to hide it. I went to my sister’s house, Mrs Oakshott and she fed geese that were going to be eaten to fatten them up. Because I knew someone who could turn the jewel into money, I had to find a way to get it to him without anyone noticing. I didn’t know how, I couldn’t just put it in my pocket. Then, a goose waddled in front of me. I put the carbuncle in it, but my sister came behind me, so then I lost the goose. My sister let me take that goose home to eat, but when I cut it open, the jewel was gone. I traced back where my sister had sold all her geese. Now, I’ve ended up here. And… oh God, what have I done?”

  He began to cry. 

  “Get out,” Sherlock said, letting the criminal go. 

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” James Ryder ran out the room.

  “Holmes, why would you do that?” I asked.

  “I do not have to help the police, and taking that man to prison would ruin his life. I can just return the jewel to its owner. Anyway, it is Christmas.”

I hope you enjoyed it! Here’s a copy of the original [https://sherlock-holm.es/stories/pdf/a4/1-sided/blue.pdf]

Have a great day!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 III

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers. (This chapter: oral)

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

Summary: You await the king’s next move.

Note: One day off. Managed to get this done!

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

When at last you managed to look away from the likeness of the imperious king, you tried to sit. You found it hard to stay still however and instead, paced the expanse of the chamber. You stopped at the tall windows to look out onto the palace lawns, a glimpse of the city visible beyond the walls. Would you ever see the other side of them again?

You looked down at yourself as you swept away from the glass panes. The gaudy gown made you grimace and you went back to your restless strides. You rung your hands and made yourself stop, fidgeted with the thin fabric that swished around your legs, and squinted closely at the few pieces of miscellany scattered on tables; a few pens, a ring, and a bound book.

The sound of boots came muffled from the corridor and you turned as the doors shifted. The guard without pushed inward and stood back as the king swept past him. You stopped behind the sofa and watched Loki as he didn’t seem aware of your presence. A boy, about fifteen or so, followed at his heels and barely evaded the snap of the doors as they shut.

You bowed and waited for his acknowledgement. You received none as you kept your head down and followed him with strained eyes as he crossed to the set of doors painted with winding snakes. The young boy opened them and the king disappeared beyond them, though they remained ajar.

You waited, hands folded, chin lowered, and listened. The soft rustle of clothing, the ruffle of activity unseen. It was a time before the king bid away his servant.

“Go.” His voice slithered through the silence, “Fetch my dinner, boy.”

You held your breath as the adolescent emerged and swiftly crossed to the other doors. He left you there and another deathly hush rose around you, laced with anticipation and impatience. You heard soft footsteps approach the open doorway and halt upon the threshold.

“Little mouse,” the king said cloyingly, “You might stand up straight now.”

You bit down and raised your head. Your eyes met his as he smirked across at you. He wore a deep green robe embroidered with golden serpents, tied loosely at his waist to allow a glimpse of his pale torso. His silk pants were loose as finely stitched slippers poked out from beneath the hems. His crown did not top his locks as they hung loosely along his shoulders.

“Why, you do look much recovered,” he purred as he casually pushed away form the doorframe, “Better, even.” He did not come close, merely went to the table and pulled out a chair to perch. He slung a leg over the other as he bent an elbow on the tabletop. “I was, most irritatingly, called away to council.”

You were quiet. You stayed on the other side of the couch as if it were a barricade from his lingering gaze.

“Come closer,” he beckoned with two fingers, “I should like a proper look at… the gown.”

You hesitated. Your flesh, though healing, was still tender along your back. You went to him with careful steps and stopped a foot away from him. He looked you up and down. He reached out and his fingers closed around your wrist and he drew you between his legs as he uncrossed them.

His fingertips flew quickly to the beading along your bodice and he traced the curve of your side. He hummed as he peered up at you, your chest obscuring you slightly.

“Hmmm, I think I preferred you naked and chained,” he snickered. “Do you feel me still? Is the lesson still seared into your flesh, little mouse?”

Your lip curled and you swallowed. You nodded.

“Speak, when you are addressed by your king.” He demanded.

“Yes, your majesty,” you uttered, “The marks remain.”

He bunched your skirts in his hands and bared your thighs. He tickled your skin and pushed firmly to knead the muscle.

“Alas, I did send for my supper and I would not the boy happen upon my little games,” his thumb grazed the crease of your pelvis, “He is innocent and easily frightened.”

You stood, tolerant of his touch, as you felt a peculiar tingle inside. Disgust laced with something more; something you wanted to deny. His hands dropped reluctantly and he shifted in his seat.

“You will sit and eat. I understand you did little of that during your internment,” he said sharply, “I suspect it is the reason you had to be dragged out of there. That I did need to charge my staff with reviving you.”

“Must be the reason,” you muttered as you sat in the other chair across from him. You caught the gleam in his eye. “Your majesty.”

“Throughout your tenure here, thus far, I’ve a chance to learn more of the errant trespasser,” he preened, “Your uncle, Bo, he is a crafter and a merchant. You were charged with shaping clay pots for his shelf. Your little friend, Gilla, she is a baker’s daughter. I did not care much for her though.”

“Gilla…” you repeated quietly. “You…”

“I did not harm her. I only asked her some questions.” 

The door opened suddenly and he sat up. The boy was accompanied by two other servants who set out wine, glasses, and plates. The flurry of activity departed as quickly as it had arrived and you were left alone once more with the king.

“She’s a talkative one but she does not say much of substance,” he mused as he took his fork, “But I still learned much.”

“Oh?” You twirled your fork anxiously.

“Nothing more than I couldn’t surmise on my own,” he shrugged, “I’ve come to realise your obstinacy.” He mused, “And let me say, that will not hold and I do look forward to testing it.”

You frowned and he bit into a morsel of pork. He chewed and swallowed emphatically.

“Oh, that look,” he pointed at you with his fork, “It assured me I am right.”

🐍

Your stomach was both happy and sore from the meal. It had been long since you had eaten much more than broth and hard bread, if anything at all. While the food was delicious, the circumstance was less than. You found it less than hospitable to be under the gaze of the king. Though he was not so intent, his eyes returned often enough to make you worry. You were wise enough to know that when the meal was over, there would be no pretense left, though you could not guess exactly at what he meant to do.

The young boy, who he called Hal, cleared the table and left another bottle of wine in his stead. Loki poured another glass for himself and glanced at the one you’d barely touched.

“I’d suggest you drink but truly it makes no difference to me,” he winked as he took a gulp of his own. “But you do seem rather… antsy.”

You said nothing and took the glass. You drank deeply and nearly spluttered. You drained the cup and placed it back on the table.

“I do not enjoy your ploys, your majesty, I would prefer you be to the point,” you said, “I am not naïve and the idea would be entirely unknown to you.”

“Ploys? To the point? I haven’t an idea of what you mean, little mouse.”

You drew your brows together and blinked. “If you long to see me squirm, I already am.”

“Oh, I do see it but I will not be done with you so quickly,” he threw back the last of his glass and set it beside your own, “Come.”

He took your head and led you to the door of his bedchamber. You had the urge to stop before you could enter but let him guide you. The black drapings of his bed, the silver sheets, and the lush pillows assured you of your fate. You knew what would come but you could not fathom the extent of his cruelty.

It was said that it hurt the first time for maidens. You suspected the pain would be worse with him. He didn’t make anything easy. He always added to any discomfort. He pleasured in it.

“Squirming, shaking, or shivering, mouse?” he wondered as he neared the bed and you trailed behind him. He tugged you onward. “Is it fear? It must be for there is no draft.”

“Stop, stop, please,” you said breathily, “Do not draw this out any further.”

He tilted his head as he turned and sat on the edge of the bed. He released you and untied his robe and lifted himself to drag the tails from under him. He tossed it away and sprawled across the mattress with a sigh. He sidled over and bent an arm behind his head. You tried to ignore the bulge in his silk pants as he rubbed the space beside him.

“I had the impression that you already slept for quite a time but… I suppose the dungeon still takes a toll,” he remarked, “Lay down, little mouse. You might put out the light before you do.”

You looked around and went to the lamp on the round table in the corner. You blew it out and the silver slats of moonlight lit your path back to the bed. You slid your slippers off before you touched the woven blanket. You lifted a knee onto the mattress and the king gripped your wrist again. He pulled you down against him in a single motion.

“I am rather tired. My day did stretch on,” he said as he nestled you against him. His other hand went down and rested over his crotch. He rubbed himself and groaned. “A good night’s sleep would do us both well.”

He retracted his hand and pulled your arm across his torso. The taut muscles of his stomach were warm against your skin and sent a tickle along your spin.

“The nights of late summer do tend to grow chilly,” he reached over and played with the embroidery of your bodice. “And I find myself restless.”

He let out a long breath and the tension left his body. You laid in silence, eyes wide as you waited for him to do something. Anything. A rumble went through his chest and made you flinch. He chuckled.

“In due time, little mouse,” he promised, “Our games are not over yet.”

🐍

You didn’t recall dozing but you awoke gently to stirring beside you. The king slipped his arm from beneath you carefully. You were surprised by his caution. The bed moved slightly as he shimmied to the other side and stood. He moved in the dark as you remained as you were.

He rounded the bed and paused. He slid his hand along your thigh, your skirts tangled in your legs. He drew away and you listened to him retreat to the bath chamber. There was the subtle swish of water and dainty activity beyond. You wanted to fall back asleep and escape the odd reality.

Then you heard more. A low groan that soon grew to laboured breaths. It went on for several minutes. You crushed your head into the pillow as you tried not to listen. A stifled grunt ended the illicit rhythm. Another sigh.

He didn’t emerge for a few more minutes. He went into the receiving chamber and you heard the other set of doors creak. Shortly, you heard the thin voice of the boy, Hal, and the king returned to let the boy dress him. You watched him by his shadow in the early morning light.

“Go to Birger and fetch the rest of the girl’s wardrobe,” he bid, “I expect that all will be put away before my return. Bring her some food when she wakes and ask Birger to help you, should you require it.” The king strode to the door and stopped again, “And make sure the guards remain on watch. She is more trouble than she seems.”

You laid still until you were certain they were gone, though Hal remained in the receiving chamber. You wouldn’t fall back asleep. You were too on edge. So you stared up at the ceiling and brushed your arm over the spot where Loki had slept beside you. 

It hadn’t been at all what you expected. It was like you were holding your breath, waiting for the tension to snap the branch beneath you. Waiting for Loki to be just who you knew him to be. The king who had lashed you in the dungeon, the arrogant prince who demanded and got all that he wanted.

When you dared to rise and poked your head out into the next chamber, the boy hopped up from where he sat before the hearth. You were careful not to take long steps as the skirt threatened to bare more than you wanted. 

“You don’t have to,” you waved him down, “I can tend to myself.”

“I must bring your morning meal,” he insisted. “As the king wishes.”

“The king,” you mulled as you took a seat at the table, “Is he kind to you?”

He narrowed his eyes and thought, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose he is crueler to others so yes.”

“That is hardly kindness,” you said.

“I’ve had worse masters,” Hal replied. “And less rich.”

You nodded and ran your fingernail along the tabletop. “Well then…” You tapped the wood, “Go on then.”

The boy left and you let out your breath. You hung your head and rubbed your eyes. You listened to the morning birds and the breeze in the leaves. You knew the calm would give way soon to a great storm.

🐍

After you picked at a hard-boiled egg and some rashers, Hal returned with Birgir. They carried a large chest between them and set it down heavily before a painted armoire in the bedchamber. You watched as they hung the silks, satins, and brocades. Slippers were placed along the lower shelves and a few cloaks slung alongside the numerous gowns.

Birger bid you change your outfit and you placated him if only to rid yourself of his disapproval. You dressed in a burgundy dress with a similar cut as the first. None offered much more coverage, often less, and you scowled at the thought of donning them. You tucked your feet into a pair of slippers and washed your face of the make-up that remained from the previous day.

You were once more alone and left to languish in the king’s empty chambers. You thought of the dungeon. At least that was not a farce. At least the dank, dripping depths did not try to disguise your sentence.

You pulled the curtains back from the glass doors in the bedchamber. A balcony stood without as the sun peaked. You slowly turned the curved handle and pulled them open. You stepped out tentatively and looked around. You inhaled the scent of the wind and pollen. You hadn’t been outside in so long that you were overcome with nostalgia, with longing and dread. 

Would you ever know what it was to run across the grass again? To watch the rivers flow and dream of following them?

You went to the rail and looked down at the trimmed lawns and their pristine hedges and the beds of colourful buds. Birds danced along the rims of the fountain and other critters dove in and out of the maze of greenery. You leaned your elbows on the marble rail and stared down. It was far; far enough to kill.

You looked at the balcony, at the slates of the railing, at any foothold that might be found along the wall. You bent further over as you tried to spy those below and if they were close enough to land. Your thoughts ventured to escape, as risky as it might be, and you were want to laugh at your foolishness.

You felt something in your skirts, then a firm grip on your ankles. Suddenly you were tipped over the edge and you cried out as you were certain you would plummet to your death. You grabbed onto the marble slats as you we held dangling over the rail and you looked up at your accoster.

The king guffawed at your fear as you clung to the side of the balcony and slowly pulled your feet back over to the other side. His hand slid up your leg and ass and he grabbed the back of your bodice as he drew you up straight. He caught your hand before you could slap him.

“Now, now,” his hand crushed yours, “Did we not already learn this lesson?”

“You could’ve killed me!” You whined.

“I could’ve. And still could,” he smirked as he trapped you against the rail. “There is much I could do to you.”

You stared at him in disgust as he pressed his body to yours. His hand went to your chin and he framed your face with his long fingers.

“I could bend you back over this bannister and let my kingdom hear what it is I want to do to you,” he sneered. “Gods, the thought has me harder than last eve.”

He dragged his thumb over to your lips and poked inside your mouth. You resisted for a moment, until it hurt, and he pressed down on your tongue.

“If you were to be on your knees, no one should see you,” he said, “They wouldn’t know why it was you kneel before me…”

You swallowed as your stomach filled with bile. He pulled his thumb from your mouth and took a step back.

“So on your knees for your king,” he pushed apart the tails of his overcoat and lifted the bottom of his tunic as he unlaced his trousers, “I’ve been rather patient and it is not a habit I know well.”

You stared in aghast as he rubbed himself through his trousers and winced. His eyes flicked back to you and his face darkened.

“I said ‘on your knees’,” he barked, “Little mouse, you must really start obeying me or I shall have to repeat that lesson.”

You slowly bent your leg and rigidly got down to your knees. He pushed open the front of his trousers and stepped close. You stared at the ground as he pulled himself free and stroked his length. He grabbed your chin again and forced your head up. You tried not to look at his member bobbing in your vision.

“Open that trite little mouth. I will make better use of it than your bitter words,” he squeezed and you gasped at the sharp twinge it sent through your skull.

You opened your mouth and he pressed his tip to your lips. He rested it there and rubbed it back and forth teasingly. You closed your eyes and he slapped your cheek lightly with his fingers.

“No, no, keep those eyes open,” he demanded, “They look so nice staring up at me.” He slid slowly inside your mouth, “So frightened. I daresay, you look, almost, innocent.”

He pushed further in until he was at your throat. You gagged and he went deeper with a snicker. He gripped your head with one head as he thrust to his limit and your eyes welled as you struggled to breathe around him. You’d never done anything with a man more than a playful peck on the lips. You never spent very much time thinking of more.

He eased you back and you took a deep gulp of air before he invaded your throat again. The sickly noise of your spit and his member was repulsive. His eyes held yours as he moved his hips slowly and you latched onto his belt to keep from slipping.

“Little mouse, I only hope your mouth is an omen of what else you have to offer,” he purred as he rocked his pelvis, “A delight…”

Each thrust felt deeper than the last, harder, faster. His groans rose in the warm air as he was encouraged by his own voice. He grew louder as your eyes threatened to roll back and his face contorted in his pleasure. He kept a hand on your jaw and the other on the back of your head as he used your mouth.

You were dizzy as his intrusion felt as if it would never end. He threw his head back and you dared to close your eyes as your mouth turned salty. His voice rose louder and louder and filled your head. He dipped down your throat and his motion staggered. He gripped you tightly and moaned as he emptied himself down your throat.

He grunted with his few final jerks and pulled out sharply. He released you just as quickly and you fell to the side as he backed away and panted. You coughed his seed up onto the stone as he watched you. You could feel his shadow as he neared and you looked up as he cradled his glistening member.

“You’ve made such a mess, little mouse,” he reproached, “I shall forgive it this time, but the next, you won’t muddy my floors so.”

You choked as you sat back on your heels and stared at him with wet eyes. Your throat ached horribly and your head still spun.

“Go on, clean me up, darling,” he looked down at his cock in his hand. “I suspect I am late already.”

You shoved your repulsion down and neared him on your knees. He angled his tip back to your lips and you took him again in your mouth. You pressed your tongue to his member and slowly pulled back as you lapped up the last of his cum. He guided you up and down a few times and relented once more. 

He parted from you again, content, and tucked himself away in his trousers. As he laced himself up, he cleared his throat.

“Well, little mouse, I will say, I’ve done little for my patience,” he chuckled, “I do suggest you might have some wine before I return again… it is said to dull the pain.” He neatened his tunic and overcoat and ran his fingers through his hair. “And I promise, there will be a lot of pain.

[the-pen-pot]

Evaporate - For Cyn2k

There were some days that Sherlock hated with a passion: days when every lead seemed to evaporate and every deduction contained some fatal flaw. He may be observant, but he was no seer. He could not divine answers from thin air and so, inevitably, there were rare cases that slipped through his grasp.

‘Cheer up.’ John put a mug of tea down on the coffee table. He gave Sherlock’s form, sprawled as it was on the sofa, a somewhat critical look before lifting up his feet and parking his toned posterior upon the cushions. ‘You can’t get them all.’

‘Second case in a row.’

‘We solved the last one.’

‘By chance,’ Sherlock spat, biting his tongue. He would not berate John for this. It was not John’s fault that there were days when he felt as if everything that made him unique and different was dissolving into mediocrity. ‘We were in the right place at the right time.’

‘Because of your deductions.’

‘Which were wrong.’ Sherlock huffed, his skin crawling with the desire to hide from it all. ‘We wouldn’t have seen the culprit if not for you. So you solved that one.’

‘That’s one for me compared to… what? Several hundred for you?’ John patted his shin comfortingly, his rough palm scraping on the silk robe that Sherlock had slung around himself.

He was clothed beneath it, but had no intention of venturing outside the flat today. Maybe, he mused, it would be better all around if he simply returned to bed. Though he would only sulk upon his pillows, glaring at the ceiling and hating the world. The violin held no appeal, and even the cup of tea John had made him seemed uninspiring, despite the steam that curled lovingly from its rim.

‘Come on.’ John smacked his knee, not too hard, but hard enough to get his attention. ‘Drink that, take off your poncey robe and get your coat.’

‘What? Why?’ Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and squinted at John in confusion.

‘Because I happen to know that Greg’s got a few cold cases for you. Challenging ones. Something to really sink your teeth into.’ John shoved Sherlock’s legs off his lap and got to his feet, draining the last of his tea. ‘He’s been saving them for a rainy day. I think this one fits the bill.’

‘Cold cases are cold for a reason.’

‘Yeah, because the police missed something back in the day. Come on, you can spend the afternoon telling them all how stupid they are.’ John raised an eyebrow, his amusement falling away as he tipped his head. ‘And the best thing about cold cases is it doesn’t matter if you can’t solve them. No one else could either, and that lot at the Yard like you for trying.’

Sherlock sighed. It was a simple choice: stay here in Baker Street and allow himself to blur and fade into a resentful phantom of his former self, or head to the Yard. There was really only one logical answer.

He would look at the cold cases and, more importantly, take the help his friends offered. He did not have the strength to rediscover his own definition, but they never forgot.

They remembered him, outline and detail, and they were only too happy to help him fill in the blanks.

AO3 | KO-FI | PATREON

[dwellordream]

"One evening in September, 1827, David rode out to Watertown on his trusty steed Thalaba. Because her family, like her friends, disapproved of the young lawyer as a husband, Maria met him at the Curtises'. Twelve-year-old George Ticknor Curtis spied on their interview through the staircase banister and he told later that David had looked frozen with fright as he proposed at last. The lover's face tautened as Maria answered neither yes nor no, but as long as she did not laugh at him there was hope. For four hours, while that child on the stairs never missed a word, David pleaded his cause, and four times he left her to go outside to pacify his tethered horse. George probably exaggerated to make a good story better, yet David too may have been uncertain that marriage was right for him. The horse made a convenient excuse to escape, but something, those dark eyes of the girl on the horsehair sofa, drew him right back. At any rate, at one in the morning he melted her resistance and she agreed to become his wife. 

The engagement announcement shook the family. Her sisters-in-law bobbed their heads and brother James's wife, old shrew that she was, murmured, "Through the wood, through the wood, and find a crooked stick at last." All of them fussed at her for choosing this drifter instead of a man more settled in a profession. They condemned him for being a visionary even while they admitted his charm, and they enraged Maria by quoting something that an outsider had told them, that David's sense of business was about equal to "cutting stones with a razor." His efficiency in defending any derelict with no money for lawyer's fees did not impress them, and they warned little sister that he would never notice if his own or her boots went without cobbling. Not that David was ever unkempt. He looked tall and distinguished in his shabbiest clothes; and his pallor wrung, while his smile won, ladies' hearts. Maria simply blew their criticisms away and relied on her Swedenborgian theories which had taught her to look for a man who, like her, believed that to live without charity was to exist without love.

Moreover, she was sure to be practical enough for both of them. Swedenborg showed her that David's idealism was not a flaw but a sign of near perfection, and she preferred her knight as he was, quite without armor. She gave David a copy of The Rebels as an engagement present. They planned a small wedding and invited only the near and dear, but Maria was sad because Mary Preston and her family could not come down for it from Norridgewock. Maria had to pour out all her bridal rhapsody by mail. She told her sister about gifts and plans and clothes. My mantua maker has been here a week. I have a claretcolored pelisse lined with straw-colored silk made in the extent of the mode to make anyone stare, one black-figured levantine silk and one swiss muslin. Riches indeed for a girl whose taste verged on the simplicity of a Quaker. They were married in Watertown at eight o'clock in the evening on Sunday, October 19, 1828.

The bridegroom's dark coat accentuated his pallor, but the bride, gowned in India muslin with scrolls of white satin, was as lovely as could be. Her eyes were luminous and her mouth soft as she promised to love, honor, and obey. She looked directly at David as she made her vows and was sure that they were joined for a lifetime of truth, good, and bliss; and David saw that she was beautiful. The wedding guests toasted the bride with wine and nibbled at the thirty-five pounds of cake Maria had ordered from the baker. Festivities over, the Childs drove to a tiny house in Harvard Street, no more than a mile from the heart of Boston and quite near David's office. The bride wrote to her sister that the house was "a proper little martin-box, furnished with very plain gentility." Maria's simple taste was part home training and part caution which stemmed from her awareness that budgets and David were poles apart. 

Her foresight was soon confirmed, for most of David's erratic income as lawyer, legislator, and journalist (he became editor of the Massachusetts Whig Journal during that year) was gone before she saw it. What he earned, he loaned or gave away outright. Maria did not really mind. She was earning enough for both of them and she realized that he did only what he had to do. She put a few dollars aside for the future without comment and saw to it that their home was as gracious and welcoming as it could be. What fun to polish and fuss over her own home, to display her wedding gifts, to hang prisms in the window, and have a kitten on the hearth! Beautiful Emily Marshall, a legendary New England beauty, had sent stellar lamps with pretty etched globes which shone as brightly as Emily herself among ordinary girls. One of the lamps stood in the center of the writing table so that Maria could share its light with David as he wrote editorials for the Whig party. 

David was enraged at the election of Andrew Jackson to the Presidency in 1828. Jackson stood for all that he, as a rabid Whig, detested—a man violent, arrogant, impatient of schooling and careless in his selection of officeholders. He seemed to be against the banking interests of the East and certainly unsympathetic to Henry Clay's favored internal improvements at national expense. It was Jackson who first made Maria concentrate on politics and the personalities behind them. In a sense it was this cognizance of Jackson that began a redirection of her life. David wrote to Henry Clay on the 14th November, asking for an explanation of Jackson's election. David was aware that his fellow New Englander, defeated President John Quincy Adams, was an austere, tactless character, devoted to his country but with no flair for winning public favor. Henry Clay, Adams' Secretary of State and one of the most astute politicians America ever had, had been unable to improve Adams' image as a candidate no matter how he tried. 

…Usually it was restful to write with David beside her in their "martin-box" house. She looked around again. What a nice place this home of theirs was. No matter how stormy the future, she and David would keep their home and sanctuary. The things they had been given as wedding gifts would give it flavor and permanency, the plated candlesticks and a snuffer on a tray on the mantelpiece, and the butter knife and cream ladle with which she set the table even if no butter or cream were on the menu. She said that these pretties gave an air to the room. Other friends had sent more practical if less durable gifts: a keg of tongues from Mrs. White, whose daughter would one day marry James Russell Lowell; and a jar of pickles from the Thaxters. The prisms in the window flashed rainbow colors over the drab walls, the kitten purred, and Maria was sure that life could not have been better. And so it would have been if David's openhandedness had not driven them into debt. 

Instead of putting Maria's small savings out at a decent rate of interest, those went first to cover his promises of help to a complete stranger whose notes that David had no right to sign in the first place; but Maria's savings not being enough, they had to borrow five hundred dollars from Mr. Francis to cover the rest. All this only seven months after the wedding, and how the sisters-in-law must have chortled. Maria would be headstrong and marry, would she? Maria herself was humiliated by the loan from her father and the realization that the family predictions had been only too true, but she refused to let the money poison her relationship with her husband. He was wonderful, endlessly wise in ways she knew nothing about, and witty, and she would not permit any speculation that theirs was less than a perfect marriage. It was during this first year that she wrote the Frugal Housewife for "those who are not ashamed of economy." 

Her own tribulations undoubtedly gave the book its authenticity. Its unvarnished, homely style flavored its recipes, and its hints, "odd scraps for the economical," helped to extend any budget. Experienced housewives nodded approvingly at this: "A little salt sprinkled in the starch while it is boiling tends to prevent it from sticking; it is likewise good to stir it with a clean spermaceti candle." And at this: "Pepper, red cedar chips, tobacco, indeed almost any strong spicy smell is good to keep moths out of your chests and drawers but nothing is so good as camphor." And how did a new bride know this except by having looked into someone else's kitchen? "Always have plenty of dish water and have it hot. There is no need to ask the character of a domestic if you have ever seen her wash dishes in a little greasy water." 

This could have been a private hit against those carping sisters-in-law who did employ domestics. Certainly Maria had none in her "martin-box." There were numberless cookbooks and household manuals on the market but the Frugal Housewife caught the public fancy. It was read in fashionable boudoirs, in farm kitchens, and in the trademan's cottage; and any country girl who came to town to buy a length of silk for her wedding gown was likely to bring back the Housewife as well. When Maria pronounced that preserves were useless and "extravagant for those who are well," readers simply crossed preserves from their household lists. Nor did they dispute that "green peas should be boiled from twenty to sixty minutes according to their age." Personal experience taught her, and she passed on the information that beef chuck at four or five cents a pound made as tasty a roast as sirloin. 

For faded wardrobes she suggested that bee balm steeped in water made a lovely rose dye, while saffron or the outside scales of onions gave good yellow. Birch bark, peach leaves, and the purple paper in which sugar was wrapped were each useful for color. With ingenuity and the help of Maria Child, anything fit for the dustbin came to life. Brides had Maria to thank when their husbands praised them for their housekeeping. Reviewers praised her book—all but Willis, the versifier dandy, who continued to keep himself aloof from the grubbiness of the practical world. Willis poked fun at Maria's statement that "hard gingerbread is good to have in the family; it keeps so well." He jeered that if the gingerbread were good in the first place, it would not be there to keep; and he had nothing else to say about the book. But Willis and his sneers were a long way from her present life; and though he might prick, he could not really hurt her, and the public in general gave her nothing but praise.

Again she wrote to Mary, "My Miscellany succeeds far beyond my most sanguine expectations. That is people are generous beyond my hopes." It was the same about the Housewife. The North American Review, highest literary authority of America, said: We are not sure that any woman of our country could outrank Mrs. Child. This lady has long been before the public with much success. And well she deserves it, for in all her works nothing can be found which does not commend itself, by its tone of healthy morality and good sense. Few female writers if any have done more or better things for our literature in the lighter or graver departments. Maria was a terribly exacting editor for her Miscellany. Rather than compromise on quality or time schedule, she wrote much of the copy herself. 

When William Cullen Bryant was late with a promised contribution, she wrote to him that she was very sorry but that she had filled the space with a poem of her own, "Lines to a Fringed Gentian," a Wordsworthian bit that included these lines: Thus buds of virtue often bloom The fairest mid the deepest gloom. Bryant's poem was put aside for future publication. She had not the forsight to know that while her piece was sweet, his would gain posterity. Between times, she wrote her third novel, First Settlers of New England, and compiled some of the Miscellany pieces into a thin volume, Souvenir of New England. Then she edited the Coronal, the best of her published verse and stories. She hadn't much respect for her own poetry but her uncritical critics insisted that some of it ranked with the best of its time and her "Marius Amid the Ruins of Carthage" appears to this day in anthologies. 

Her story, "Adventures of a Raindrop," was often credited to another author then still virtually unknown—Nathaniel Hawthorne. Not even her closest friends could understand how Maria covered as much ground as she did: writer, editor, head of the literary department of the newspaper, The Boston Traveller, one of three superintendents for a girls' school on Dorchester Heights, and homekeeper for David. If she skimped on any of her activities, it was never one which concerned him. Guests came as often as they were invited— wangled invitations, in fact, for her dinners of rack of lamb, cod dressed in herb sauce, brandied cherry pudding, and homemade beer, each dish as beautifully arranged as it was good to taste. But not even the stoutest, most energetic spirit can work endlessly without suffering for it, and Maria grew thinner and more pinched until David, who could not leave his law practice or his editor's chair, urged her to take a quiet holiday alone at Phillips Beach. 

She was no sooner there than she longed to be back, and wrote to him: Dearest Husband: Here I am in a snug little old-fashioned parlor in a rocking chair and the greatest comfort I have is the pen-knife you sharpened for me just before I came away. As you tell me sometimes, it makes my heart leap to see anything you have touched .. . I went down to a little cove between two lines of rock this morning and having taken off my stockings, I let the saucy waves come dashing and sparkling in my lap. I was a little sad because it made me think of the beautiful time we had when we washed our feet together in the mountain waterfall. How I do wish you were here. It is nonsense for me to go a-pleasuring without you . . . my private opinion is that I shall not be able to stand it for a whole week. She got home as fast as she could and they decided that living in the hubbub of town put too heavy a burden on her nerves. 

Boston's close-built houses, the seventy-five thousand people who thronged the streets and markets, the noise and bustle of roving, be-earringed and bedaggered sailors, of the high two-wheeled carts that clattered up and down the cobbled hills, the babble of thousands of immigrants and street vendors who sold anything from thimbles to rutabagas, and the loss of the last aspects of rurality by the banishment of cows from the Common, made her long to breathe fresh air and sleep through quiet nights. Even the inducement of running water which gushed through log conduits all the four miles from Jamaica Pond, could not keep her in the city; and though it meant that she would herself have to make a great many things including soap which the shops in town easily provided, she was ready for the move. In the latter part of 1832, the Childs found a house that was just right. It was in this small home on Cottage Place in Roxbury that Maria realized her greatest happiness. 

Everything she had ever hoped for was hers, except a child, and if one had come to her then, life would have taken a different turn. But nothing else lacked, for David was her all and, for the moment, even he was in a better position financially as a Boston justice of the peace. Mr. Francis lived nearby on Dorchester Heights, near enough to visit them or for them to go to him frequently. She could write without interruption, and when her fingers or back cramped she had only to step to the door to watch the clouds shift or rainbow lights come shimmering through the rain. Or work for an hour in her flower and herb garden while the peepers announced the spring. Or hear the high, thin call of the cedar waxwing. When she did have to go to Boston, she trudged the full three miles along Washington Street instead of paying twenty-five cents for stagecoach fare. 

She could always rest at the Boston Athenaeum on Pearl Street at the end of the trek because she had held a complimentary privilege at the library ever since she had written Hobomok. The Athenaeum was distinctly a man's organization, and outside of Hannah Adams, the eccentric historian, Maria was the only woman accorded that privilege. Members asserted that ladies were barred because their full skirts made it dangerous for them to navigate the narrow, spiral iron stairs; but either the plain dress of Miss Adams and Mrs. Child lulled their fears or the gentlemen respected the "men's minds" of these two ladies. Maria used the library extensively, for it carried newspapers from anywhere in the United States or Europe provided the editorial policy was conservative. The ledger for 1832 still carries the list of the books Maria borrowed to take back to Roxbury, a long list headed by the words: "Mrs. D. L. Child—free by vote of the Trustees until further order of the Trustees." 

Elizabeth Peabody, who was given a six-month permit at the Athenaeum, thought herself lucky to get even that, but Maria for the moment was Fortune's child. The Housewife had sold out in ten editions in America alone and more in France and England, her Mothers' Book and her Little Girls' Own Book had gone through several printings. Margaret Fuller, not yet a writer though already a great talker, saw Maria examining a copy of the English edition of the Mothers' Book in the Athenaeum reading room and commented that the author deserved all the honor fame and hard work had brought her. Back in Watertown several years earlier, Maria and Margaret had studied the lives and works of Madame de Stael and Madame Roland, writers relatively unappreciated in the New World. 

At the Athenaeum, Maria continued her study of the impact and influence of these Frenchwomen and made them the first subjects in a series of five books on the history of women. She called her series The Ladies' Library. Again the books sold, almost as well as the previous ones, and again she was praised as a pattern of womanhood, the ideal of her generation, though a few perceptive readers began to wonder whether something more serious was brewing under her sweetness and light. Could it be that this model of propriety was faintly sounding the tocsin for the emancipation of women?”

- Helene G. Baer, “The Frugal Housewife.” in The Heart Is Like Heaven: The Life of Lydia Maria Child

[risingsouls]

Nabooru’s Birthday ft. Turles

            "If you're looking for Lila, she's probably working," Nabooru teased, picking herself up off the floor from her stretching routine. "I'd say I really need to remember to lock the door more often, but you and the rest of the Saiyans that like to show up unannounced would probably just break it down anyway if you really wanted in."

          Turles's trademark smirk remained intact despite her jest and the mention of the violet haired baker. "I'm not so barbaric as to bust your door in, Nabooru. I would simply find a way to pick the lock." He chuckled. "No, I'm actually here looking for you. And no. It's not to gather more intel on Lila."

          Nabooru flopped down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other, eying the double threat Saiyan with mild mistrust. "Oh really? What for?"

         "I heard your birthday was coming up and I just so happened to have a little something lying around you might like." 

         He shifted his hand from behind his back, and Nabooru's eyes lit up in recognition. A memory long forgotten reawakened. In his plam, he held an orange and yellow colored fruit. Thick leaves sprouted upward and bent outward around the center to protect the delectable fruit inside.

          "That's….but it can't be. Does that mean--?"

          "No. Your planet was indeed destroyed." The woman sagged in her seat, but her eyes remained fixed on the fruit. "I visited the area for some research and scraped up some leftover DNA floating in the cosmos. I used my technology to recreate this."

          Turles tossed the fruit to her and Nabooru caught it, a smile returning to her lips. "Funny how by complete chance you recreated a voltfruit, a personal favorite of mine and native to the desert I lived in." She peeled back the leaves, revealing the electric pink fruit within. She plucked it out of its cradle and cut it in half with a miniature blade of ki extending from her index finger. She inhaled the strong, fruity scent and sighed, immediately transported to treks through the desert when she would pick voltfruits from their perches on cacti for a snack. Reveling in the slight shock a bite of it administered to her mouth. "I bet I could use the seeds to grow more, too…"

           She rested the two halves on the coffee table. Gingerly, as if they might dematerialize at any moment. Once satisfied it was there to say, gold hues lifted to Turles. "Thank you, Turles. This is such an amazing and unexpected gift." Her grin turned a mite cheeky. "So what's the catch? What were you doing prowling around where Hyrule used to be?"

             "So suspicious. But you're right to assume I had further motives than finding a native fruit." He lowered himself onto the sofa opposite hers, hands resting on his knees and back straight against the cushions. "I was looking for that fabled Triforce you mentioned and was hoping you could confirm a suspicion about it for me."

              Nabooru's easy smile morphed to a frown, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Ugh, I thought I would never have to be bothered by mention of that troublesome relic again," Nabooru groused. She followed up with a sigh. "My guess is that it was destroyed with the planet, so what harm could telling you do? Not like I knew much about it anyway."

             She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and slid her fingers through the silk tresses. "Hylian legends said it was a relic left behind by their goddesses that would grant the wish of anyone who touched it," she said. "Ganondorf wanted to secure it for himself to aid our people but, as far as I know, he never figured out how to get to it as it resided in a place called the Sacred Realm."

             Turles nodded, once more donning a knowing smirk. "As I thought. It is a divine creation. That being so, I wonder if it still exists. If this Sacred Realm does exist on another plane, a divine plane, I wonder if it's possible."

              Nabooru rolled her eyes, her dealings with those chasing after the Triforce and similar relics too many for one lifetime. "Who knows. I wasn't convinced it was real when Ganondorf was obsessing over it." She stood and crossed the room to the island counter. She sat at one of the bar stools and plucked a strawberry from the top of Lila's cake. She twisted around to face the Saiyan again and bit into the chocolate covered fruit, the sweetness washing away the bitter taste that steadily coated her tongue with the current vein of conversation. "If you find it, leave the Earth out of whatever plans you have. Or at least me and Vegeta. I'd say Lila, but she likely goes without saying for you."

             Turles chuckled. "We will see."

[prairiesongserial]

Windfield Pass 8

With the town in sight, Owl was overflowing with energy. She ran ahead through the meadows, so far that Agnes could only see her by the tip of her hat. However, she stopped to pick every flower she saw, so that Agnes was able almost to catch up to her before Owl sprinted off again.

The school had just let out for the afternoon, and as Agnes and Owl drew closer, they could see children pouring out of the schoolhouse and down the paths that would take them to the many farmhouses surrounding town.

“Can I?” Owl asked, bubbling with excitement.

“I don’t see why not,” said Agnes.

Owl disappeared down the lane, trying to catch up to the children who were walking in a clump toward the center of town. Compared to the Windfield children, Owl was dressed provincially, and Agnes wondered if Willa and Ben’s plan had been doomed to fail from the start. Windfield had a tailor. Windfielders had buttons on their clothes. Only colony kids dressed like Owl, wearing long, loose shirts cinched at the waist with a gathered, pull-string skirt that could be let out with every growth spurt.

But as Agnes watched, Owl seemed to fit in just fine. The school kids were a couple years older than her, but they shared the ball they were bouncing down the road, and soon the lot of them were fast friends. Agnes trailed behind. She wasn’t sure where she should take her query about Owl - to a farming family, a prosperous one, that could use the extra hand? But there was less chance of her getting an education on the outskirts. The mayor, perhaps?

Agnes was still turning the question over when the baker spotted her through his window and hurried out to meet her. He was a stout, friendly man about five Agnes’s senior, named Paul.

“Dr. Hopper, you’re back sooner than expected,” he exclaimed. “Run out of jam cookies already?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” Agnes spared Owl a glance. She was getting farther ahead, but it wasn’t hard to track a person down in a small town like Windfield. She’d turn up at someone or other’s dinner table. “That little one, there, in the hat - what do you think of her?”

“Awfully small to be in school,” Paul said. “Whose is she?”

Agnes had put some thought into what her answer would be. Owl needed a cover story, but one that would be difficult to verify.

“She’s an orphan I picked up in Pickton,” Agnes said easily. “They had a tight harvest this year, and asked if I might ask around here for someone to take her in.”

“Pickton? You’ve only been gone three days, four days? It would take you at least that long to get to Pickton. And I thought you were going...home.”

The way he said home was more than a little disapproving, but Agnes chose not to remark on it. “I had intended to stop in Harehaven, but I could see from the pass that there were too many muties on the move. I cut south, and happened upon a motorist, who graciously offered me a ride to Pickton.”

“Motorist?” Paul said, almost alarmed. Windfield and its neighbors were so far out of the way that a motorist was a rare occurrence, and usually accompanied by gang trouble.

“Just a farmer, by the look of her. She drove us halfway here, as thanks for taking the orphan girl.”

Paul only then remembered Owl.

“The orphan, that’s right, that’s right…”

“Your family doesn’t need any more help, does it?” Agnes said.

“Not from one that young, I’m afraid. Our hands are full enough.” Paul paused in thought. “Why don’t you take her to Marge? She knows the in and out of everything, and that’s her daughter, there, the tall one.”

Agnes squinted down the road. The gaggle of students had thinned as the children passed by their own homes. Now there were only two other girls.

“Thank you,” Agnes said, taking after them. “And I’ll be sure to be back for more cookies.”

“Any time, Dr. Hopper.”

Agnes lagged behind the girls as they made their way through town. Being the town’s only doctor afforded a certain amount of trust, more so than Windfield would afford any other traveller, even a traveling musician or clown who was known by the town. But being the doctor, that had overwritten even her contamination by association with Harehaven. It was a good sign that Paul had believed her about Owl. With any luck, the rest of the town would take her word as well.

The tallest of the schoolgirls - Marge’s daughter - stopped to flirt with a young man loitering outside the tailor’s shop. Agnes recognized him as the tailor’s son, and suspected that he had run out on his chores at just this time of day on purpose.

Agnes caught up to Owl, who gave her a surreptitious thumbs up. One of the remaining girls was a little closer to Owl in age, and was teaching her how to make a web out of a circle of string caught between her hands.

Marge’s daughter, whose name Agnes could not remember for the life of her, was in the middle of receiving a silk flower from the tailor’s son. It looked a bit clumsy - the boy might have made it himself. He was trying to fasten it to her lapel and every time he stuck her, the poor girl winced in silence, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

“Thank you for walking with Owl, here,” Agnes said to the younger girl with the string. “What’s your name?”

“She’s Mer’dith, and she says she has more strings at home, and she’ll give one to me so I can practice Jacob’s ladder,” Owl interjected.

“And that’s Ruthie, only she likes being called just Ruth now,” said Meredith matter of factly. “She’s gonna be ‘gaged, or that’s what Mrs. Marge says.”

Ruth flushed to the tips of her ears, as did the tailor’s son, who promptly stuck her again.

“I see,” said Agnes, turning to Ruth. “Mrs. Marge is your mother, correct? I’m Dr. Hopper. I’ve been instructed to speak with her. Would you mind showing me the way?”

“Yes, M’am,” Ruth said, and shyly took the silk flower away from the tailor’s son before he did any permanent damage. She walked briskly ahead, so that Owl and Agnes both struggled to keep pace. Her house wasn’t far, as Windfield wasn’t a particularly large town. The house was on a slim lane just off the main street, and was built at an unfortunate slant that looked quite unsafe. It leaned toward its neighbor almost comically, as if it were putting an ear up to the walls.

Ruth opened her front door, calling “Mama?” as she led Agnes and Owl inside. Meredith had hung around as well, perhaps because there was not likely to be anything more interesting to do at home. And all the better that she had: Meredith and Owl had become fast friends, and Meredith was taking the brunt of her questions. Owl explored the little parlor with fascination, at once jumping on the sofa and hollering “What is this?” only to be distracted seconds later by the clock on the mantle, then the vase of dried eucalyptus standing next to it.

“Mama, we have visitors,” Ruth called, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Heavens, you should have said you were bringing a guest, I would have had something to eat ready. Oh, shoot, the kettle - ” The sound of agitated bustling could be heard from the kitchen, and Agnes continued past the young ladies to speak with Marge. Agnes stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching silently for a moment as Marge fussed with a book of matches, trying to light the stove. Marge was a plump woman with red cheeks and red knuckles, and though Agnes had never known her name, she recognized her as a familiar face of Windfield. She was usually to be found near the water pump, animatedly offering her opinion on the goings on in town.

“Sorry to intrude,” Agnes said, and Marge gasped and dropped her match. Agnes paused. “And to startle you.”

Agnes supposed she must have a fairly startling appearance, presently. After days in the wilderness, sleeping in caves, and all that after having been soaked in the river, she was well worn with travel. And she was a stringy creature to start with, old and haggard, a form less suited to parlors and more to skulking in back alleys. Or so she had come to think of herself.

“Heavens, who are you? You aren’t that nice boy Reginald.”

“I’m afraid not,” Agnes replied. “I’m here to speak with you regarding some unusual business, but I’ve been told you are the person in the know.”

This was exactly what Marge wanted to hear, it seemed. She brightened at once. Her expression turned only slightly less bright at the sound of Owl launching herself from one piece of furniture onto another.

“Well, you’re quite welcome, do make yourself comfortable,” Marge said. “I’ll be out presently with a bit to eat - you look famished. Who do you have out there with you?”

“Meredith and - well, and the topic of conversation. A young girl.”

Marge looked very interested at that. She puttered between the cupboard and the ice box, and hollered for Ruth to fetch the nice tea cups from the pantry, as the kettle began to sing. Agnes hovered in the parlor, watching Owl and Meredith play on the floor with a pair of dolls Ruth had unearthed for them. Owl touched every seam of the doll reverently, as if she couldn’t quite believe that something so wonderful could be made of cloth and thread. That really brought Agnes back. She could feel herself becoming increasingly invested in finding Owl a placement in Windfield, despite her misgivings, as if giving Owl a proper doll would heal her own bereft childhood.

“Oh, my, you’re a little one,” Marge said as she entered the parlor with a full platter of cheese and pastry. “Eat up, all of you, eat.”

She settled in an overstuffed pink chair while Ruth brought in the tea and poured everyone a cup. Agnes hadn’t realized how sorely she had missed a hot drink, and relished every sip. Owl, meanwhile, forgot the doll at once at the sight of a meal. She crowded the coffee table and began to pile shortbread cookies into her skirt.

Agnes tapped her hand, setting her tea down for a second.

“Take cheese too. And try this, this is cured meat.”

Owl gave her a withering look, but took exactly one piece of cheese, then carried her bounty back over to Meredith and the dolls.

“Now, tell me what this is all about,” said Marge, as Agnes returned to her tea. “Who’s this little girl?”

“I’m Owl. I’m four,” Owl said. Then, promptly, she shoved another cookie in her mouth, freeing up her hands to play.

“Owl, now that’s a strange name,” Marge said. “Where is she from?”

“Pickton. She’s an orphan, and…”

“Right, right, I see,” Marge said, nodding. “And you’d like to know where to place her in Windfield. That’s a tough question...there’s always the farms, if only she were a little older. But a real little one like that...let me think about it.”

Marge closed her eyes, nodding her head slowly. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open.

“She’s not mutated, is she? That’ll be a deal-breaker.”

“No, she’s not,” Agnes said curtly.

“Well, Anna down at the general store has been trying to conceive without any luck, so you might ask her. Apart from her, let me think… Henry might take her. He and Rafael are in a bit of a bind financially, this year, but they’d be good parents.”

“That would be wonderful. Do you mind introducing us?”

“Oh, of course. But finish your tea first - please, eat some pastry.” Marge continued on about the ins and outs of the people in town, only some of whom Agnes knew by name. Hilda had started construction on an aqueduct, but had had to stop for the winter. The town mason had recently taken sabbatical to study her trade out west near the Idaho border - apparently the mill in Teton Town was of more efficient design - but she was back now, as of just last week.

“Oh, and a band of feral cats got into Lizzy Borton’s kitchen and tore down her nice lace curtains,” Marge continued, talking into her tea cup. “She suspects foul play, but then again, she always does.”

Agnes slowly sipped her tea and watched Owl get along with Meredith. She seemed happy, playing on the floor. This might have been her first time in a house with an upstairs, but after a few minutes of exploration, it was as if she had been living in houses all her life. She was young enough, Agnes supposed, that she could still accept new experiences easily. She had not seemed particularly surprised by Selkie or the caves, either.

When tea was finished, Marge got dressed for the cold, and the lot of them - minus Ruth, who had chores to attend to - made for the general store to speak with Anna. Owl hung back with Meredith. That was good. It would make leaving easier. Easier on Owl, at least.

Agnes hadn’t spared much thought to how it would feel to leave Owl behind, or where she would go next. She supposed she should make the trek down to Pickton in time for influenza season, but just thinking of more travel made her joints ache. One day she wasn’t going to be able to make her circuit anymore. Already, these past few years, she had felt the strain of pushing herself too far. With each passing season, she spent more time recovering from travel and less time administering to the townspeople. Agnes had spun the roulette wheel, so to speak, and would one day be stuck wherever it stopped. Would it be a humble colony like Harehaven, barely able to support an old doctor? Or a larger town like Windfield? Would she be resented? It might not be so bad to retire if she could visit with Owl, and if the town remembered her fondly for the work she had done.

“Here’s the general store, now,” Marge announced. “Anna, Anna dear, it’s Marge, I have Dr. Hopper with me to talk about you-know-what.”

Anna, a flush-faced, harried young woman, popped her head out the door and gave Marge a severe look.

“No one can tell you anything in confidence, Marge Whimble,” she snipped. But she held the door open for the lot of them to come inside. The general store wasn’t too busy, though a large man with a mustache was doing inventory along the back wall.

Owl circled the place, peering into barrels and touching the shelves and their contents, from jarred foods to candles to matches. Meredith quickly pulled her away from the breakables, explaining the rules to Owl, as well as the concept of “you break it, you buy it.”

“Just do keep your voice down,” Anna said, tearing her eyes away from the young ones and looking expectantly at Agnes.

“Well,” said Agnes. “I’ve learned from Marge that you may be interested in raising a young child. This is Owl, she’s an orphan from Pickton looking for a placement.”

Agnes stepped aside so that Owl could be seen properly. She was exploring a barrel of dried kidney beans with utter relish, giggling to Meredith.

“Can I have these?” Owl said, jumping in place. “Agnes, can I have these?”

Anna seemed to have been robbed of breath. She knelt by Owl to get a good look at her, and Owl immediately took her hands out of the barrel and tucked them behind her back.

“Hi, Owl. I’m Anna,” she said. “You’re from Pickton?”

“I guess,” said Owl quietly.

“She’s not, she’s from the mutie waste, she told me,” Meredith piped in. “She said she’s friends with them.”

“With...who?” Anna said, standing.

“With muties. And she had to hide in a tree from one of them, but then it didn’t eat her after all, and instead it dragged them through the river to its secret lair, and they came through the caves, and it still didn’t eat them, probably because it smelled the mutie waste on ‘em.”

Agnes stood speechless.

Windfield Pass 7 || Windfield Pass 9

[vocaloidcomments]

In the early light of a May dawn this is what the living room of my apartment looks like: Over the white marble and granite gas-log fireplace hangs an original David Onica. It’s a six-foot-by-four-foot portrait of a naked woman, mostly done in muted grays and olives, sitting on a chaise longue watching MTV, the backdrop a Martian landscape, a gleaming mauve desert scattered with dead, gutted fish, smashed plates rising like a sunburst above the woman’s yellow head, and the whole thing is framed in black aluminum steel. The painting overlooks a long white down-filled sofa and a thirty-inch digital TV set from Toshiba; it’s a high-contrast highly defined model plus it has a four-corner video stand with a high-tech tube combination from NEC with a picture-in-picture digital effects system (plus freeze-frame); the audio includes built-in MTS and a five-watt-per-channel on-board amp. A Toshiba VCR sits in a glass case beneath the TV set; it’s a super-high-band Beta unit and has built-in editing function including a character generator with eight-page memory, a high-band record and playback, and three-week, eight-event timer. A hurricane halogen lamp is placed in each corner of the living room. Thin white Venetian blinds cover all eight floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass-top coffee table with oak legs by Turchin sits in front of the sofa, with Steuben glass animals placed strategically around expensive crystal ashtrays from Fortunoff, though I don’t smoke. Next to the Wurlitzer jukebox is a black ebony Baldwin concert grand piano. A polished white oak floor runs throughout the apartment. On the other side of the room, next to a desk and a magazine rack by Gio Ponti, is a complete stereo system (CD player, tape deck, tuner, amplifier) by Sansui with six-foot Duntech Sovereign 2001 speakers in Brazilian rosewood. A down-filled futon lies on an oakwood frame in the center of the bedroom. Against the wall is a Panasonic thirty-one-inch set with a direct-view screen and stereo sound and beneath it in a glass case is a Toshiba VCR. I’m not sure if the time on the Sony digital alarm clock is correct so I have to sit up then look down at the time flashing on and off on the VCR, then pick up the Ettore Sottsass push-button phone that rests on the steel and glass nightstand next to the bed and dial the time number. A cream leather, steel and wood chair designed by Eric Marcus is in one corner of the room, a molded plywood chair in the other. A black-dotted beige and white Maud Sienna carpet covers most of the floor. One wall is hidden by four chests of immense bleached mahogany drawers. In bed I’m wearing Ralph Lauren silk pajamas and when I get up I slip on a paisley ancient madder robe and walk to the bathroom. I urinate while trying to make out the puffiness of my reflection in the glass that encases a baseball poster hung above the toilet. After I change into Ralph Lauren monogrammed boxer shorts and a Fair Isle sweater and slide into silk polka-dot Enrico Hidolin slippers I tie a plastic ice pack around my face and commence with the morning’s stretching exercises. Afterwards I stand in front of a chrome and acrylic Washmobile bathroom sink—with soap dish, cup holder, and railings that serve as towel bars, which I bought at Hastings Tile to use while the marble sinks I ordered from Finland are being sanded—and stare at my reflection with the ice pack still on. I pour some Plax antiplaque formula into a stainless-steel tumbler and swish it around my mouth for thirty seconds. Then I squeeze Rembrandt onto a faux-tortoise-shell toothbrush and start brushing my teeth (too hung over to floss properly—but maybe I flossed before bed last night?) and rinse with Listerine. Then I inspect my hands and use a nailbrush. I take the ice-pack mask off and use a deep-pore cleanser lotion, then an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for ten minutes while I check my toenails. Then I use the Probright tooth polisher and next the Interplak tooth polisher (this in addition to the toothbrush) which has a speed of 4200 rpm and reverses direction forty-six times per second; the larger tufts clean between teeth and massage the gums while the short ones scrub the tooth surfaces. I rinse again, with Cepacol. I wash the facial massage off with a spearmint face scrub. The shower has a universal all-directional shower head that adjusts within a thirty-inch vertical range. It’s made from Australian gold-black brass and covered with a white enamel finish. In the shower I use first a water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Vidal Sassoon shampoo is especially good at getting rid of the coating of dried perspiration, salts, oils, airborne pollutants and dirt that can weigh down hair and flatten it to the scalp which can make you look older. The conditioner is also good—silicone technology permits conditioning benefits without weighing down the hair which can also make you look older. On weekends or before a date I prefer to use the Greune Natural Revitalizing Shampoo, the conditioner and the Nutrient Complex. These are formulas that contain D-panthenol, a vitamin-B-complex factor; polysorbate 80, a cleansing agent for the scalp; and natural herbs. Over the weekend I plan to go to Bloomingdale’s or Bergdorf’s and on Evelyn’s advice pick up a Foltene European Supplement and Shampoo for thinning hair which contains complex carbohydrates that penetrate the hair shafts for improved strength and shine. Also the Vivagen Hair Enrichment Treatment, a new Redken product that prevents mineral deposits and prolongs the life cycle of hair. Luis Carruthers recommended the Aramis Nutriplexx system, a nutrient complex that helps increase circulation. Once out of the shower and toweled dry I put the Ralph Lauren boxers back on and before applying the Mousse A Raiser, a shaving cream by Pour Hommes, I press a hot towel against my face for two minutes to soften abrasive beard hair. Then I always slather on a moisturizer (to my taste, Clinique) and let it soak in for a minute. You can rinse it off or keep it on and apply a shaving cream over it—preferably with a brush, which softens the beard as it lifts the whiskers—which I’ve found makes removing the hair easier. It also helps prevent water from evaporating and reduces friction between your skin and the blade. Always wet the razor with warm water before shaving and shave in the direction the beard grows, pressing gently on the skin. Leave the sideburns and chin for last, since these whiskers are tougher and need more time to soften. Rinse the razor and shake off any excess water before starting. Afterwards splash cool water on the face to remove any trace of lather. You should use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol. Never use cologne on your face, since the high alcohol content dries your face out and makes you look older. One should use an alcohol-free antibacterial toner with a water-moistened cotton ball to normalize the skin. Applying a moisturizer is the final step. Splash on water before applying an emollient lotion to soften the skin and seal in the moisture. Next apply Gel Appaisant, also made by Pour Hommes, which is an excellent, soothing skin lotion. If the face seems dry and flaky—which makes it look dull and older—use a clarifying lotion that removes flakes and uncovers fine skin (it can also make your tan look darker). Then apply an anti-aging eye balm (Baume Des Yeux) followed by a final moisturizing “protective” lotion. A scalp-programming lotion is used after I towel my hair dry. I also lightly blow-dry the hair to give it body and control (but without stickiness) and then add more of the lotion, shaping it with a Kent natural-bristle brush, and finally slick it back with a wide-tooth comb. I pull the Fair Isle sweater back on and reslip my feet into the polka-dot silk slippers, then head into the living room and put the new Talking Heads in the CD player, but it starts to digitally skip so I take it out and put in a CD laser lens cleaner. The laser lens is very sensitive, and subject to interference from dust or dirt or smoke or pollutants or moisture, and a dirty one can inaccurately read CDs, making for false starts, inaudible passages, digital skipping, speed changes and general distortion; the lens cleaner has a cleaning brush that automatically aligns with the lens then the disk spins to remove residue and particles. When I put the Talking Heads CD back in it plays smoothly. I retrieve the copy of USA Today that lies in front of my door in the hallway and bring it with me into the kitchen where I take two Advil, a multivitamin and a potassium tablet, washing them down with a large bottle of Evian water since the maid, an elderly Chinese woman, forgot to turn the dishwasher on when she left yesterday, and then I have to pour the grapefruit-lemon juice into a St. Remy wineglass I got from Baccarat. I check the neon clock that hangs over the refrigerator to make sure I have enough time to eat breakfast unhurriedly. Standing at the island in the kitchen I eat kiwifruit and a sliced Japanese apple-pear (they cost four dollars each at Gristede’s) out of aluminum storage boxes that were designed in West Germany. I take a bran muffin, a decaffeinated herbal tea bag and a box of oat-bran cereal from one of the large glass-front cabinets that make up most of an entire wall in the kitchen; complete with stainless-steel shelves and sandblasted wire glass, it is framed in a metallic dark gray-blue. I eat half of the bran muffin after it’s been microwaved and lightly covered with a small helping of apple butter. A bowl of oat-bran cereal with wheat germ and soy milk follows; another bottle of Evian water and a small cup of decaf tea after that. Next to the Panasonic bread baker and the Salton Pop-Up coffee maker is the Cremina sterling silver espresso maker (which is, oddly, still warm) that I got at Hammacher Schlemmer (the thermal-insulated stainless-steel espresso cup and the saucer and spoon are sitting by the sink, stained) and the Sharp Model R-1810A Carousel II microwave oven with revolving turntable which I use when I heat up the other half of the bran muffin. Next to the Salton Sonata toaster and the Cuisinart Little Pro food processor and the Acme Supreme Juicerator and the Cordially Yours liqueur maker stands the heavy-gauge stainless-steel two-and-one-half-quart teakettle, which whistles “Tea for Two” when the water is boiling, and with it I make another small cup of the decaffeinated apple-cinnamon tea. For what seems like a long time I stare at the Black & Decker Handy Knife that lies on the counter next to the sink, plugged into the wall: it’s a slicer/peeler with several attachments, a serrated blade, a scalloped blade and a rechargeable handle. The suit I wear today is from Alan Flusser. It’s an eighties drape suit, which is an updated version of the thirties style. The favored version has extended natural shoulders, a full chest and a bladed back. The soft-rolled lapels should be about four inches wide with the peak finishing three quarters of the way across the shoulders. Properly used on double-breasted suits, peaked lapels are considered more elegant than notched ones. Low-slung pockets have a flapped double-besom design—above the flap there’s a slit trimmed on either side with a flat narrow strip of cloth. Four buttons form a low-slung square; above it, about where the lapels cross, there are two more buttons. The trousers are deeply pleated and cut full in order to continue the flow of the wide jacket. An extended waist is cut slightly higher in the front. Tabs make the suspenders fit well at the center back. The tie is a dotted silk design by Valentino Couture. The shoes are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni. While I’m dressing the TV is kept on to The Patty Winters Show. Today’s guests are women with multiple personalities. A nondescript overweight older woman is on the screen and Patty’s voice is heard asking, “Well, is it schizophrenia or what’s the deal? Tell us.” “No, oh no. Multiple personalities are not schizophrenics,” the woman says, shaking her head. “We are not dangerous.” “Well,” Patty starts, standing in the middle of the audience, microphone in hand. “Who were you last month?” “Last month it seemed to be mostly Polly,” the woman says. A cut to the audience—a housewife’s worried face; before she notices herself on the monitor, it cuts back to the multiple-personality woman. “Well,” Patty continues, “now who are you?” “Well …,” the woman begins tiredly, as if she was sick of being asked this question, as if she had answered it over and over again and still no one believed it. “Well, this month I’m … Lambchop. Mostly … Lambchop.” A long pause. The camera cuts to a close-up of a stunned housewife shaking her head, another housewife whispering something to her. The shoes I’m wearing are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni. Grabbing my raincoat out of the closet in the entranceway I find a Burberry scarf and matching coat with a whale embroidered on it (something a little kid might wear) and it’s covered with what looks like dried chocolate syrup crisscrossed over the front, darkening the lapels. I take the elevator downstairs to the lobby, rewinding my Rolex by gently shaking my wrist. I say good morning to the doorman, step outside and hail a cab, heading downtown toward Wall Street.

[ticklishshenanigansau]

Ticklish Shenanigans Side Story: A Spider’s Gift: Chapter 2

This is the very first Ticklish Shenanigans Side Story, as it isn’t part of the main story, but still ties in with its events. This side story goes into depth the relationship between Sans and his best friend Weaver, who had been mentioned in Chapter 16.

However, unlike the main story, this side story has been written solely by me, Mod Yosh. I hope you enjoy!

Okay, so I kinda misinterpreted the time it would take for me to make enough money to fix up Sans' and Papyrus' home. By about four years. But I still got the job done regardless. I made enough Gold to fix up the brothers' home and then some; turns out pillows, blankets, and clothing sewed by spider silk was very popular among most monsters living in Snowdin Town and the nearby area of Waterfall, and over time I perfected my sewing skills and became quite the famous little seamstress. Talk about feeding two birds with one seed, eh? I got to see Sans' and Papyrus' brand-new house once it was finished, and it looked absolutely amazing. The main room was turned into a living room complete with freshly painted walls, a beautifully soft carpet, and a sofa and television. The room in the back was made into a kitchen and the rooms on the second floor were turned into each brothers' bedrooms. Papyrus' room had a lot of little action figures, posters, a closet, and his very own real bed. I decided to treat the little guy by spending a few extra Gold to buy him a race car bed, and needless to say he absolutely adored it. It was so adorable watching him pretend to drive around in it! Of course the only thing that put a damper to the good mood was his anxiety around me. I wasn't new to accidentally triggering one's arachnophobia, so I just gave him enough space to let him do his thing worry-free. Sans' room didn't have nearly as much stuff as Papyrus'. Unless, of course, you count all the piles of laundry and papers on the floor. The little guy never was good at keeping anything clean. But he was happy in his newly renovated room, so I guess it didn't matter much. Just so long as he and his baby brother were happy. Oh, did I mention that I also bought Papyrus an entire bookshelf of books? Sans managed to buy a few books with the remaining 750G from a few years back to get him started with learning how to read, so I decided to get him a few more advanced books for when he got older like puzzle and recipe books. At this point, all the books from his childhood were donated because he was a bit too old for them. All the books, that is, except for one called "Peek-a-Boo with Fluffy Bunny." How adorable is that? Now that Sans' and Papyrus' house was perfect, it was time for me to head back to earning money to move myself and the spiders out of the Ruins and into Hotland where the rest of the spiders lived. It took a very long time, but thankfully both the skeletal brothers were kind enough to donate a third of their earnings from working as sentries for the captain of the Royal Guard to me when they were old enough for the positions. It filled me up with pride seeing Sans and his little brother growing up happy and healthy in a much better environment. Needless to say, by the end of it all, Sans and I had become best friends. I was also acquaintances with Papyrus; the only thing holding back our own friendship was, of course, his arachnophobia. I've learned to accept it nevertheless. A few years passed since I moved myself and a majority of the spiders to Hotland. A few of them stayed behind in the Ruins because there just wasn't enough money to transport them as well. Now I'm working as a baker and a seamstress to raise enough money to bring them to Hotland as well. I used to pay Sans regular visits, but ever since my business had become so popular with all the monsters it had been getting harder and harder to find time to visit until eventually I just couldn't any longer. It really tore me up, not being able to visit my best friend all the way in Snowdin Town, but we both had jobs to do. Over time, I felt it was time to spawn a new spider monster. I was the last of my kind as my mother and father had disappeared without a trace decades ago, and I learned that regular spiders can breed with spider monsters. (Don't ask how it's done, not even I fully understand the concept.) At the age of thirty-three, I had given birth to a beautiful baby girl: Muffet. Everything was absolutely perfect. Well, almost everything. No matter how much I did for Sans and his little brother, I still felt I didn't do nearly enough to repay him for rescuing me back in our youth. Almost immediately I knew what to make him. I remembered all those years ago that makeshift pillow with the crunchy leaves that would poke through the fabric and stick into the back of my neck. I decided to make Sans a much better pillow, one that required only the most delicate and beautiful of stitching at the seams. And I would stuff it with the white down feathers of my own favorite pillow. Sure, using cotton found at the Dump and blow-dried wouldn't be nearly as soft, but my best friend deserved the best of the best. I was lucky to have the afternoon off the day after I finished crafting the pillow. The spiders agreed to care for Muffet while I was out of town, and I made my way to Snowdin Town in haste, excited to see my friend again after all these years. The town was, of course, cold. But there weren't any snowstorms to blind me. Thank goodness for that. I trotted my way through the town, receiving a few stares from passersby; well, it's not common for spider monsters to visit such cold areas after all. I trotted up the few steps to the brothers' door and knocked on it a few times. A very loud, "COMING!" was soon heard, and my eyes widened in surprise. There was no way that could've been Sans. It must have been Papyrus then; he was quite the loud and boisterous child after all. The door opened, and I was surprised to find I actually had to look up to see the younger skeletal monster's face. He was wearing a rather impressive set of clothes: a plate of white armor over his ribs made of fabric and blue shorts with crimson gloves and boots. The most distinctive feature was his orange cape that majestically flowed in the nonexistent wind. I had to admit right then and there, he looked so cool. "Greetings! How can I, the Great Papyrus, help you toda--AAAAH!" He let out a cry of fright upon looking down at me, and I was reminded yet again of his arachnophobia. Apparently he still hadn't gotten over his fear of spiders. This did make me a little sad, but I brushed it off. "Y-You're a sp-sp-sp--!" "Spider?" I finished with a giggle. "It's lovely to see you again, Papyrus. Surely you remember me?" Papyrus shook his head frantically and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it slowly as realization lit up his face. "O-Oh! I recognize you now! You're Weaver! Sorry I didn't recognize you before." "Oh, that's perfectly alright, dearie," I laughed with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Your brother Sans is home, yes?" "Yes, he is. Allow me to grab him for you." Turning around, Papyrus cupped his hands over his mouth to scream up at Sans' room. "SANS! YOU HAVE A VISITOR!" I had to cover my ears with two of my hands to block out some of the ear-splitting yelling. "if it's grillby, tell 'im i'll have enough g t' pay off the tab by the end of the week," came a low, lazy voice from the room belonging to Sans. His voice had gotten so much deeper and laid-back since the last time I saw him, I reflected. "IT'S NOT GRILLBY!" Papyrus shouted. "IT'S AN OLD FRIEND! JUST GET DOWN HERE!" A long, overly dramatic groan caused me to giggle in amusement. I waited patiently as the door opened, and a short, chubby skeleton wearing a blue hoodie, white undershirt, black shorts, and pink slippers walked out. I struggled to contain my laughter and let out a snort by doing so. I had expected him to grow a bit as well like his brother, but he seemed to be the exact same height as he was when I had first met him. Sans turned his head to the sound of the snort, and his eye lights lit up immediately like a Christmas tree upon seeing me. He sped his way down the stairs and up to the front door, a large grin stretched across his face. "weaver! i haven't seen ya in forever!" "It's great to see you, too, Sans!" I smiled, kneeling down to give him a hug. I broke the hug gently to smirk teasingly at him. "Well, it seems someone hasn't been drinking his milk nearly as much as his brother has." "watch it, snowstorm," Sans retorted with a warning grin. "anyway, it's great to see you again. what brings you over to the neck of these woods?" "Well, I have something I want to give you." I held out the pillow that I was hiding behind my back for a dramatic reveal. "Remember that old pillow you used to have made of dirty rags and crumpled leaves? Well, I used it as inspiration to make you a new pillow. I weaved it together using a special weaving style only spiders are able to replicate, and I used down feathers for the stuffing so it's really soft and not so pokey." Sans took the pillow and looked down at it, giving it a few fluffs, He grinned brightly and looked back up at me. "gee, weaver. you fix up our house and now this. you really are an amazing monster, ya know that?" "Well, none of us would be here if it weren't for your kind deeds," I beamed. "I hope you treasure this pillow always; it's rare for spider monsters to give gifts to monsters." "i would've treasured it even without that info," the skeletal monster chuckled. "thanks again, weaver, this is really thoughtful of you." "Of course. Unfortunately, I have to head back to Hotland now. I have to tend to my daughter." "you have a daughter?" Sans grinned brightly. "that's wonderful! what's her name?" "Her name is Muffet, named after my grandmother. I'll bring her over to meet her Uncle Sans sometime." "sounds like a plan expertly spun to me!" I rolled my eyes with a huff of amusement, giggling as Papyrus let out a frustrated groan. Sans' puns were still horrible. After bidding farewell to the brothers, I made my way merrily back to Hotland. It felt very nice seeing my dear friend and his brother again, and I could feel my own happiness radiating off of me. I never expected that day to be the last time I would ever see Sans again...

[fuckyeahfightlock]

1. Holiday Decor

There hadn’t been much to move. His pillow, his army-issue duffel with four changes of clothes and two pairs of shoes, two rucksacks with his shave kit, laptop, a couple of books and brushes for teeth and hair. The flat was comically tiny, but the landlady claimed it had recently been wallpapered and carpeted, even the fireplace cleaned and ready to use, should he wish to. There was one of those narrow beds that passed for a sofa, a low chest of drawers, a table he could sit at to eat or work, and an armchair with a decent reading lamp behind it. One window, facing the street. He’d share the bath and kitchen down the hall with the landlady herself. She made it clear she was not his housekeeper and would not clean up after him.

The door was still standing open as he unpacked one of the rucksacks, lining up his two pairs of shoes beside the bed. A tall blur in his peripheral vision swept past the open door and he heard a deep voice saying, “Mrs Hudson, I need to borrow matches.” There was the squeak of a door opening, then kitchen-rummaging noises, cupboards and drawers. “My lighter’s out of fluid. Mrs Hudson!”

John eased around the doorjamb to look down the hall. The blur had resolved into a tall, wild-haired man in smart trousers and a fine shirt, barefoot and wearing an untied, blue silk dressing gown over his clothes. He flicked a glance John’s way, then back into the drawer he was combing through. Then back at John, for longer. John clasped his hands behind his back.

“I’ve matches,” he offered.

“Oh,” the man said, and stood straight. “That’s kind of you.”

John tipped his head back toward the open door. “Just moving in. Mrs Hudson said there was another tenant, I suppose that’s you.” He cleared his throat. “John Watson.”

“I’ve a rather pressing need for fire.”

“Sure. Right.” John pivoted, was not sure whether the man would follow, but eventually felt him coming along, at a distance. Inside his single room, he went into his duffel and easily put hands on a small box of wood matches. He made a mental note that they would need replacing as soon as he got out to the shops.

“I also have a rather pressing need for outside opinions. You’ll do.” The man beckoned near-violently with one hand and John found himself following him up the stairs to 221B--a much larger if not necessarily nicer flat than his own. The man skipped one of the steps near the top of the flight; when John hit it, it gave a deep squealching groan. “Giveaway stair,” the man said, absently.

As John stepped through the door from the landing, he was met with a chaotic mess of a flat, perhaps not its usual state (though he had his doubts) as most of what caught his eye as he gazed around the sitting room was an explosion of glinting, glistening, green and gold holiday decorations. Boxes sat open, overflowing with garlands of faux pine, oversized velvet bows in various shades of red, strings of small lights. There were two trees, which John knew by smell were the genuine article, one in front of each of the windows on the Baker Street side, awaiting their tarty Christmas finery.

Two armchairs sat facing off by the fireplace, each loaded up with more decorating material--unidentifiable swaths of fabric, a bucket of bulb-shaped tree ornaments, and impossibly delicate glass icicles laid out side by side on a fluffy bed of white cotton--and the man stood at the mantel, using up John’s matches carelessly, lighting a series of high and low candles, all white, tapers, tea lights, and pillars, all nestled in a staggered row among more pine boughs strung with lights and dressed with green tartan bows of satin.

“I like these because of the mirror,” the handsome man said (for John had decided there was no reason not to notice he was handsome). “But I do wonder if, with party lighting--” He moved to switch off a nearby lamp, turned on a more distant one, flicked off the flourescent over the kitchen table in the adjacent room, “--it’s not a bit of a distraction.”

John, amused and curious prompted, “A distraction from. . .?”

“Well, the trees are the focal point. This table will be cleared of. . .” he waved his hands in the air over what looked like more than a single year’s worth of paperwork and other clutter. “All of this. It will be the h’ors deouvres table. Drinks on this cart.” He rolled a wooden cart, which John had not previously noticed due to its being overflowing with books and laundry, partway across the room. “Try to keep them out of the kitchen but it never works.”

“I think the candles are nice,” John offered. “They make battery-powered ones now, though, that are less of a fire hazard. They flicker and everything. Could pass for the real thing.”

The man looked deeply considerate of the information.

“And you buy those where?” he asked.

John shrugged. “Just. You know. Shops?”

The man pressed his palms together and rested the tips of his forefingers against his chin, gazing at his mantelscape.

“It looks nice, either way. Not distracting,” John said. “When’s the party?”

“Christmas eve.”

“Oh.” John kept control of his smile, in case the man might be self-conscious that John found it funny. “Well, twenty-three days should be time enough to finish all your holiday decor.” He gestured lightly around the room.

“I’ll finish it tonight,” the man said, dismissively, without looking at him. He stretched out his hand and John turned up this hand to catch the offered box of matches. “Thanks for that.”

“Any time.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said, and at last turned his focus on John. Bright blue-eyed focus that made him feel he was being evaluated from the ends of his fringe to the polish on his wingtip brogues. Sherlock offered his hand and John stepped forward to shake it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes.”

“Call me Sherlock.”

[etregan]

The dark queen

Before me stood a decrepit village laying bare with no lights. As I slowly move through the village the only things I see are rats skittering past alleyways between small homes. Eventually with no contact for half an hour I approach a house and knock on the door, the old wood crumbled to ash as I touched it laying the turned over living room open for me to see. It looked comfortable enough, an overturned sofa lays in the middle of the room. On a shelf something caught my eye a black leather bound book sitting neatly on a shelf while the others were scattered around the ground.I remove it from the shelf seeing written on the front the word jornal. I decide to hunker down for the night pulling the couch to an upright position i crack the lock on the jornal and open the book, as the lock cracked open unbeknownst to me a black substance landed on my thumb, i began to read the journal.

 [bc]Entry one:

[ci]On the day of the coronation the queen has made a decry, taxes are increased. The family finds this outrageous but I think it's fine the queen needs funds I am sure she will use them for great things. Other than that i think Jerald has a crush on me he gave me flowers after the coronation.

 As i read through the book i have yet to notice as my knails gain a black polish, as it applies itself to each and every nail it slowly wrapped its way down my hand turning it to a much more feminine form and shape. The nail polish was not dark blue like most paints that said they were black it seemed to be black absorbing some of the light from my dimly lit lamp.

 [bc]Entry two

[ci] the queen has imposed another taraf this time requiring a quarter of all grain and produce made by farmers to be given to the royal guards. She says it’s a tithe to the crown and that she is simply storing it in case of a famine so that all can have grain when we need it. A farmer spoke up for his crop at the announcements and the guards dragged him back to the castle later that day.

 I was intrigued this seemed to be a young girls jornal she really looked up to this queen. I heard a cackle from the darkness around me moving my lanter around the room i saw no-one but its light didn’t spread far. As move the dark substance seemed to take on a corporeal form over my hand surrounding and enveloping my hand in soft silk like fabric it did not cover my fingers wrapping around my middle one and looping under my hand. I shrug off the noise as my imagination and turn back to the book as the forming glove slowly spread up my arm shifting and changing my hand and arm as it spread across my skin, smoothing and paling it to a lovely snow white color.

 [bc]Entry three

[ci] It’s been a week and no one has heard from that farmer, everyone is worried he has many large fields and the guards have been having people work them. Any time anyone asks for pay they are taken to the castle and never seen again we have no idea what happens in there anymore. No one has exited the castle except for the guards. Everyone is getting antsy but at least the tarafs haven’t increased anymore nor the taxes, so there’s at least a bit of good news.

 The story seemed to be going down hill for this girl, at least that’s what I thought. With people going missing so often this queen was probably a horrible person. As i was thinking this the cloth reached my shoulder enveloping it in the soft fabric as it pulled it down to a feminine posture as it enveloped over to my other shoulder beginning its slow descent down my other arm. As it reached my hand the nail polish painting itself perfectly over each nail on that hand the perfect black of the polish slowly draining more light from the room. I decided to skip ahead a few entries to around entry ten as they seemed to write once a week or so and i was getting tired but wanted to know what was happening later on.

 [bc] Entry ten

[ci]everything has gotten so much worse more taxes and tariffs for farmers shopkeepers and the like, farmers now only get a quarter of what the produce and receive no compensation taxes are at nearly fifty percent of what we earn. Something must have happened to the queen she was so benevolent i still believe there is something that can be done for her i am secretly organizing a rebellion. One to enter the castle and purge whatever bedevilment has befallen our queen then we will be saved. The task will be difficult she has somehow acquired twice the number of guards she had started with out of nowhere seemingly, we meet tonight at the base i have established in a baker's basement.

 I was shocked by this development in the story, it turned so fast in just seven weeks, it was an interesting story maybe I would turn it into a story after the expedition had ended and I could write this down in a proper format. As I thought about the details of the story the fabric began to descend down my body slowly as it enveloped around my being seemingly dissolving through my clothes. As soon as this fabric came in contact with any skin it would smooth my skin paling it as my chest would begin to grow sensitive with the touch of this fabric.  I heard more cackling from the darkness placing down the book i stand lantern in hand and inspect the room, nothing had moved not even the shadows if I weren't so distracted i may have noticed that my shadow layed pinned in place reading the book on the couch. My chest would slowly push outward slowly as i peer my head through the doorway the streets barely illuminated by my dimmed lantern. I decided to skip ahead again to entry twenty.

 [bc]Entry twenty

[ci] things have gotten so bad, the queens forces have got us cornered we are hidden in the swamp outside of town. I found and recruited a mage who says he can bind any evil were going to finish this tomorrow we'll sneak into the castle and remove whatever bewitchment is apon our queen. If we don't return you will most likely know what has happened.

 [ci]- the mage has told me that we need an item of significance this jornal is the only one we have left to us, it will be used to contain whatever evil is on our queen.

 Below that was inscribed some text. Every other page blank as i rifle through them. Then it hit me a loud cackling in my head as i drop the book thee fabric tying up my body slowly as my thighs widen my chest now having large breasts resting upon it, I was terrified as the laughing continued. My hips widen and butt inflates outward becoming large and plum. My figure would improve dramatically as the fabric seemed to darken my lips they were now as black as my nails had been. Eyeshadow applies itself as my hair became black as night and grew down my entangled body. My face became regal and beautiful that of a womans as i felt nothing between my legs now as i had fully become a woman. The fabric then worked its way into my head as it began to entangle my thoughts so something else could take over no not take over rewrite. Slowly over the duration of an hour my struggling got slower less panicked as my mind was changed. The cloth began to recede, standing from the remains of it was a woman garbed in a black crown and royal dress smiling wickedly.

 “Those mortals believe me gone nothing so weak could bind me forever. Well it has been a long time time to find my next champion a new black knight.” with those words the new me would proceed through the town the skeletons i had noticed raising themselves along my path as i proceed to the throne room of the castle taking a seat on the throne.

 [Bc] “they will come to me i don't have to do anything but send out my minions”

[toyboy-molloy]

Four word prompt for Sherlolly: “Is that my shirt?”

thanks for the prompt - I hope you like it x

Of all the things Molly had planned for theevening after her shift, removing decaying body parts from the fridge of 221BBaker Street wasn’t top of that list, but here she was with a storage coolerfull of said former experiments. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t best pleased about it,either, but he didn’t have much of a choice, not if he wanted to keep up thearrangement – the last thing he wanted was for her to lose her job because ofhim.

“Right, I think that’s everything,” shestated, standing up and closing the fridge; she removed her gloves and tossedthem in the bin – she was looking forward to getting home and into her bed, “didyou need anything before I go?”

Sherlock, who’d spent the entirety of hervisit engrossed in whatever was under his microscope ignoring her, shook his headand hugged his knees to his chest. Molly rolled her eyes but decided to leavehim to it; that was when she spotted a most peculiar item bunched up on thecushion of the sofa.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Hmm?” The consulting detective barely movedto acknowledge her, watching out of the corner of his eye as she picked up the palecream-coloured silk blouse decorated with dragonflies. He shook his head, “sorry,Molly. You must be mistaken.”

“No, this is definitely my shirt,” sheinsisted, examining the creased article closely. It was her favourite shirt andwhy it was at 221B was a complete mystery to the pathologist. A mystery she wasdetermined to solve, “yeah, I lost it about a week ago. I’ve been looking forit ever since…”

“You must have left it here.”

Molly frowned, racking her brain to recollectthe last week; she’d never stayed overnight at 221B – she wasn’t like him, shecouldn’t just walk into his flat and sleep in his flat. No, boundaries existed andwere respected by Molly Hooper.

“When?”

“I don’t know! What is this, twenty questions?”Sherlock snapped somewhat defensively; he was on his feet, then, approaching herand swiping the shirt from her grasp, “will you just drop it?”

Molly snatched the shirt back, “why is ithere?”

“For an experiment,” he replied, avoidinglooking her in the eye as he tried to take the shirt back. Molly was havingnone of it. She rose her eyebrows in doubt and he ran a hand through his hairin frustration, “it’s an entirely plausible reason. Why else would I have yourshirt?”

For a while, Molly just stood there chewingher lip which annoyed Sherlock more than the whole ridiculous situation.Finally, she sighed, “I don’t know.”

She unzipped her bag and moved to stuff hershirt inside it when Sherlock hastily interrupted, “you don’t need it surely.”

“It’s my favourite shirt,” Molly said, aconfused frown appearing at her brow, “I have a date tonight and I was-“

“I’m not finished.”

She wanted to laugh, “are you kidding?” Whenit became apparent he certainly wasn’t kidding, Molly was beyond bargaining;she flung the garment at his stupid head and turned on her heel, “why don’t youjust keep it, Sherlock. It probably suits you better than me, anyway!”

The door slammed hard and heavy footstepsthundered downstairs; he darted to the window and watched his angry pathologistkick at his door before marching off down the street. He couldn’t help butsmile as he watched her.

It was three days later when Molly decided tohell with it, she was getting her shirt back one way or the other – her datewith the new surgeon from the Hospital had been a disaster and she wasconvinced the lack of her favourite shirt had something to do with it. Mrs.Hudson greeted her warmly as usual and sent her up, complaining about herinsufferable tenant as she did. Molly climbed the stairs, prepared to march ina take back what belonged to her. However, when she pushed open the door, shewas rather surprised by what she found…

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa,clearly fast asleep and peaceful looking. It was almost sweet. But what herattention was the fact that he’d bunched up her shirt and was using it as amakeshift pillow, breathing in her scent every now and then, a huge smilespreading on his face. Molly gently closed the door behind her, smiling toherself. Maybe she’d let him hang on to it for another day or two…