#the cardboard box held up by a stick with a string tied to it?

[strangenewgirls]

maybe the real treasure was the psychosexual obsession with a cw actor we developed along the way

[detectivehole]

I had a dream that not only did I watch Lupin but I also enjoyed it. I forgot about till I saw your posts and for a horrified minute my brain said "you like this!!". Nightmare.

precognition. anon, have you ever watched the Castle of Cagliostro? Hayao Miyazaki directed it~

[hollowtones]

What would be the best lure to capture you in a cardboard box held up by a stick with a string tied to it? Asking for a friend of course

Five million dollars

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Untitled

Inspiration struck last night 👀 - putting this here so you can let me know if it's worth continuing/if you would want to read more of it. Super AU!

Jane cut the engine of her Ford Ranger just outside the tiny strip mall off of Sixth Street. It had been a splurge just after she got brought on as the head baseball coach of Empire High School, a treat for herself for finally getting a big-person job and generating some regular income. Her mother had convinced her to do it, actually, because Jane had been on the fence for months, waffling so many times that Angela piled her in the family Buick and dropped her off at the dealership. Find your own way home, Angela had said, and it better be in that brand new truck.

Now, Jane was thankful for the push, because southern California summers in her old Civic with the busted A/C were no fucking joke. They were still no joke now, but at least she could blast cold air on her face when needed. Like now: even at six thirty in the morning, temperatures climbed above eighty in early August, and she settled into the discomfort of an already damp back. At least her front still looked fresh. She glanced in the rearview mirror one last time before she got out, taking off her adjustable black cap with her school’s insignia and smoothing the tied-back black hair on top of her head. Presentable and believable: a baseball coach with a ponytail and a Nike dri-fit short sleeve windbreaker over her t-shirt.

She hopped out, satisfied enough to not be looking like a hooligan, and when she planted her turf shoes, she could tell the asphalt was already on fire. The boys were gonna be whiny as hell this afternoon. That made her grin just a little bit. She ambled up to the donut shop-slash-panaderia on the corner, straightening her posture when the door jingled and signalled her entry.

The short, middle-aged woman with her graying hair in a bun and an apron around her waist brightened when Jane approached the counter. “Buenos días, Coach Rizzoli,” she greeted with a smile and voice so cheery, she’d obviously been up for hours already. Probably baking as Jane finished weight-lifting in her backyard before the sun came up.

Jane smiled softly in return. “Buenos días, señora Gutierrez,” Jane said, deferential even though at nearly 5’11”, she must have been almost a foot taller than Mrs. Gutierrez. “Como está?” Short Spanish phrases sounded pretty darn good in her mouth, she had to admit, for all the Sicilian she heard growing up, and for being a product of Santa Ana. Spanish was more common than English in a lot of her friends’ homes growing up, so she caught on quick. At least enough to carry on a polite conversation, if needed.

“Bien, gracias. Tengo sus conchas aquí,” Mrs. Gutierrez asked as disappeared behind the counter to find what she was looking for, Jane’s order, reappearing with six pink donut boxes.

Jane opened her nostrils wide to take in the smell of flour, sugar, and a hint of cinnamon for the white conchas, her favorite. It was enough to feed a small army, which felt just about right for the staff meeting she had been tasked with supplying breakfast for. The first of the new school year. “Qué bueno,” she replied, not sure if she was referring to Mrs. Gutierrez’s overall well-being or the pan in the boxes. She pulled out her cash to pay, slipping her wallet in her back pocket, and in the seconds that it took her to do that, a single, piping-hot styrofoam cup of coffee appeared on the counter in front of her.

“Y un cafecito come le gusta,” said Mrs. Gutierrez with a wink and a smile. Occasionally, she did this, and it was her way of taking care of Jane, one of their family’s best customers.

Jane had learned not to refuse it. She just blushed and bowed her head a little bit, her lips pursed in a bashful smile. “Muchisimas gracias,” she said, taking a sip. Mrs. Gutierrez always left the cinnamon stick in it and added minimal creamer, just how Jane liked. Jane held back a moan. She decided she’d partake of the rest in the car, and then pocketed her change.  She picked the boxes up by the string tied to them and huffed, ready to begin the day. “Y el Jonny?” she asked, and Mrs. Gutierrez nodded her head towards the back of the bakery.

Jane nodded and made her way toward the door so she could pop around. “Qué tenga un buen día, Coach,” Mrs. Gutierrez called after her.

“Igualmente!” Jane replied, already on her way. She deposited her haul on her front passenger seat, keeping her coffee in hand, and then walked over to the alley between the Gutierrez bakery and the block wall separating it from the Cardenas market just across the way. She put her hat back on, threading her ponytail through its opening, and adjusted her Oakley sunglasses as she stood by the dumpster that Jonathan Gutierrez currently filled with broken-down cardboard boxes.

He heard her shoes scuffling his way, so he turned. “Coach Rizzoli! It’s early as hell,” he said, “what’re you doing here?” He sweated through the ribbed tank on his torso and the black basketball shorts on his hips. Jane commiserated, having helped her dad out on many a plumbing job in the summer when she was in high school.

“Well, first day for teachers is today,” she said, sipping her drink. “And I had to get some of your mom’s pan for the meeting. They’d expect nothing less. I’m here lookin’ at you because she exhausted all my Spanish skills, and I needed to remind you that practice starts at one today.”

Jonny, as tall as her, lanky too, smirked. “I’m sure you could’ve found a way to say that to her,” he teased, knowing that she couldn’t have, not well.

“You’re a riot. One o’clock, and not a minute later, a’right? I will not hesitate to bench our centerfielder for opening day if he’s late,” she warned. Then she started to turn.

“That’s like seven months from now!” Jonny whined, setting his box cutter down and running a hand through his thick black hair. “I got work today! Last day before school starts next week!”

Jane rolled her eyes. “The perfect hair thing may work on the girls at school, kid, but it won’t work on me. Find a way to make it happen - if you get into Fullerton, it won’t be because I sent you, but because you did it on your own. Part of that means showing up to practice on time. Even in August.”

Jonny sighed. His mom would understand, but his wallet would be crying. “I’m tryna save up for a pickup like yours, though, Coach,” he tried, batting his eyes for extra sympathy.

Jane laughed, and then he did. “Listen. You show up for practice on time every day this year, and you and me’ll have a talk about replacing today’s wages for that new Ranger, a’right?”

“Ok,” Jonny said quietly. He knew that Jane knew they didn’t have much money. And he knew that she knew most everything about him - she meant what she said. She’d taken him under her wing when she’d noticed his boundless talent and his faltering attendance. When she found out it was to make enough money to keep him and his brother on the team, she’d covered the cost in full. That was two years ago, and now that Jonny was an incoming senior, they’d righted the ship together. There was only a little more to go until he applied to the school of his dreams, the one with the killer baseball program and just miles from home.

It didn’t hurt that Jane was the first woman to play ball there as a range-y second baseman, was eventually drafted from Fullerton. He wanted to follow in her footsteps as best he could. “Good. See you then, kid,” she said. He knew that she knew the best way for him to do that was to grind. To eat, sleep, drink, and shit baseball.

“Hey Coach!” He called after her as she made her way back into the alley.

She turned around. “What’s up?”

“I wanna focus on my forearms this year. Should I go the Altuve way?” he asked, smiling.

The Jose Altuve way: banging sledgehammers into tractor trailer tires. Jane guffawed. “I’m not saying do it, but I mean hey, guy’s 5’5” and hitting thirty dingers a year in The Show, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jonny said. “I’ll take it under advisement. Thanks,” and with that, he waved Jane off. She spent the rest of the ride to school thinking about how to safely incorporate forearm work into the team’s regimen in a way that didn’t involve sledgehammers.

The bread had made her truck smell like heaven, and it was the perfect olfactory accompaniment through the working class neighborhoods of Coronita Heights - the part that she felt more comfortable in. She’d grown up down the 91 in Santa Ana, one of Orange County’s most vibrant cities, and her street looked a lot more like these than the ones that Empire High School sat on.

But Empire was one of the top 15 baseball programs in the state, and she had jumped at the opportunity to coach when she’d been approached about it. She packed the few boxes from her parents’ house, used the rest of her signing bonus to put a nice down payment on a house in Coronita Heights, and hadn’t looked back. It had been good for her - she kept in shape, used that teaching credential she’d worked on at Fullerton to teach PE, and led the Knights to a CIF championship in the five years she had been there. She hunted another.

Soon, the burger joints, smoke shops, and insurance spots gave way to expensive houses and palm trees, and she saw the massive campus come into view. She hopped out of the truck once she parked near the office toward the front, downing her coffee and tossing it in the trash. She tugged her belt, looped through her white baseball pants, making sure the fit was good, and then she took the breakfast out.

Another school year was about to begin, and she was determined to make it a victorious one.

___

Maura smoothed her dress in the full-length mirror of her bedroom for what must have been the hundredth time. It was tasteful: sleeveless, dark blue, with a thin black patent-leather belt around its waist. She paired it with black heels, and she looked good. She knew, intellectually, that she did, but this happened every time she started something new: the nerves kicked in and she doubted herself. She curled her impeccably styled hair behind her right ear out of habit, and then made her way downstairs for breakfast.

Her palatial home in Anaheim Hills sat overlooking the city below, still sleepy at six-thirty in the morning. She was anything but, having already completed her run and entire grooming routine. She perused the options within her double door refrigerator, still quite imposing even under the expansive wooden beams on the ceiling that ran from wall to wall. She thought about eggs, protein always a good start to the day, but then remembered the expected temperature and decided a cold breakfast of yogurt and berries would be best.

Again, it was too hot for warm coffee, but the massive cold brew dispenser she had readied just a few days prior called her name and she filled a tumbler with it and her favorite almond milk creamer. She’d have one cup with breakfast and a refill for the road, as she always did from May to October. She reveled in routine; it was what helped her not to shake as she brought a spoonful of honey, dairy, and strawberry up to her lips.

Today, despite her several years of doctoring, would be her first job with the living since residency. In fact, it would be her first non-clinical job, well, ever. Even when she had volunteered for research, it had been in pathology labs, or oncology centers, or Alzheimer’s wards. Now, she would head the pilot program for a pre-med track at Empire High School. Well, pre-pre-med, she corrected herself. The point of the program was to prepare students from non-private and non-charter school backgrounds for the rigor of medical school. And, as a graduate of the Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA, as well as Boston Cambridge University for undergraduate work, Coronita Heights Unified thought her very qualified to head its inception.

Maura was humble, so she did not consider that they also factored in her copious research articles within the field of pathology, nor her several awards from the Medical Board of California. But they did, and so today she started her teaching/counseling position that included Advanced Placement Anatomy and Physiology, as well as Advanced Placement Biology and an elective of honors molecular pathology to boot. She had negotiated that last one to retain a taste of her passion outside of teaching.

Satisfied both with her breakfast and her mulling, Maura rose from her stool at the kitchen island, its white marble counter still gleaming from its recent clean this weekend, and made her way to the sink. She rinsed her bowl, placed it in the dishwasher on the top rack with the others, and then washed her hands for twenty seconds. Soap on, palm scrub, back-of-the-hand scrub, webspace scrub, for as long as it took to hum happy birthday to herself, twice.

She reveled in routine.

She unscrewed the lid of her tumbler and placed it under the dispenser in the refrigerator again, watching dark coffee wash over ice cubes with pleasure. The properties of matter, their predictability and regularity, calmed Maura. She could predict where each rivulet would go with accuracy, and then watch the change of color with no surprise when she poured in her creamer. She could control how light or dark it became, and thus control its flavor. She savored that one last ounce of control before she screwed her lid back on and walked over to where her purse and rolling cart awaited her at the front door.

She took one last look behind her, at the open concept living room so large it needed a sectional couch that no one used because people hardly ever dropped by, at the kitchen with state-of-the-art, industrial appliances that often cooked meals for one. It was her home, even if all of that were true, and the way that the southern California sun poured in through her floor-to-ceiling windows thrilled her. It thrilled her the way it had the first time she set foot in LA, for her first day of classes. She let that embolden her as she locked the door and stepped into her S-Class.

Navigation popped up as soon the engine roared to life, already pre-programmed with the route to Empire High School. She saw the calculation of a twenty minute drive, rearranged a few numbers in her head as she thought about the day of the week, the time of the morning, and the unpredictability of the 91, and decided twenty minutes was probably just about right. She’d given herself a cushion for twenty-five, and with a glance to the men’s style cartier on her wrist, she smiled and pulled out of the garage towards the main drag that would lead her to the freeway.

She jumped out of nerves and surprise when the system notified her of a call coming in. She smirked when she saw the caller ID: Dr. Nina Holiday, Hoag Hospital. Maura pressed the call accept button. “Need a consult already, Doctor?” she teased, her own voice always just a bit foreign in the morning after not having heard it for hours.

Doctor Holiday scoffed on the line. “You wish,” she replied, and then there were beats of silence. “I just wanted to call to wish you good luck on your first day. And to see if you’d reconsider.”

“If this is Hoag’s way of trying to lure me back, by making their premier neurologist do all the dirty work, I think I’m going to have to pass,” Maura said, and Nina laughed.

“No, this is just a friend saying you’re gonna be missed is all,” said Nina. “But I respect what you’re doing.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Maura demured. “Pathology is in... very capable hands with Doctor Pike,” she said, and then immediately the two women guffawed.

“You couldn’t even get it out before you started laughing!” Nina asserted, “see? We’re up a creek with no paddle!”

“Whom the department decided to hire in my stead is not my business,” Maura replied professionally, “especially if they do not take my recommendations into account,” and then with more spice.

“You right, you right. And I know I said it before, but I respect you for this. I think my road to medicine might have been a lot easier if I had someone like you at my high school to guide me through,” Nina said seriously. “Just answer me something: you didn’t leave because of Ian, did you?”

Maura stiffened. She hadn’t wanted to think about that on her first day, but here Nina was, dredging it up. Maura wrung her hands on her steering wheel. “No. Not really,” she answered, and that was the truth. The timing of it all had just been awful.

“Ok. I just… with him being gone, I didn’t know if that would be better, or if you’d be haunted by ghosts, you know? If you stayed.”

“I think I needed a fresh start either way, Nina. I really do,” Maura said.

Nina took the hint that they were done talking about it. Her voice turned chipper again. “I’ve got a call at seven, so I have to go, but I’ll talk to you soon, ok? You can tell me all about your first week. Maybe over bottomless mimosas.”

Maura sighed with relief. She would need that. “Sounds great. Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling. I’m… I’m going to miss you, too,” Maura confessed.

“Aw, Doctor Isles, don’t get all mushy on me,” gushed Nina. “Bye. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye,” Maura said after the line had gone dead.

Nina’s call had lasted most of the ride. Maura was grateful. Nina had been one of the few people to get to know her at Hoag. The hospital itself had a very competent staff. Excellent, really. And Maura was one of the best, so this led to a never-spoken, always-felt air of competition. It didn’t really lend itself to friendship. But Nina had consulted with Maura so often, that a comfortable working relationship eventually morphed into a casual friendship. That turned into drinks on the rare weeknights they had off and brunch on Sundays at some of the best spots in Orange County.

They promised to continue, and they would of course, but for the first time in their friendship, they didn’t work a floor away from each other, and Maura resolved that while she would do everything to keep it alive, she had to acknowledge the change. Fittingly, as soon as she did so, she drove into the staff parking lot at Empire High. Her new beginning.

Her welcome e-mail mentioned a staff meeting today, Friday, in the lecture hall at the front of the school, refreshments provided. So, she pulled next to the gunmetal gray Ford Ranger to her right, and gathered her things. Her cart could wait until they were dismissed to ready their classrooms, so she deposited her fob into her purse and sipped on her coffee for fortitude as she followed the sidewalk pathway past the front office to the lecture hall. She had mapped out the route when she had found out about the meeting, deciding that touring campus on her own before she began would reduce her anxieties, as well as the possibility of unknown factors. It was also why she had arrived right on time: early meant possible one-on-one conversations with strangers, and late meant all eyes on her as she hustled in.

She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head when she reached the glass double doors of the hall, and breathed in one last time. It was a big, 360 degree breath: it engaged her pelvic floor and spread her ribs equally. It lowered her pulse and calmed her nerves, and then she was ready.

When she entered, she heard chatter. Lots of it. When she turned the corner and yanked open the wooden door of the room itself, she was shocked to see what looked like most of the staff already deep in conversation in their seats. Some stood, others stretched their legs over a couple of seats at once, some laughed and some nodded seriously. For a moment, Maura panicked, then checked her watch again. She felt her heartbeat fall a little bit when she looked up to the front and realized that no-one had started the meeting. In fact, there was a small line at the sign-in sheet, so she decided that rather than have a breakdown in the walkway, she should join the line.

She mustered as much courage as she could and stood behind the last woman, who smiled at her politely. Maura smiled back and thanked whatever powers that be that the woman didn’t try to engage. The line moved quickly, and staff members grabbed what looked like sweet bread just off to the side of the table as they signed in. She forewent the sugar and decided just to take the requisite printouts instead. By then, things started to feel a little more like a normal job orientation, so she turned on her heels to make her way back to the crowd.

The confident turn ended up being another mistake, however, because as she started to walk, she saw no openings. It was like the middle of a very bad dream, in which she needed so desperately to blend in, but all she could do was stand out. She felt eyes on her as she passed tables full of other adults, she heard conversations quiet and alter when she walked by.

However, just as she was about to give up and stand all the way in the back, someone called out. “Hey,” the voice was firm, raspy, and kind. She turned instantly and it kept talking. “You need a spot? I was savin’ this one for my brother, but, big shocker, he’s late.” Seated at a table in the middle of the hall with an all-white backpack on the empty chair next to her, two aluminum bat handles sticking out on either side of it, was… “Oh, and I’m Jane. Rizzoli. By the way.”

Jane Rizzoli. Maura thought the name fitting. Jane was so tall and so dark-featured and so handsome that she needed an Italian surname. And by god, she had one. One with a trilled-r and a plural i and everything: it was perfect for her in the way that all its sounds signified abundance. Maura’s mind rambled and she caught it; she wasn’t even sure how the phonotactic rules of Italian applied to Jane’s physicality, but they did, and Maura sat next to her without hesitation. She chanced one glance to the length of Jane’s torso as she curled to put her elbows on the table, and then she met Jane’s dark brown eyes.

It was then that she realized that Jane probably awaited some kind of response. “Maura Isles,” said Maura, holding her hand out. Jane shook it and Maura was not at all surprised by the firmness of the shake.

“Hey Maura. I’m uh, I’m the head baseball coach here. I also teach PE,” Jane explained. Then she looked down at herself, her uniform and the bats in the backpack now on the floor. “But you probably guessed that.”

Maura smirked, and laughed softly. “I don’t like to guess. It puts people in awkward positions. But I would say there’s lots of evidence to that fact, yes.”

Jane laughed openly and then took her hat off. “Well, I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’re the hotshot doctor that they hired for our new pre-med pipeline.”

Maura raised a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “And why would you assume that?”

“You talk like a doctor. And you dress better than everyone else in this room. Real doctor-y,” Jane wagged her own eyebrows up and down.

Maura watched Jane’s crooked grin, rapt. “One…” she began slowly, “doctor-y is not a word. Two, what if I were independently wealthy and taught, oh say, English?”

Jane shrugged. “Words are made up. And are you? Independently wealthy?”

Maura’s mouth twitched in humor. “Yes,” she answered. Jane threw her head back in defeat. “But, I am also the doctor piloting the pre-med program here.”

Just like that, the slender column of Jane’s neck brought her head forward again. “Thought so!” she said. Just as she did, The man who Maura knew from his photo online as the school principal walked in. People started to hush as he made his way to the front podium. Even she turned her attention, until there was the distinct warmth of whispering by her ear that dismantled all other thoughts. Jane was speaking. “Well, Dr. Isles,” she responded, “welcome to Empire High, then.”

[mypassionfortrash]

KICKS (part one)

Roger visits the seediest shop in London in search of a kinky Valentine’s day gift for his girlfriend. He thinks he’s a great lay and he thinks he’s seen it all. He’s also dating one of the sexiest women in the country. It should be a recipe for sexual heaven for Roger, but he soon realises he has a lot to learn, and he keeps coming back to Kicks for more than just the odd ball gag or leather collar!

Warnings: Strong D/s themes later on. STRICTLY 18+. Notes: I said I’d post this in one go, but I lied. I’m gonna post it in parts because I love it. As always, feedback is much appreciated. If you like this, then please, for the love of all that is holy, reblog it (I am begging)! And if you’d like to be tagged, please just send me a message. Thanks for reading!

Tag list: @jennyggggrrr @sarahgurl09 @scorpiogemini @johnricharddeacy​ @brianssixpence​ @hellohellothere12

Valentine’s day was always hectic at Kicks, despite the locals being loathed to admit that they satisfied their fiendish fancies there – even for a few days of the year. 

And for you, it meant working overtime to guarantee that the merchandise looked as tantalising as ever. It gave you the chance to let your creativity run wild, but you couldn’t go overboard with latex-clad, strap-on wearing mannequins in the front window. After all, the locals were still prudes.

While you were busy in the stockroom, filling a box of dildos for distribution, the bell above the front door chimed. It was a Wednesday evening. Things were winding down for the day. And you had assumed you’d be undisturbed until closing time. 

Evidently not. 

Your eyes rolled. “I’ll be through in a minute!”

“No need, take your time!”

When the cardboard box at your feet was brimming with rubber dongs and silicone schlongs, you hauled it up into your arms. But, you instantly bemoaned the decision to pile it so high that your arms buckled and you could barely peer over the top of your haul as you made your way back on to the shop floor. All you could see was a tuft of blonde hair lingering around the section of the store that housed every restraint under the sun.

“Are you alright?” the customer asked, scurrying into view.

You dumped the box on the cash desk and huffed, planting your hands on your hips. “Yep, yep, just fine. Just overextended myself.”

You turned to the customer to see a childish smirk peeking from the corners of his mouth. He was dying to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. After all, he had partied with strippers, witnessed wild drug-fuelled orgies and all kinds of debauchery. But here he was, like a naughty teenager in a sweetshop. Roger had never, ever, been in one of these kinds of shops before.

“Can I help you, handsome?” you pressed.

Roger snapped back to reality with a look of faux seriousness. His hand crept beneath the collar of his half-buttoned shirt to press against the curve between his neck and his shoulder. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m… I’m looking for something to maybe tie my girlfriend up or something. For Valentine’s day, you know? Show her a good time.”

You found his meek facade quite endearing. Most customers had that look about them, but somehow, you expected more from the gregarious drummer of a rock and roll band. “Well,” you began, flinging out your arms. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Roger responded by diverting his gaze to his feet with an eye-crinkling smile.

You emerged from behind the cash desk and gave Roger’s arm a light slap. “Come on over and I’ll show you some of my wares.”

He trailed behind you like a shy little puppy, fumbling his hands in front of his body. “We haven’t really tried this before so I don’t know…”

“That’s ok,” you said, eyeing the wall of restraints for something to show him. You knew full well that Betsy Bright, darling of the Pirelli Calendar, coupled with Queen’s most desirable member, were destined for dirty escapades in the bedroom – even if they hadn’t got around to it yet. And they had to start somewhere.

“W-what about these? These look nice,” Roger mumbled. He held up a set of heavy-duty leather ankle and wrist cuffs for you to inspect.

“How does your girlfriend feel about all of this?” you asked.

“I don’t really know. Honestly, this was just a whim. I’ve already got her some nice knickers. Fred’s been in a couple of times. Joked that I might find something in here.”

That was a typical man response that you’d probably hear a thousand times throughout the Valentine’s frenzy and the annoyance you felt was palpable. Roger edged the cuffs back on to the display.

“Yeah, those might freak her out,” you remarked. “That’s like gifting a virgin a 14-inch dildo and no lube, and telling them to take it in ten minutes.”

“Noted.”

“Why don’t you start…” you said, trailing your hand over the display until you found what you were looking for. “With these?” You held up a set of satin straps for Roger to gaze at. “Much less intimidating. Really versatile. And they come in all kinds of colours.”

Roger took them and allowed the material to fall through his fingertips. “These are nice,” he said, dipping into the bag of department store goodies that hung from his wrist. When he lifted his hand, a whisper-thin, bottle green g-string dangled from his index finger. “Got any to match this?”

“Betsy Bright’s gonna look fantastic in those,” you said, handing him another set of straps.

He couldn’t meet your gaze and the flush of pink that spread from his chest to his jaw gave away even more of his embarrassment. “I hope so,” he said quietly.

“I can throw in a blindfold and a nice little scarf gag for an extra tenner if you want?”

Roger’s eyes were elsewhere; they darted around his surroundings with a coy curiosity. “That sounds great.”

“Do you want me to ring these up for you?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, trailing behind you.

You could feel Roger’s eyes on you as you rang his kinky starter pack through the till and bagged them up for him. Every time you moved, his eyes moved with you. But when you looked up, he quickly looked away, towards the box of dildos beside you. “That’s twenty quid please,” you said, handing him his bag.

He gave you the money from his shaking hand and returned his eyes to the box. Intrigue got the better of him and made him pick up the biggest toy in there. He marvelled at it, turning it in his hand.

“Think you could manage it?” you smirked.

His face reddened again. “Oh, I’m… I’m just… could anyone?”

You nodded slowly with your eyes bulging from your head and a scowl on your lips. 

“I’d hate to be the poor woman whose undercarriage gets wrecked by that,” he mused. “How could anyone… Look! I can’t even get my hand around it.”

“Patience and a lot of lube.”

Roger’s mouth hung open as he looked at you again. “Have you? How did you… what?”

You giggled. “No! God no. But it’s possible. I think you’re curious, now though, aren’t you? I reckon you could take that if you really stretched yourself.”

The dildo was dumped back in the box in protest. “No,” he whispered, furiously shaking his head.

“I think you’re more interested than you’re letting on, but that’s alright. I won’t tell.”

“I’ll stick to sticking my dick in things. Rather than having things stuck in me. If that’s alright.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Whatever tickles your pickle!”

“I’m a great lay by the way. I’m just throwing that out there.”

A sarcastic chuckle escaped your lips. “Bet you’ve never found the g-spot.”

Roger leaned on the cash desk, screwing up his beautiful features, eager for you to impart your wisdom. “Sorry, what?”

One week later…

Rounding the corner, the morning sun sparked a blazing path before you. Beautiful, boring shopfronts blurred past you as your speedometer approached 60. Double the speed limit, but opening time was drawing closer by the second. 

Never in your time at Kicks had you been late. And you weren’t going to let that happen today.

Turning the throttle, the needle spiked at 70, and then steadily eased as the shop came into view. 

When your bike came to a stop opposite the shop, you hesitated for a moment, thanking your lucky stars you decided to don a visor that day. A customer paced back and forth, but you couldn’t see their face from that far away. It was rare to find customers pounding the pavement, waiting for the doors to open. Rarer still when that customer turned out to be Roger Taylor – again.

Whipping off your helmet and crossing the street, you caught Roger’s eye. Stopped in his tracks, he struggled to fight back a broad grin. And the way his eyes strayed.

You didn’t look at him when you slipped your key into the lock. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite customer! How’d Miss Pirelli get on? She like getting tied up?” You pushed the door open and switched on the lights. Roger followed.

“I’m not sure,” he said, scratching at the undersides of his arms as he wandered into the middle of the shop – and tried not to touch anything.

Weaving in and out of the group of catsuit-clad mannequins in the front window, you stopped and narrowed your eyes at Roger. “What do you mean: you’re not sure?” you asked, pulling up the blinds. “Don’t you talk?”

“Sure, as soon as I’ve spaffed my load down her tits and we’re lying there all sweaty and exhausted, I just... just turn to her and ask,” he paused, lowering his voice and pressing his hand to the side of his mouth, “darling did you like those silk ties and how was the little feather duster I tickled your fanny with? Sure!”

You shook your head and wandered over to Roger. “So you don’t do a thorough post-match analysis? How on earth do you communicate? Jesus Christ, Roger!”

“I think she liked it! Ok?”

“So you’re back for that monster cock you saw last week?” you asked with fake glee.

Roger crossed his arms and jutted out his hip. “No, actually.” As quickly as his face clouded over with indignation, it dropped even more into a serious gaze. “I was hoping you could give me some advice.”

You seemed to understand that this was unusual for Roger and that he wasn’t exactly used to opening up like this. “Coffee?”

He perked up ever so slightly, his arms dropping down by his sides. “Coffee.”

Roger followed you on your way into the back room, but he lingered just at the door and watched you make the coffee. 

“I’ve got some chocolate digestives if you want some. You know, in case you need to eat your feelings,” you joked.

“Wouldn’t say no,” he laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite at that point just yet.”

“Right,” you began, thrusting Roger’s coffee into his hand on your road back to the shop floor. “Tell me all of your woes, drummer boy.”

You and Roger hauled yourselves on to stools on opposite sides of the cash desk. He looked down, staring into the cup in his hands. And then he looked up. “Actually I think I will have a biccy, please.”

Without a word, you plucked a single chocolate digestive from the packet and slid it towards him like a seedy bartender. But you kept your finger on it when he tried to take it. 

He shot you a frustrated glare.

“A moment on the lips and all that,” you quipped, “I’ll give you this if you tell me what’s bugging you.”

Roger puffed out his cheeks and maintained eye contact with you – he looked like he was begging, but you wouldn’t budge even with his fingers planted on the outer edges of the now melting chocolate biscuit.

“Come on. That layer of chocolate’ll be long gone before you’ve ‘fessed up!”

“This is weird, talking to someone I don’t even know about it.”

You shrugged. “I sell naughty tapes to sweaty old men and rubber dolls to greaseballs with bad breath – and I have to smile about it. Trust me, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s going to happen to me today. Spill the beans.”

Roger tilted his head to the side with a coy smile. He wasn’t sure where to begin or how to verbalise his feelings on the matter. “Ok. So last week went well. I think she liked it. And I think she wants more of that but…” Roger trailed off. His eyes darted in the air as if he was reading from a script he had tried to commit to memory. But he was lost.

“Right, eat that,” you instructed, letting go of the biscuit.

Roger took it, dunked it in his coffee and took a bite. “It’s just,” he began through his mouthful, “it didn’t feel right for me.”

Even if you hadn’t the foggiest idea what Roger meant by that, you still made a good show of pretending that you did, nodding and dishing out an understanding, “Ah, I get you. Takes a bit of getting used to.”

Roger was dunking the other half of his biscuit when he continued. “I just didn’t feel comfortable with it, you know? I like sex. Love sex. But I felt like I’d rather have all of that done to me. And it just gets really tiring when she expects me to… perform... all the time. She wants me to pull her hair and put my hands around her neck… spank her. And I don’t know how to feel about that.” Roger finished pouring his heart out by lifting his biscuit out of his mug. It was sodden and fell apart upon removal, much to Roger’s disdain. “Well, that’s my coffee ruined.” He looked back up at you. “So yeah.”

“Have you tried – I don’t know – telling her this?”

“I did, but she was kind of dismissive about it. She told me it’s no big deal. But I’m intrigued. I want that… but for me.”

“Well, you need to figure out if it’s a crucial part of your relationship. Are you serious with Betsy?”

Roger shrugged. “She’s fun to look at, and she’s always, you know, up for it. But it’d be nice to let go for a bit. I’m not even sure how I’d feel about doling out any of the rougher stuff that she wants to try. Plus she’s a bit of a bimbo, you know?” he added, cupping his hands around a pair of imaginary breasts on his chest. “Not much going on in the brain.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit and just tell you how it is,” you stated. “So. The way I see it is you’ve got two – maybe three – problems here,” you announced, sitting up straight. “Number one: the Venn diagram between your kinks and your girlfriend’s kinks don’t really align. She expects you to be just as savvy and into it as she is, and I’m gonna hazard a guess here, you haven’t been as adventurous as she has. Sound right?”

“Right,” Roger nodded enthusiastically.

“Number two: you’re apprehensive because you’re not as savvy as you thought you were. You’re not comfortable diving into all the debauchery she wants, because you’ve still got much to learn.”

“Yep.”

“And third: I think you’d rather be submissive in bed.”

Roger thought about that final point for a moment. His brow furrowed as he took a sip of his coffee.

“I think I’ve nailed it,” you said.

“I think you have. Maybe.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Roger’s eyes lightened. “I’m going to need to have a long, hard think about that one, aren’t I?”

“You’re damn right you do.”

NEXT PART >>

[ttime42]

2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge

Challenge courtesy of @missdaviswrites​

Prompt: Lights

Sherlock blew through the front door to 221B, shoving the black door shut against the howling wind. He took a deep breath of the warm air in the foyer before he began peeling his leather gloves off his fingers. A crash and a muttered cuss word drew his attention to 221C's open door. Curious, he hung up his coat and stepped into the open doorway to listen. The sounds of scraping cardboard and John muttering to himself floated up the stairs. Sherlock went down and found John bent over a plastic tote box labeled 'x-mas stuff' in black marker.

"John?"

He startled and stood up. "Sherlock, hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Gonna decorate the flat. It's already the 4th and we don't even have a tree."

"Do we need one?"

"Well," John sighed helplessly. "Tis the season, right?"

John dug some more and slapped the lid back on the box. "Grab one end, yeah? I'm going to look at this upstairs."

They set the large tote box in front of their coffee table and John went back at it. Sherlock put the kettle on.

"Ah-ha, lights!" John grabbed the plug poking out of a plastic bag and pulled. It didn't budge. He tugged again, this time peeling the plastic bag away. He pulled the large, tangled lump of fairy lights free and eyed it, biting his lip. How on earth had it gotten so hopelessly tangled? Certainly it wasn't like that when they put it away last year? "This is a mess." He said.

Sherlock brought in two cups of tea and eyed the wad of lights. "The longer the length of a cable, the more likely it is to tangle. The rigidity and diameter of the cable‒or in this case, the string of fairy lights‒also affect whether or not it tangles, as well as how much the disturbance the cable experiences." Sherlock sipped his tea. "Of course in this case the tangling probability is compounded by the fact that there are bits of glass sticking off the cable every eight or so inches."

John stared at him, incredulous. 

"I read about it for a case once." Sherlock said.

"Disturbance the cable experiences?" John repeated. "Meaning...?"

"How much it gets rattled about. We dropped this box down the stairs last year after it slipped out of your grip and fell on my foot."

"Oh right."

"So this cable has experienced a great deal of disturbance." Sherlock reached for a pen. "There's a formula that shows exactly how‒"

"‒I don't need to see a formula, thanks." John held his hand up. "Do you feel like untangling this?"

"Not in the least."

"Me neither."

That year, passersby 221 were treated to the sight of a beach ball-sized tangled lump of fairy lights glinting in the upstairs window beside a small pine tree decorated with sparkling skulls and red and gold globes.

[ryntaia]

Is it bad I want to read a drabble about the headcanon where Goro and Futaba are half sibling and they find out about it? (Can I just say that I love your writing? ;w; )

Pfft anon I think about this headcanon non-stop, of course you can have Sibtaba and BroGoro drabbles. 

/cracks knuckles 

hooboy okay let’s break out the Oniichan. Also, I hope you guys don’t mind the name I gave Akechi’s mom. She needed some name and this was the placeholder one I’d been using for a while. 

EDIT: Fixed some issues with this one. I hadn’t realized that my strike outs had not transferred over when pasted, so Shido’s letter turned into a rambling mess. It still is (purposefully) but its a little closer to what I intended now. Sorry about that confusion. 

           She poked that box with her toe, she ran her hands across the cardboard surface, she even drew on it once or twice…but Futaba Sakura did not even think about opening it for what had to be a month.

           It was understandable. When the plain box had arrived as Leblanc, return address of Masayoshi Shido hastily scribbled on the side, Futaba and Sojiro were close to flipping a coin on whether or not to keep it. Her legal guardian had wanted to throw it out into the trash immediately—if it hadn’t of been for the last few months, the redhead hacker would’ve sided with him immediately. Instead the box had been stashed up where she didn’t have to look at it all time: Akira’s room in Leblanc.

           She couldn’t avoid it forever, though. Even if she didn’t want to face the man who had been responsible for her mother’s death, well, she had managed to face the teenager who had actually done the deed. She was nowhere near what could be called ‘close’ to Goro Akechi, but she had faced him head on when the brunette had been dragged back into the world of the living. They didn’t talk much and Akechi typically left the attic when Futaba or any of Akira’s friends were at Leblanc…Futaba didn’t know where the boy went at these times, and all Akira would tell her is that Akechi was taking a walk to clear his head.

           Which was why right now she sat on Akira’s bed with the bespectacled teen sitting across from her, and Akechi leaning against the far wall. He was like a lean cat, his figure pushed out slightly with his eyes always darting around yet never leaving his target—his prey. He kept his distance but his dark eyes always seemed circle the room right back to the box in the middle of Akira and Futaba.

           It was only fair, Akira had reasoned with her. It’s your mother, but its his father…and it’ll only be for an hour.

           God, Akira was a great guy, but sometimes he was SUCH a great guy that it drove Futaba up the wall. He would stick his neck out for anyone, even if that someone had literally pointed a gun at his head and pulled the trigger. Though she wasn’t really interested in going into the specifics of that, the looks they kept giving each other, the hours they spent alone, the…

           Lord, it was best to just not think about it.

           Instead she reached out and finally—finally—undid the string tying the box together. It was like as if each time a fold of the box fell away from its contents, the brunette seemed to slide closer behind them. Thankfully he seemed to be staying closer by Akira, but Futaba kept a watchful eye on him as she revealed Shido’s unexpected gift to them all. Which….

           …was a letter in an envelope stacked on top of a bunch of paper files.

           She groaned, slipping her fingers under the paper and ripping out the letter inside. It was a short letter, seeming like it had been written in a few minutes with no time to spare, but it had the familiar handwriting that Shido had boldly publically displayed. Here, it wasn’t so bold—despite the slapdash way it appeared to be written, there were numerous signs of eraser marks peppering the entire sheet of paper. Several bits of text were just plain crossed out. Even the signature was lopsided.

           Miss Sakura,

           Enclosed is the last of the files documents related to the use of research of acquirement of Wakaba Ishikii’s study on the cognitive psience of the Metaverse. I hope you can make use of I hope that it will benefit I’m sorry.

           Masayoshi Shido

           Futaba wrinkled her nose—she wanted to be disgusted but Akira had reminded her time and time again that before she opened the box that she would be seeing the sentiments of Shido after they had changed him. His actions before had been impure, but whether had made the choice to feel it now or not, what the letter had expressed WAS the truth the ex-politician was feeling. He was not lying, he was not trying to manipulate them, he wasn’t trying to gain anything. Even if it felt empty to Futaba…

           She shook her head and rifled through the files, throwing the letter to the side. Akira caught it and handed it up to Akechi—the brunette didn’t even bother with it, immediately tearing Shido’s words in half. Futaba absentmindedly listened as Akira admonished the detective, unwillingly to actively partake in whatever Akechi had to gain from this. Instead she tucked her red hair behind an ear, tilting one of the pictures in the box to the side curiously.

           It was a photo of her mother.

           Futaba didn’t have many photos of her mother. They had all been confiscated by the men in suits, she assumed because they thought any one of the pictures could hold a secret. The only picture she had managed to keep had been an old picture from when Futaba was first born, with her mother standing next to her crib with a tired smile on her face. She wore a lab coat in that picture, hanging heavily on her burdened shoulders and covering up her sleek black dress. Futaba couldn’t remember seeing her mother in that labcoat very often; Wakaba had not worn it at the house very much.

           Yet in the picture she held, her mother wore that exact same labcoat.

           She was standing in front of a nondescript clinical building with a smile on her face and a clipboard in hand. To her left stood a brunette woman who looked almost vaguely familiar, thick hair tied into a braid that ran over her shoulder. She had the same tired eyes that Futaba could remember her mother having, yet she worn no lab coat. Instead she wore what seemed to be a light green hospital gown. She stood against the far side of the picture, and from it she could see a hand resting on her shoulder. It wore an unmistakably garish gold ring on the pointer finger.

           She tossed it to the side; it was caught by Akira, who showed it to Akechi. The detective seemed thrown off, almost frazzled, for a moment. Futaba did not stop to ask why—the picture under it grabbed her attention far more. It was the same woman with the brown hair, only this time she was standing aside Masayoshi Shido—who was blocking his face from the camera with his hand. But his unmistakable scowl and goatee were still apparent through his fingers, the sheen of his orange lens reflecting off the camera lid. The woman still looked very tired.

           “Give me that.”

           Futaba shifted backwards as Akechi snapped up the photo from her, revealing the one underneath it—the brunette woman, eyes sad and smile barely managing to stay afloat as she sat on a chair. Wakaba was standing behind her with a similarly frazzled look on her face, trying to force a smile all the same as her painted nails gripped firmly as the back of the brunette woman’s chair. There was an unmistakable swell at the stomach of the unknown woman; her thin hand seemed to be lain across the green fabric.

           She let the photo fall out of her hands to the side; the only photo left was an oddly distinct photo of Masayoshi Shido on his own. It almost looked like a driver’s license photo. His mocha eyes stared straight ahead, and for a moment, it almost drew a feeling of fear out of Futaba. Quickly she shook her head and focused in on the photo—there had to be SOMETHING in it that would tell her something. But she couldn’t find it, couldn’t figure out what had possessed her mother to have this odd photo of Masayoshi Shido. It fell to the side as she ruffled through the papers—the only photo of the four that Akechi hadn’t taken to stare oddly at. The redhead wasn’t going to bother to ask. Instead she pulled out what looked to be a pair of hospital admittance papers.

           The top one was her mother’s admittance to deliver Futaba. The second…seemed to be the admittance of another pregnant woman, two years prior to Wakaba’s. She scanned the file, but her eyes caught on the name. Slowly, almost disbelieving, Futaba lowered the paper to stare blankly at the brunette detective gazing almost longingly at the photographs that she had thrown to the side.

           Akane Akechi.

           “Why are these files together…? Mom knew…?” She mused to herself, placing them each aside each other to study the documents thoroughly. While she examined them, Akira rifled through the box between them. Before she could think any further into it, a folded and yellowed piece of paper dropped on top of it. Futaba looked up at Akira questioningly; his hand laid on her shoulder immediately after giving her what he had found.

           “The only thing that matters is you. Not them.”

Birth Certificate – Futaba Isshiki

           Mother – Wakaba Isshiki

           Father – Masayoshi Shido

           Futaba’s head reeled as she tumbled backwards away from the box, legs furiously pushing her body against the wall. Her eyes stared out at figures she couldn’t truly see, her eyes blurred by confusion and distress and her ears blinded by the dull hiss of a scream bubbling in the back of her throat. Her hands couldn’t find a place to stay, couldn’t find a way to hold herself up as she sunk deeper towards the ground. She could only see the blurred shapes of Akira handing Akechi the paper and the both of them swooping down by her.

           It made her want to scream; instead, when she tried, she found herself with a mouthful of water. The hacker coughed loudly, realizing she had been hyperventilating as her mind screeched at her the implications of what Shido could’ve done to her mother, how this possibly could’ve happened, how even when she had been a product of the worst aspect of Wakaba’s life, Wakaba had still managed to love her so dearly despite her hard work masking it…

           She looked up from the glass in her hand to stare at the two boys hovering above her; Akechi immediately slid back away from her. But before he could get away, the hacker’s precise fingers shot out to grab him by the tie and dragged him back in, knocking the glass of water in his hands to the ground as he was brought face to face with the redhead. Akira watched carefully from a distance, one hand cautiously raised if he needed to intervene. Futaba already knew he didn’t have to; she just lifted her chin to meet her mocha brown eyes with Akechi’s dark brown ones.

           It was always in our eyes, wasn’t it.

           “I think I just might be starting to understand you a little more…” She whispered. Her throat felt like it had been clawed apart. “…brother.”

           And behind them both, scattered pictures of two women—one with short black hair and sharp eyes, another with long brown hair and a tired smile—stood alongside a menacing picture of Masayoshi Shido.