#withaconscience

here’s the post I said I’d make where I @ people and tell them I’m at my new url (and then tumblr only tells about 30% of the people the first time...........) 

(i’m the mun from these urls btw: ficjhtclub / withaconscience / mrf34r ) 

hello folks! here’s my starter call for all my muses. if you have somebody specific you want to write with, please reach out to me in my IMs or my askbox to talk about it! If you don’t, I’ll pick a muse I think will go with your muse(s) and I’ll @ you in a starter! 

📂 RANDOM, USELESS HEADCANONS 📂

Still Accepting.

Gideon is a lot more fit than one might expect. Watching Gideon walk down the street, one might assume he’s just this great, big, lumbering sort of man. He almost always appears slightly hunched over, as if trying to minimize the amount of space he takes up, and is prone to dragging his feet, sometimes causing him to trip a bit over his own feet. However, mostly as a means to clear his head, Gideon does have a workout regime he tries to keep to and also does some yoga and meditation. He’s been doing it for years as a method to curb his anxiety and while he did take a long break after the life-threatening diagnosis that ended with him working late for months until he created Gyles, he did start it up after Gyles introduction into his life. It helps him relax and stretch out his muscles when he wakes up with them bruised from his counterpart's nightly activities. He’s incredibly limber and strong despite looking rather fatigued during the daylight hours.

pretty sure all my barry drafts are done but he’s still kickin’! like this for a starter from this troubled hitman 

    “You’ll have to speak to the drug cartel department about that, lohv, and I make it my policy not to keep their number in my appointment book.”

A pause. 

    “...oh, alright.”

Moriarty locks black eyes with his hit man, while pulling a small bag of white powder from a locked desk drawer. 

      “Why would I try?” 

    “Wooooow.” 

Jim lofts an unconcerned eyebrow.  Nothing of his slight, nattily clad frame moves, save his mouth.

    “Not like I, a professor by trade, ever heard that zinger before. Certainly not from ninety-seven thousand happily mediocre first-years in the back row of the lecture hall, reeking of corn chips and disappointment.  Grab me a divan, hit boy, I feel faint.” 

There’s something in the ilt of his voice, errant and erratic, up and down octaves at irrational intervals, paired inscrutably with his relentless logic, that makes Moriarty’s words alone terrifying.  One gets a potent understanding of how he has remained covert, and unobstructed in his machinations, while controlling most of the major criminal syndicates of Europe. How can you orient yourself around a person who is a bomb that may be a dud, or may at any moment detonate? He may either continue serenely unaffected, or rid you of a limb.

Or your life: if fate smiles.