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someonegoood · 7 months ago

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MY WHOLE LIFE pt. 3 ✫ mason mount

part 1, part 2, final part.

in which after everything you gave, you're not sure if you're going to keep going. (brother’s best friends troop).

CONTAINS: brother’s best friend troop, angst, some smut (not really explicit) & fluff ! age gap, arguments...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: here's part 3 ! final part for my first two works, I'm proud of how it came out

taglist: @girlidekanymore @sunflower-tia @nicolesainz @chilwellspulisic @anotherfan07

inspired by taylor swift's songs.

The feeling of freshness —the wonderful smells, the damp feel of leaves falling down the trees, the breeze and the rain on your skin. The sound of rain is wonderful: not just between a hard roof and leaves, but you can hear it on different types of trees and hedges.

The flowers, which look like they were painted by Monet himself, have colours so rich that no one can even attempt to imitate them. From the smallest weed to the grandest stalk, they are all beautiful in your eyes.

Around you are your friends; some are talking or enjoying the countryside air. You had decided to take me on a little vacation before returning to the routine of the busy city of London.

No distractions, no disturbances, especially without him. After seeing how Mason smiled at that blonde standing next to him and Debbie's painful look in the boat, you knew all these years were in vain.

The moments when you took care of him after he vomited from all the alcohol he had consumed at the party, when you covered him so he could go on dates with different girls and other things you had done for him.

The last time Mason saw you still burned in the back of your mind, the little stolen glances he gave you while you were wearing a pink t-shirt, the one that you had left back in a drawer in the Mount's house. Stacey had told you the t-shirt drove him crazy.

It had been weeks, and you still couldn’t understand why nothing went your way. Was it you? Had you done something wrong? Had it been you that caused the gulf?

—Babes, how could you ever think it's your fault? Clearly, he is out of his mind. —Clara talked. You and your friends were sitting on the porch in the extensive field that belonged to your grandparents.

Then Adelaida, who was resting her head on your lap, suddenly stood up, leaning on one elbow and said: —Please don't think it's your fault, you would be lowering yourself to his level.

Everyone had been adamant that it wasn’t you... even your mother. But even with those words of affirmation, it didn’t change the internal feelings, the heartbreak that felt it was never-ending.

All you ever wanted was that connection, that string, that feeling that pulled you to another person, that proved he was the person meant to be for you. It was devastating to think back and know he wasn’t.

Even though you were angry at him, you knew that when you saw him you would act like a little girl, crazy in love.

On the other side, Mason was in the kitchen, picking at the leftover food on the tabletop as everyone else was in the living room. His mother walked into the kitchen as he took a bite of little meatballs that looked delicious and she laughed at the pieces of meat that had fallen onto the kitchen counter.

—That’s definitely not the way to eat —she smirked knowing his son wasn't the type of person to sit down and eat properly.

—But you love me anyways, mom. —Mason flashed his puppy eyes as his mum laughed at his actions. It had been a long year for Mason. He stopped turning to family events when he knew you would be there.

—Mason Tony Mount, I gave birth to you, I know you better than you know yourself-

—Mom. —Mason sighed. —Don't start this whole speech about her, please.

—Dear, I don’t even need to say her name... it will always be her. —She smiled, sadly, as she walked over to her son and placed a hand on his cheek.

—She's happy, from what I heard. —he scoffed again.

—So then you know you’re being an ass, right?

Mason's eyes widened at his mother's question but she just laughed and waved him off. —After all the years she spent after you, dear, it would be cruel for you to not let her be happy.

That sentence shattered his heart. You weren't the little girl who ran behind him in search of attention anymore, you were a woman with maturity, feelings and beauty.

—But what if I’m not happy? —he asked his mum. Debbie felt her heart clench at his words, it was never good for a mother when they saw their son being at his lowest.

—Do you love her?

There was no answer.

—See, that would be very cruel. Mase... either you love her or you’re jealous. Just remember that she's a second daughter to me and I know her like the palm of my hand. I'm certain that she’s fragile when it comes to you.

After a week in the countryside with your friends, you were back in the city, at a party the english players were throwing in celebration of their team winning the last few games.

Every time he looks at you, it’s making him go mad. It surprises him how much influence you have on his night out. He actually believed he could handle it, seeing you after a while. Normally he’s the one who takes you to the football after-parties because you begged him like crazy. But not this time.

Did you wear a white dress on purpose tonight? He doesn’t know. You look beautiful and he wishes he had the nerve to tell you how great white looks on you. He remembers the time you almost kiss in the box, you in the white sweatshirt with his number. The guy talking to you on your right was Foden. Did you wear it for him? He doesn’t believe that, he doesn’t think he deserves that.

Mason sighs. This is one of the hardest nights in his life. He shouldn’t have messed it up. If he didn’t follow what Ben said to him, he would probably be the one talking to you. Fucking Ben.

At the same time, you don’t know what’s bothering Mason. You thought he would be coming to the afterparty with Daphne, but his friends confirmed that he forgot her quickly. He didn't even kiss her. Neither touch her.

It surprised you, you were afraid he would show up with that beautiful model. A part of you felt really happy.

You feel his eyes burning into you while you talk to Foden. You quickly take the cocktail out of Phil's hands, while thanking him in the meantime. He shrugs it off.

��What’s up with you? —He asks you after you take a few sips.

—What do you mean? —You ask him. Is he noticing your bad mood? You tried hiding it, but maybe you failed.

—You seem distracted. Did something happen? —he goes on. You take a sip of your cocktail, thinking about your response. Could it be a bad plan to tell him about Mase? They’re friends after all. But on the other hand, it would be nice to talk about it to someone.

—It’s him, isn’t it? —Foden answers his own question. You didn’t even realize you were looking at Mason until Phil spoke. You nod towards him, —Let’s go outside.

Then, you're sitting on a wooden bench outside. The white dress doesn’t give you much warmth, so you embarrassingly start to shiver. Before you can notice it, Phil drapes his jacket around your shoulders.

—Fuck... —he says, regretting. —I knew it would be a bad plan to invite you. —Mutters softly, —I thought it was a good idea to make you feel better, now I just got Mount to get angry at you.

You laughed, thinking that was very cute. —That’s not true, Phil —you try to comfort him, —you can’t help me being an idiot.

—To be fair, Mason and you are both idiots. —Foden laughs, —Definitely unaware idiots-

But before he can explain to you anything, Mason shows up in front of you.

While walking back to his car, he notices the sound of people talking outside. He thinks he’s recognizing your voice. He must be going insane, he thinks tiredly to himself. But still, he walks towards the sound. Quickly seeing you and Phil sitting together... fucking hell, why are you wearing his jacket?

Before he realizes it himself, he stands before you and his teammate Foden. The chattering stops directly, did he interrupt something? He feels awkward with you and Phil looking at him amusingly. How can he fix this awful situation?

—I uh... I wanted to say bye to you. —Mason said, ignoring the existence of Phil. —I am supposed to bring you home or will Phil...?—He stutters eventually, not wanting to finish his question.

—Wait, Mase, can we talk? —You react before Mason turns around and walks to his car in a rush. He nods.

—Of course.

The silence was sharply awkward.

—Don’t forget your jacket, Foden —Mason quickly says, —she can wear mine while we’re outside.

Phil, who no longer was sitting on the bench, laughed for a bit at his hopeless friend. Then he walks up to you, and takes his own jacket from your shoulders, while Mason quickly takes off his. You give Phil a quick hug to thank him, before getting into Mason's jacket.

—Don’t be an idiot to her —says Phil toward Mason whispering in his ear. You smile shyly, flushing with Phil's comment.

Mason doesn’t know how to watch the interaction between his friend and you. He doesn't know where to look when you turn your attention to him. The white dress quickly grabs his attention once again.

Silently, both of you walk to the parking lot where his fancy Mercedes-AMG was parked. You had always made fun of him because the car was too posh in your opinion, although every time you needed a ride home you always ended up in his car.

Firstly he took the car keys out of his pocket and then he opened your door for you. He had always been a gentleman. The situation is unexpected, yet influenced by the tension that’s been built between you two through the last couple of months.

—So, what do you want to talk about? —Mason asks you. You lasted a few seconds thinking about how to answer his question.

—Why were you ignoring me today? Why didn’t you come up to me and Phil to say hi? —You fire multiple questions at him, —did I do something wrong? Are you upset with me? —Your words cut through the thick air inside the car.

—I thought the two of you were busy with each other. —Mason mutters.

You scoff, this was unbelievable. —That’s bullshit Mase, you know I always make time for you.

—God!, I just wasn’t in the mood to see you two. —He said, elevating his tone, trying to sound casual but deep down, jealousy was gnawing at him like a relentless beast.

You don’t know what to say to Mason. You don’t even know what the boy means. He wasn’t in the mood to see you? Since when could that happen?

—Why? —You barely dare to ask him. You have no choice, so you repeat your last question —why, Mase? —Your eyes start to fill with tears.

Mason sighs, —You won’t get it.

—You don’t know that. Try me.

—I just... I just don’t like seeing you with other boys —he confessed. You doubt for a bit. Should you tell him you were relieved he showed up alone instead of coming with Daphne? You decide not.

—Oh, come on Mason! You can't say that! —You almost shout. Mason's eyes open like plates. You had never raised your voice at him like that, so angry.

—Why not? —He, as well, says almost shouting.

—Because you don't have the right! It's-it's just that you can't say that as if my feelings were so simple... —You tried to calm yourself, you could lost everything now.

—Mason, I've been with you since the beginning and you know that. I'm your biggest supporter and deep inside you know I’ll always cheer for you. I’ve spent my whole girlhood- Fuck. —Tears start scrolling down your delicate face. He looks at you as if you were graceful.

—I wanted to be with you tonight, —you eventually say after a long silence—but you looked at me as if I didn’t matter.

—I know.

You sigh. Can't the boy say anything else? You feel obligated to talk further: —Why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong?

You don't get any answer. Looking at the ceiling of the car, you try to keep your cool.

—You know what? I’m going back to the party. Call me when you can explain at least something. —You want to undo yourself from Mason's warm jacket, but he stops you directly by grabbing your arm.

—I know you deserve to know what’s going on, but I don’t want to lose you. I know it’s a shitty excuse which makes everything even more unclear, but please don’t go back inside. —Mason talks soft and fast —and please keep the jacket on.

—What’s so important about the jacket? —You ask with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

—Your dress distracts me and I don’t want to see you in anyone else’s jacket again. —This time he is direct with his words. Almost harsh. You wonder why your dress distracts him. Does he find it ugly?

—Don’t you like the dress? —You ask.

—I fucking love the dress. —Mason says. At that moment you feel something clicking. Despite his short explanation, you wonder if Mason may return your feelings.

—Just give me time. Everything is happening so fast and the fact that I'm just realizing that all these years all I've been doing is hurting you makes me go mad angry at myself. —He says, without breathing. —And... I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for everything I've done, for the countless times I've hurt you. I promise you will have a proper explanation. —He tried to smile, with tears in his eyes.

—That's the Mase I know... —You laugh lightly and Mason just stares at you, sweetly. —Now take me back home, probably my brother is already wasted.

What you didn't know is that that day Mason Mount started falling in love with you.

A few days after you were your house, sat in the cozy familiarity of the your couch while your mother flipped through the pages of a weathered photo album resting on her lap. Each turn of the page revealed a snapshot of your brother's and your past, a journey frozen in time.

—Look! You're wearing my glasses! —Said your mother, with clear emotion in her voice. She turned some pages that had photographs of your childhood: when you were born, your first tooth fell out and many more memories.

Your cheeks flushed with nostalgic warmth, a subtle testament to the innocence and joy captured in each photograph.

Among the sepia-toned memories and faded polaroids, there was a page filled with pictures where Mason and you, both still little children, intertwined in laughter playing in the park.

Your mom pinched your cheek. —Someday you will realize that everything you did was not in vain, on the contrary, it was all worth it. —She stopped to take a breath. —Because golden loves are like that. They stay with you forever.

—How beautiful, mom. —You ironized. She laughed.

—It will, darling... Come here. —And then you hugged her. You hugged her with all your might as you felt her warmth on your face. She giggled, breaking the embrace.

—You'll need a spell to make Mason realize what a fool he is.

—Mom!

A couple days later, you were back at Stamford Bridge once again. As you approach the stadium, you can feel the excitement building. The streets around the stadium eagerly anticipate the game ahead.

Inside the stadium, the dominant colour is blue. The stands are filled with supporters adorned in their team's jerseys, scarves, and signs that say "Pride of London".

—Call her Mason, I’m sure she's in the stands —said Ben, while putting on the new shirt they played in today. Mason held his cell phone, sitting on the bench in the large locker room.

Today was Valentine's Day and Mason had a game. Your brother told Mason he was going out on a date with his girlfriend but you would go in his place, as usual. He didn't know if you were coming, so Mason was nervous, especially with the talk you had in his car.

You had called Debbie in the morning, asking her if you should come to the game, and she told you that Mason would be more than happy to see you there. You wondered if he knew what you were up to if your brother had kept him in the loop.

Pick it up.

The third tone rang while Ben tried to hold Mason, about to faint from anxiety. In the background, music was blasting from the speakers while the guys on the team began gathering in the locker room for their last talk before the game started.

Reece James leaned closer, curious why his teammate was sitting with his phone in hand, bouncing his leg nervously.

—What has got Mount that nervous? I've never seen him like this —he says to Ben, seated next to Mason, fixing his shoes.

—It's his girlfriend-

—She's not my girlfriend! —Mason interrupted Chilwell, with an expression of fear. You still haven't answered him and the fact that his friends were bothering him added to his anxiety.

—Give me that shit. —Suddenly Kai Havertz appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Mason's phone and putting the call on speaker. Everyone's attention was on the tones ringing, hoping you'll pick up. The team had witnessed your situationship since Mason had joined Chelsea, so they knew you quite well.

—Hi? Mason?

Kai, standing on the bench in the centre of the room, had the phone in his hand so everyone could hear. His eyes widened and his mouth also opened, in surprise. Everyone stood up while Mason's blood pressure went down.

With a jump, Havertz handed the cell phone to his friend so he could answer you. There was a silence between your response and his because his teammates were signalling to him, guiding him in his response.

—Yes? —That was the only thing he could think of at that moment.

—You... you've just called me minutes before your game. Is everything okay? Do you need something? —For you, it was strange that Mason called you, especially right before his game. Mason's teammates melt with your response, you seemed like a worried girlfriend.

—N-no, I was calling to know if you're on Stamford Bridge. —He stuttered, nervous about your answer. You smiled a bit, already seated between the blue tide of fans.

—Of course! I wouldn't miss a game for anything Mase. —And that was the end of him. He said goodbye saying that he had to go out and play and hoped you liked the game, while all his friends were shouting acknowledging that probably by the end of the year, they would have a new addition on their team.

The match ended with Chelsea winning by two goals and the assistance of Mason. You couldn't be more proud of him and after the exhilarating victory at Stamford Bridge, you made your way to the cooldown room, where players and staff often gather to unwind after the match.

As you entered, you spotted Mason, the hero of the game with his crucial assist. A sense of pride swelled within you as you approached him. He was putting something in his backpack, distracted.

—Incredible game out there, —you said, startling Mason. He turned with a smile, recognizing your voice without seeing your face.

—Thanks, this means a lot to me... —Mason replied, his face beaming with satisfaction. You both exchanged a few more words about the match, sharing our favourite moments and the atmosphere at the stadium. Then, out of the blue, Mason's tone turned slightly more serious.

—You know... —he said, pausing for a moment. —I've been thinking. We've been through so much together, your support has meant a lot to me.

You nodded, feeling a sense of tenderness with him. Mason took a deep breath before continuing. —Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner later. Just to say thanks for always being there, you know?

Surprised by the unexpected invitation, you couldn't help but smile. —I'd be honoured to join you. —You said, laughing out of nervousness.

A couple hours later, Mason kept his hand on your lower back as he led you through the restaurant, your body settled into his side. His hand slid around your waist while opening the door, a shiver already wracking your body. You gasped at the white snow starting to lay outside, thick flakes slowly falling from the sky.

—Look there! Mase, it's snowing! —You tugged a little on Mason's hand on your waist, the heat replacing the cold feeling on your fingers. There was already a pretty thick layer on the ground and you wondered briefly how long it had been snowing. —It's so pretty.

Mason watched your smile widen when he was paying the bill, as you tilted your head back, eyes squinting as the flakes cascaded down. He'd never seen anyone get so excited over snow.

You looked so good under the twinkling lights, the candle in the middle of the table illuminating half of your face. He was having an amazing time, already realizing he mad in love with you.

From the way you keep your hair in a messy ponytail to the way you are surprised by the snow. Everything about you was perfect for him.

—Do you want to go for a walk before I take you home? —He slid his hand over your jaw, his thumb stroking away the little flake on your cheek. You gave a small nod, flushed since all of this was new for you. He grinned before stepping back and holding his hand out to you.

—M'lady?

You looped your arm through his and the two of you started off down the street, his gaze darting between you and the falling snow. You snuggle as close as possible to him to steal some of his natural body heat.

Snow was falling and settling into Mason’s hair, individual flakes dropping onto his eyelashes and you were certain he’d never looked prettier.

—Remember the time I tried to sneak out and you caught me? That time I was actually grounded for fighting with my brother and I wanted to buy the new console game you were so interested in. —You said, recalling those silly things.

He didn't know if his cheeks were flushed pink from the cold or from what you'd just said.

—But that game was so expensive!

—I know! I just wanted to give you something for your birthday. That's why I didn't have any presents for you at your birthday party.

Mason caught your gaze, head cocking curiously at the sudden shy look that had taken over your features. You let your eyes wander from him to the snow-filled street around you. You slowed to a stop, right against the barriers of the little lake and you leant against it, the two of you facing each other, your hand still clasped in his.

All you wanted was to grab him and kiss him, you didn’t care who saw or if you got a cold, you just wanted to kiss him in the snow.

After a silence, he said: —You know I want you, right?

You looked at him. Surprised. Self-conscious Scared. But above all, in love.

—I've been thinking and I can't help falling for you now. I’m not jealous because you have other people in your life, I’m not a fucking kid. That time with Phil, at the party, made me realize that I want you with me... By my side. I want to be the one you say 'I love you' to, I want to be the one that cuddles you, that-

You interrupted him. —Mase, I… I don’t know how to say this… ��Voice uncertain as you watched for his reaction, for any flicker of emotion that stated he didn't want that.

His face fell, and he retracted his hands from the barriers that before were trapping you between his body and the barriers. Ready for rejection, he looked into your eyes.

—I… I like you too. —You looked down, feigning sadness. When you looked up, he was squinting at you. —I don't know how are you convincing my brother you're good enough for me...

—I'd probably invite him to one of my games and we could go for dinner after the game? I'll book somewhere for us. —You matched his smile with a nod, shoulders relaxing slightly after the confession as you pulled your hand from his so you could settle your arms around his neck instead.

—Sounds amazing. Deep inside he's a West Ham fan, y'know. — Mason's face contorted a little when he bumped his nose against yours, lips lightly brushing together.

—Oh shut up, —he muttered into your lips, —let me kiss you.

And you obeyed, your hands resting nervously at his neck as he ravished you, his tongue begging for entrance. You allowed it, moaning into his lips as they intertwined perfectly. His hands travelled from your hair to your waist where he pushed you closer to him.

You indeed had waited your whole life for this.

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mytheoristavenue · 6 months ago

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BES Mizu x Single Mother!Reader HCs

Summary: How a relationship with Mizu would work with a kid running around.

Warnings: fem!reader, fem/masc representations of your child, child is from an abusive marriage, mentions of violence, mentions of mariticide.

⭐ Surprisingly, it was actually Ringo who inducted you and your child into the party during a time when he was separated from Mizu, coming across you having trouble getting into a village without a man to validate your travel pass.

⭐ After leaving that village, he insisted you both come along with him and, by extension, Mizu on their journey. You hardly had anything to leave behind, so you thought you had nothing to lose.

⭐"Oh, absolutely not." Needless to say, Mizu was none too thrilled about now having to take on the burden of a frail woman and an even more fragile child. "Ringo, take them back to wherever you picked them up from, we don't take on stays."

⭐ They bickered about the subject for a while, until Mizu eventually relented, deciding she'd simply dump you both off at the next village.

⭐ To her surprise, you knew a few trades, and your child wasn't as useless as she anticipated. You both could cook fairly well, forage with mostly success, and even sew. More often than not, after an altercation, Mizu would find you staying up late around the campfire, mending someone's clothes (often her's).

⭐️ Your child is also incredibly well behaved, obeying nearly any order they're given, and almost never whiny, unless hungry or tired. Mizu was relieved to see she wouldn't be traveling with a spoiled brat like the kids she'd grown up with.

⭐️ Eventually, Mizu began to appreciate you both for your company and contributions, even missing you when not in your presence. She did try to deny this for as long as possible, though.

⭐️ At some point, this appreciation grew into affection and even care. Mizu would become agitated if someone upset you, or came too close. She even once called your child her own when they ran into trouble in a passed village.

⭐️ "Get your hands off my (son/daughter/child) or you'll pull back a stump."

⭐️ Your child came back from that trip glued to Mizu's side and hasn't let go since. The feeling is genuinely mutual.

⭐️ Mizu sometimes brings things back for you both when she goes into villages without you. For your child, it's usually a toy or something sweet. For you, it could be anything from a new fabric or article of clothing to a personal keepsake. She ones brought you back a gold hair stick with beads of jade, for example.

⭐ She will insist that you and the child both learn some kind of self-defense, claiming she can't always be there to protect you, but she secretly hopes to pass down her swordsmanship to your child, as well as her blade.

⭐ Your body is a marvel to her. She has such a masculine and (by her standards) unhospitable body, that seeing your plump curves and stretch marks thrills her. She thinks your body was made perfectly with childbirth in mind.

⭐ Mizu refers to you as her wife in front of strangers and becomes increadibly hostile if that notion is questioned, or if anything ill is said to or about you.

⭐ "I think you'll find steeping away from my wife in your best interest, lest you find yourself interested in becoming another notch in my blade."

⭐Your relationship never really became offical, it still came to be over time. She never officially ocnfessed or asked for you to be hers, she just kissed you one day after months of mutal pining and it became so.

⭐ She came to see you, and only you, after being presumed dead, and before shipping off to London. Very quickly, she kissed you, told you to tell (C/N) that she's otu there somewhere and will be back, and asked you to promise to marry her whens she returns.

⭐ You say yes, in return, making her to come back safely, remidnign her that she had a wife and child that need her.

#bes #mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x fem!reader #ringo bes #ringo blue eye samurai

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scrumptiouskoalahottub · 22 days ago

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🔞Down bad | Arthur hill

[You're the hometown bestie of George Clarke, you're visiting him for a week before he heads off on holiday you've met his roommate Arthur multiple times and you get along fine, you end up going on a night out with the boys not long after you arrive, the night progresses and you see a different side to Arthur, a touch of jealousy washes over him seeing you speak ti other people in the club, but why?]

You arrive a King's Cross station as you make your way through the bustling crowd of the London population making your way to the exit, you spot a familiar face at the end of the platform, it's George with a bunch of flowers in clutch. "Aw aren't you nice sometimes Geo" you smile as you give him a hug "there would be something wrong if I didn't meet you with your favourite flowers" he smiles as he hands them to you, taking your suitcase in an exchange. You make your way to the Uber and head to George's flat. You make small talk with George on the way and catch up about each other. You get to his flat and make your way inside, whilst George wheels your suitcase to his bedroom, you find a vase out of the cupboard to place your flowers in.

"Arthur's out but we're gonna head into Camden later with Chris and Tv if you wanna come?" George says as he emerges from his bedroom, "sure why not, it's a good job I fetched some going out clothes" you look yourself up and down gesturing towards the hoodie and joggers you had on, letting out a small laugh. The time was about 6pm and George let you know you were heading out at 8pm, so you made a start on getting ready, your hair was already in loose curls from the blowout you did this morning so it was just a case of topping up your makeup. You apply a small layer of foundation, put some brow gel through your eyebrows, added a pop of bronzer and some lip gloss, you already had lash extensions so didn't need to add anything there. You throw on a black mini dress and heels (below) and make your way to the living room to find George, he opted for a white shirt and flannel tee to over dress it (below)

You emerge from the bathroom after getting ready and George's jaw drops at the sight of you, doing hand gestures in a heart motion and he was in a cartoon, "stop it you moron" you laugh as you playfully nudge his shoulder, collecting the drink George has made for you as a pre, vodka coke. "Thanks for the voddy peen, sugar" you laugh as you toast the glass to him, "when will I ever live that down" he shakes his head "never" you reply sending a wink to him, you finish your drinks and head to the bar to meet Chris, Tv and Hill. You don't normally go out with the boys because George doesn't appreciate the eyes from random men over you, basically being like his sister, you make your way into "sunset bar" as you order the drinks whilst George greets the boys, "two pints of madri please" you order as you scan the bar, you notice Arthur (hill) looking at your from afar, you wave at him and smile, he returns the gesture. You pay for the drinks and make your way over to the table, handing George his pint.

"I see who wears the trousers in your relationship" Chris chuckles "sorry who said that? Did you fall off your booster seat I can't see you?" Chris' face drops as you laugh into your pint, he kicks you underneath the table as the boys laugh in unison at your joke. The night progresses as you're all starting to get a little tipsy, you opt for a little boogie on the dance floor, you all get up and start dancing to "Saturday night" by whigfield, taking you and George back to your younger days. George heads to the bar to order another drink, you carry on dancing as a man approaches you

"Hi, pretty" he says slightly slurred "hi, how are you?" You ask "I'm good now I'm speaking to you" he chuckles, you smile "is that right?" You retort "definitely, what's your name?" He asks "my names y/n, you?" "Jacob" he replies "that's a lovely name" he adds "thanks, yours is lovely too" you smile back at him "do you live around here" he asks "no I'm visiting friends at the minute, I'm from Bristol" as you carry on the conversation, you feel a burning sensation in the back of your head, like eyes were watching, you look up to see Arthur studying the guy next to you with an envious look on his face, the guy puts his number in your phone and he walks away. George returns just as he leaves "who was that?" George asks confused as he hands you a pornstar martini "just a guy asking for my number that's all, why jealous?" You laugh taking a sip of your cocktail, no George wasn't. But someone definitely was as Arthur walks away in a huff. The boys pick up on it and Chris follows him outside.

30 minutes have passed and Arthur still hasn't returned back inside, you let George know you're going to check on him and make your way outside. "Oh here she is" Arthur scoffs as you walk out, you look at him confused "me?" You carry on walking towards him and Chris "y/n just ignore whatever he says he's had too much" Chris sighs as he leaves you two to talk, rubbing you on the shoulder. "See! Even he wants you!" Arthur hisses as Chris shakes his head you sit next to him and pop your drink on the table. "What's wrong Arthur? Have I done something?" You ask confused "nothings wrong" he mutters "clearly there is if you've just made a point that Chris wants me" you cock your head to the side and lift his chin up "tell me artie" he looks up at you and sighs. "I just can't stand seeing anyone else with you y/n" he looks at you with watery eyes, his words take you a back "what are you saying Arthur?" You furrow your brows "I think I-I'm in love with you" his shoulders seem to relax at the release of those words, like he'd been holding them in for a lifetime. "How long have you felt this way artie" you reply placing a hand on his as you gently squeeze it " a while, I don't know why, you're way too good for me anyway" he slips his hand away from yours as he leans into the seat, little did he know you did feel the same for Arthur and you didn't want to mention anything because of George.

"Arthur I'm not, I have feelings for you too" you look at him with doe eyes, his eyes widen and he emerges from the chair "you do?" He asks with a glimmer of hope in his tone "I do but I don't know how we'd break this to George if anything happened" you say disheartened, just as you say that George emerges out the club "everything okay?" He says looking at you, "yes Geo just fine, Arthur's just had a little much and needed some air that's all, I'm going to take him home" you say helping Arthur out of the chair "are you sure I can take him" George holds his hand out "it's fine geo don't worry, I'm a little tired from travelling anyway, we can do this again tomorrow, if you're not a lightweight" you nudge his as you wrap one of Arthur's arms around your neck for extra balance. You wave goodbye to Chris and tv, hoping Chris doesn't tell George how Arthur has acted and make your way to the Uber you booked. Arthur sobers up a little on the way home as you arrive at the flat, you both walk in and you kick your heels off and hang the flat key up.

You look at Arthur as he takes his shoes off, you don't wanna hide the feelings anymore. You walk over to his and lift his chin up once again, planting a soft but passionate kiss on his lips, he doesn't pull back but instead engages with your motions, your lips interlock as the develop into a fiery kiss. Arthur's hands snake their way around your waist as you run your fingers through his hair, Arthur pulls away to look at you "what are we doing?" He asks "what we've both wanted to do since we first met, we can worry about George tomorrow" you hold out your hand and lead Arthur to his bedroom. You close the door shut and interlock your lips again, you look at Arthur with menace in your eyes as you pull away and lower yourself to the ground. Placing the tips of your fingers onto the buckle of his belt "are you sure?" You ask him as you look up at him "I've never been more sure in my life" he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, you unbuckle his belt and lower his boxers, revealing his hard cock, you bite your lip as you form a ball of spit in your mouth slowly releasing it onto the tip of his shaft, Arthur bites his lip as you start to circle your tongue around the tip, spreading the saliva around "fuck" he groans as he forms your hair into a ponytail, you waste no time and take Arthur's length fully into your mouth catching him off guard, his head jolts back as he starts to motion your head with your ponytail, feeling Arthur at the back of your mouth with no struggle revealed your no gag reflex "oh fuck you look so pretty doing that" he groans, your motions become sloppier as the saliva drips from your mouth. You show no signs of giving up until Arthur releases in your mouth, you suction harder as you tease the end of his tip. Arthur struggles to hold on any longer "fuck y/n I'm so close" your eyes widen at his words as you pick up the pace, sending him into overdrive his head jolts back once more as you feel his release enter your mouth "holy fuck!" He bellows as you swallow his cum, you wipe your mouth as you emerge from your knees, red from the carpet. Arthur looks at you out of breath in a sweaty mess "your turn" he bites his lip as he pushes you onto his bed

Arthur hovers over the the top of you as he plants kisses on your neck, trying to be subtle to leave no marks as he etches his teeth into your collarbone sending shivers down your spine as you let out a soft moan "fuck you're so hot" he mutters looking up at you as he slowly moves his way to your hips, he lifts your dress up slightly as he bites your thong with his teeth, peeling it off you revealing your wet pussy, Arthur bites his lip as the sight of you, you cock your head back as butterflies swarm your stomach "are you sure" Arthur asks looking at you "I want you to fuck me arthur" you whine as smirk appears on his face he lifts your legs up around his neck as he places a thumb onto your entrance, rubbing in figure 8 motions, your toes curl at the feeling "you're so wet for me already" he grins as he starts to tease you with his tip, motioning up and down your entrance making you let out soft groans, just then Arthur inserts his length into you with now hesitation causing your jaw to drop and head to swill back "oh fuck" you whine as Arthur thrusts into you, the jealousy spilling out of him with each one "moan my name baby girl" he says with a menacing look on his face "faster Arthur, don't stop!" You feed into his demands as his grip becomes tight on your legs, your legs start to feel like jelly after each thrust signalling your climax was close, Arthur feels you tighten around him as he picks up the pace, your head stirring as you reach your limit "fuck Arthur!" You screech as you climax as Arthur slowly pulls out,your juices glistening on his cock "fuck y/n you're amazing" he says panting.

You emerge from his bed and clean yourself up as you pop on your dress before George arrives home. "That was amazing" you say, "yeah it was" Arthur smiles as he walks over to you, planting a kiss on your lips, you scurry into George's room and wipe your makeup off and throw on one of his shirts. You wink at Arthur as you get into bed, just then the key turns in the door and George returns home.

🫶🏻

#arthur hill #british youtubers #george clarkey

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janeofcakes · 6 months ago

Text

One Night in Palermo: Chapter 1

Hi, Everyone! I haven't done this in ages and I hope you'll all jump on board again for another story. It's 18 months after Sherlock jumped from Bart's and he's busily taking down Moriarty's web. He's also pining and worried for John, who thinks he's dead. Sherlock's trying to make his way to the Moran, the web's center, when another assassin comes on the scene. Find out what happens!

----------

One year to the day Sherlock leapt off Bart’s, his best friend watching in horror, found him creeping into a dank warehouse in the middle of Belgrade, Serbia. The dead detective had been all over the country in the last year, as well as those sharing its borders. Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro; all extensively traveled in the name of destroying Moriarty’s web of terrorists and murderers. He had just come through Kosovo from an assignment in Albania and tomorrow would take him to yet another location.

James Morairty may have died on the roof of Bart’s one year ago, but his criminal organization remained intact and Sherlock could not rest until Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and the beloved Martha Hudson were safe. Then maybe he could return to his old life of London and 221B and cases and John. Sherlock missed John most of all and had not been dead long before realizing the true extent of his feelings for his flatmate. Every moment not chasing down Moriarty’s criminals was spent wondering about John and what he was doing, or how he was doing. Worse yet, he dreamt of his flatmate as well, and they were becoming increasingly explicit in nature.

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head to clear it. This was certainly not the time to go down that route of thinking. Mycroft’s intelligence indicated ten men in this building, making Sherlock’s full attention to the matter at hand imperative. The year’s assignments marked the longest period of time the detective had ever worked with his brother and there was at least another year to go before it would end. Remarkably, it had not been utterly intolerable as Sherlock had expected. Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and gave him only the relevant information for each assignment. They met over virtual calls on a secured platform after each assignment was finished to discuss the next. Sherlock had needed serious medical attention on only two occasions and was immediately taken to a secret facility possessing everything required to address his injuries. The same short, blonde doctor cared for him each time, no doubt hand-selected by Mycroft to ensure Sherlock’s cooperation. The elder Holmes even made an appearance in both situations to make sure his baby brother was all right. He did not make himself tiresome either, much to Sherlock’s surprise, despite spending quite a lot of time by the detective’s side the second time around.

Sherlock had been caught during his last visit to Serbia. His captors quickly determined the usefulness of keeping him alive, but had no compunction with torturing him for the six weeks before his rescue. Mycroft even deigned to perform the extraction himself, he and his team infiltrating the base and killing every man in the bunker before carrying Sherlock out. It was at least a week before the detective could hold his eyes open for more than a few blurry moments at a time. When his senses and powers of deduction had returned, Sherlock was certain Mycroft had not left his side once. Oddly, the two brothers had grown closer as they worked together, but neither spoke of nor acknowledged it.

Having found no one in the warehouse thus far, Sherlock proceeded down a long hallway that led to a large meeting room. Intelligence supplied by Mycroft’s spies had shown it was where the ten men spent most of their time. A door at the left side of the room opened into an office used by a man named Markovič, the indisputable leader of this terrorist cell. He had worked closely with Moriarty on more than one occasion and murdered countless people around the world.

Two other doors entered the meeting room; one that opened to a hallway of small rooms wherein the men slept and the one Sherlock was steadily approaching. The ideal situation for Sherlock was finding all ten men in the meeting room. Slightly less ideal, was Markovič in his office and the other men in the meeting room. Some of them having a kip in their individual rooms was the least ideal, but this time of night typically saw them all together planning the events of the following day. Regardless, Sherlock was prepared for any eventuality, or so he thought.

Sherlock slowed his step as he approached the room’s half-open door, rendering his footfalls completely silent. While each of the ten men was a very skilled killer, all were also dim-witted. Even Markovič, though intelligent, was no more than slightly above average. Sherlock knew his appearance would be surprising, but once the first few shots were fired, he would have to act quickly to avoid retaliation. A scant few feet from the door, Sherlock angled his body for the best view of its occupants and what he saw boggled his mind.

Eight men lay sprawled on the floor, face down on the table, or slumped back in chairs. All of them were covered with blood still oozing from pin-point bullet holes in chests, throats, or heads. None of these men had a chance to do more than consider reaching for their own weapons before they dropped. Sherlock analyzed the scene and deduced the events as they had happened while he moved through the room to Markovič’s office.

The door was also ajar. Sherlock pushed it open slowly, already knowing what he would find. Markovič was sat at his desk, leaning back unnaturally in the chair. His eyes were wide open and unseeing as they stared blankly at the ceiling. A hole was perfectly placed in his forehead, creating an isosceles triangle with his eyes. Blood stained his face where it ran down his nose and cheeks, over his throat to soak his shirt. Significant spatter and gray matter decorated the wall behind him in a sickly red glow.

Without delay, Sherlock went to the third door in the meeting room to check bedrooms for the final missing man. Finding him was not difficult. The first door in the hall was the only one open, so Sherlock let himself in cautiously. He found the man on the floor in a pool of blood, bedsheets twisted around one leg, and a pistol held loosely in one hand. He had obviously been only halfway out of bed when the door was kicked open and fired one shot quickly, the evidence of which marred the door frame next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. The intruder had not done more than twitch his head slightly to the side before expertly placing a bullet in the man’s forehead and watching him drop.

*****

Hours later, Sherlock sat at a desk in a safe house across the border in Hungary. He had changed into jeans and a plain t-shirt in dark green. His eyes were fixed on the screen of a laptop as he waited for his brother to accept the call. When the connection was made, it was Anthea’s face that appeared instead of Mycroft’s.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him. She looked tired. Perhaps the last year had weighed heavily on her shoulders as well. “He wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Nor was I,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The assignment did not go as anticipated.”

“But you’re alright? It’s done?” Anthea asked with a touch of concern in her voice. The two of them had become far better acquainted over the course of Sherlock’s assignments and now had a certain rapport.

“Unconditionally,” Sherlock answered and watched as the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes smoothed away, only for them to return when he asked, “how is John?”

Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft entered the room before she said a word. He moved to the screen swiftly and sat, studying Sherlock’s face. He was wearing his usual three-piece suit minus the jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up. A haggard expression dominated his features, but a sense of overall relief washed over them at seeing Sherlock in one piece. Mycroft let the indifference that hid whatever modicum of emotion he had slide into place and sat ramrod straight, his typical persona fully recovered.

“You were able to complete the mission,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a question in his tone.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft cocked an elegant brow and leaned in.

“What do you mean?” He asked with keen interest.

“I found the bodies of all ten men upon entering the warehouse,” Sherlock said simply.

“An opposing faction?” Mycroft speculated, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, “it was precise and clean. None of the torture and delay seen between these enemies. A single man walked in quietly, just as I did, and murdered them all with one shot each.

“He killed all eight men as he moved through the room, three before they could rise from the table. Markovič was in his office and posed no challenge to dispatch. The last was in a bedroom.”

Mycroft had narrowed his eyes while Sherlock spoke, considering each word carefully. When the detective finished, his brother raised his gaze to regard him in silent contemplation.

“The work of an assassin where there should only be one,” Mycroft muttered.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and it had occurred within the hour.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and considered him carefully.

“Sherlock,” his tone took on a condescending characteristic that always made the younger roll his eyes, “while the situation is unusual, it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“You have a mission that cannot be delayed by a… mystery, no matter how intriguing,” Mycroft said snidely. “Need I remind you of its particular importance to you, brother mine?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and pressed his lips into a thin line. Closer though they may be, Sherlock hated his brother for consistently adopting this air of superiority at a perceived weakness.

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “but you will find out who it was. If I’m known to this assassin, I want to know his every movement. I will not tolerate interference.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft assured him smugly. “I will use every resource at my disposal.”

****

As confident as Mycroft had been, his channels found out nothing about the assassin in the coming weeks. No one was able to determine where the man came from or where he got his information. One thing became abundantly clear, however. He also seemed to be dismantling Moriarty’s criminal organization one piece at a time.

Sherlock completed two assignments over three weeks before encountering the assassin again. The circumstances were much the same as the first time. The target called Romania home and spent most of his time terrorizing every community within a fifty mile radius. He had assisted Moriarty several times over the last decade and had often welcomed the man into his home. If James Moriarty ever had anything even vaguely approaching a friend in his adult life, it would be this man.

Sherlock watched silently from the shadows as his target entered a small room and closed the door, leaving his guard outside in the dimly lit hall. They were inside a massage parlor not far from the man’s home. He spent four nights a week in this place, making rather dubious visits to a certain masseuse. Fortunately for Sherlock, the man’s guard made similar visits to the owner of the shop.

A quiet whistle echoed through the hall twenty minutes after Sherlock’s target entered the masseuse’s room. He watched as the guard looked right, then left, and then disappeared down the hall. Sherlock waited another five minutes to be sure the guard would not return before moving silently toward the door his target had entered. He stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall, already knowing it was unlocked. He had spent the last seven days watching his target and tracking his movements. Sherlock knew every habit and routine in the man’s life, right down to leaving the door unlocked while he got a massage and a blow job so he could exit quickly if one of his enemies interrupted.

All Sherlock needed to do was open the door and pull the trigger. He had become quite a good markman over the last year and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He wouldn’t miss and no one would hear a thing. The only thing that made him hesitate was the masseuse. He had not yet decided what to do about her. He could kill her along with the target to prevent anyone being alerted by her screams, which were certain to follow her lover’s untimely demise. He could find some quick way to render her unconscious while she and the target were distracted. He could simply shoot his target and run, risking a successful escape. Sherlock was likely to be tortured if caught, a situation he could not afford. He scowled, the words ‘a bit not good’ echoing through his mind. The only option was knocking out the masseuse and hoping no one noticed him before he did it.

Sherlock looked up and down the hall, just as the guard had, and then moved to face the door. He twisted the knob silently with his left hand and pushed it open. The scene before him was nothing like he expected. Instead of finding the two of them fucking on the massage table, the woman was lying on the floor, unconscious and fully clothed. The target was clearly dead on the table, a bullet hole in his temple. Spatter decorated the wall next to the table and Sherlock could hear the quiet drip of blood as it fell from the headrest to the floor. Curious, he entered the room and squatted cautiously next to the woman. He might have risked touching her to find a pulse, but could see it clearly enough on her neck. The assassin had left her alive.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on a small window near the top of the back wall, the only outside wall in the room. It opened on a hinge, a glass pane that lifted up and it was ajar. Several telltale scuffs left by opening and closing it marred the bottom of the pane. The assassin’s entrance and exit point.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood. The guard would not return for another ten minutes, but the detective could not afford to be seen by anyone. He walked swiftly out the door and closed it behind him, looking up and down the hall again. Seeing no one, but hearing faint footsteps, he crept into the shadows to wait. Sherlock heard a faraway door open and the footsteps fade away slowly. After a few minutes of silence, he left the building and made his way to the next safe house.

A few hours later and a good two hundred miles away from the massage parlor, Sherlock stood in front of a laptop set in the small bedroom of a cozy flat. He had just relayed an account of the evening’s events to his elder brother and moved on to deductions made about the assassin. Mycroft’s less-than-enthusiastic response was quickly grating on Sherlock’s nerves.

“He has a conscience,” Sherlock argued vehemently. “He could have simply killed the woman, but chose not to.”

His brother’s unimpressed face looked back at him from the laptop screen, thoroughly unconvinced. Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that they were in the same room so he could grab Mycroft’s lapels and shake him.

“Very informative, brother mine, but I fail to see how it will help to find this mysterious assassin,” Mycroft intoned dismissively, glancing at his perfectly manicured nails.

“Finding him, no, but it goes a long way in determining what kind of man he is,” Sherlock sneered. “He is not a heartless killer and that tells us quite a bit.”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft conceded impatiently. “He may not immediately put a bullet in your head should you meet, but will introduce himself first.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“I will take care of him,” Mycroft continued sternly and it rankled Sherlock. The tone was the same used to scold him as a child. “You concentrate on your assignments and put an end to this dreadful business so you can return to your precious doctor.”

“How is John?” Sherlock found himself saying. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Mycroft’s words squeezed his chest so completely that saying anything else would have stopped his heart entirely. He hadn’t even been thinking about John and was blindsided by the rush of sentiment, though he tried to keep that hidden. Mycroft, for his part, looked very disconcerted at the slip. His frustration had gotten the better of him, something that happened far more often than he would like to admit since he and Sherlock began “this dreadful business”.

“Sherlock,” he said with a long suffering sigh.

“Don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He is…unaltered,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Unaltered?” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth.

“I said unwell the last time you asked,” Mycroft straightened his spine and looked down his nose at his brother. “You have not returned to Baker Street. Do you imagine he is any different?”

Sherlock glared at his brother, blood boiling, but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his brother wanted to infuriate him. It was a distraction. Mycroft did not want to answer questions about John. It was nothing unusual, but affected Sherlock differently this time. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted and homesick. Every bit of energy left his body. He was sick for John and if his brother didn’t want to talk about John, Sherlock had no desire to pry. He was not prepared to hear that the doctor had teetered ever closer to a crumbling precipice that might give way at any time.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He shut the laptop forcefully just as his brother closed his eyes in disdain at the vulgar choice of words.

Sherlock paced furiously. He was restless and frustrated and frightened out of his mind. Dozens of storylines played out in his mind as he took each step. The most disturbing thought ended with John’s broken body on the pavement at Bart’s, the same place they had both been just over a year ago, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest. He gasped at the pain and stumbled into the loo to be sick. He splashed water on his face once he could stand again without retching and tried to calm himself, but his chest only felt tighter. He buried his head in his hands and prayed to whatever deity would listen that John Watson be alright.

When Sherlock raised his head again, his movements were stilted and his face remote. He cleaned his teeth and changed into pajamas mechanically, getting into bed and turning out the lights. Staring into the darkness, he parted his lips and breathed slowly. If he didn’t let his thoughts out of his mind, didn’t give them life, his brain and heart would surely burst from his body.

“Wait for me, John,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please.”

****

The next time Sherlock ran into the assassin, the circumstances were quite different. It was three assignments from the last and in Montenegro. The target had not been difficult to finish, but her brother had spotted Sherlock as he made his escape and set off after him. They ran through the compound, ducking this way and that. Every corner the detective turned should have put more distance between the two, but the man behind only grew closer. Sherlock was getting tired and he knew it. On impulse, he ducked into a stairwell and barely tripped as he flew down the steps. He quickly pushed open the heavy wooden door he found there and hurried into an open courtyard full of towering shrubs and fountains. The moon shone brightly, dazzling stars surrounding it, lighting a path of escape. Unfortunately, the man following Sherlock was too close not to make a move for him.

The man dove for the detective and caught him around the waist with his arms. They went down hard, but Sherlock rolled swiftly and struck out at his attacker. They exchanged a few blows before strong hands wrapped around the detective’s throat. Without hesitation, he slid his own arms in-between his attacker’s and wrenched them outward. The other man’s elbows bent, giving Sherlock the leverage to pull his hands away and ram their foreheads together.

At first, only the other man was dazed, so Sherlock shoved him to the side and hopped to his feet. However, the after-effects caught up with him after one or two steps. Suddenly, his head swam and his sense of balance failed completely. Tumbling to his knees, Sherlock tried desperately not to fall any further. He gasped for breath and felt incredibly hot, but resisted the urge to tear the mask from his face. He preferred assignments that did not require a mask, ones where he could maintain a safe distance from targets and their associates. On this particular occasion, his passage through the compound could find him face to face with anyone and he could not be recognized.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths until his vision began to clear. Getting to his feet, he glanced around to check that his attacker had not similarly recovered. He saw nothing as rough hands grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A cold knife blade touched his throat before he could make any move to free himself. He was trapped. His mind raced, analyzing his options and discarding them; all the while, the blade pressed into his throat, breaking the skin ever so slightly. He nearly jolted at the sound of hoarse laughter in his ear.

“You thought you would get away?” The man holding Sherlock steady chuckled loudly. He pulled the blade more tightly and the detective winced. “You killed my sister, you son of a bitch.”

A gasp filled Sherlock’s lungs, but not for fear of his life as his attacker assumed. It was what he saw in the dark window in one of the tall buildings that lined the courtyard. A sight Sherlock never would have seen, if not for a glint of metal in the moonlight. As soon as he saw that flash of light, his eyes made out the figure of a man with a gun. Standing in the tall window was the assassin, covered in black from head to toe. His face and hair were covered with the usual balaclava. Any other details were lost to the darkness of his clothes and surroundings. His gun was aimed and ready, if the location of the reflection Sherlock had seen was anything to go by.

Sherlock stood very still, not even listening to the rants and threats from the man holding a knife to his throat. One way or another, Sherlock was going to die tonight. If the idiot behind him didn’t do it soon, he would be robbed of the pleasure by the assassin, who would certainly shoot them both. Sherlock could get away from only one of them, not both. He kept his eyes on the assassin as time ticked by and wondered why he hadn’t pulled the trigger twice already. The man couldn’t be weighing his options. It was simple: Aim and fire.

Just as Sherlock thought the word “fire”, a bright flash of light appeared from the assassin’s weapon and Sherlock felt a whoosh of air on his cheek. He expected pain or instant oblivion and got neither. The air around him was suddenly quiet and his mind registered his attacker’s hands going lax. The knife tumbled to the brick floor as the man leaned heavily against the detective’s back. Going down slowly, Sherlock maneuvered the man onto his back and looked at his face. There, between his unseeing eyes, was a perfectly placed bullet hole.

Sherlock’s head shot up to the window to see the assassin, but the man was gone. The pane held nothing but darkness. Without a second thought, the detective gathered himself and stood. It wouldn’t be long before his target’s body was discovered and the compound filled with people who would be happy to kill him. He crept through the courtyard and silently made his way out, encountering no one as he went.

Hours later, ensconced in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, Sherlock booted up the waiting laptop and entered his credentials. His mind was awash with deductions and questions and theories. If nothing else, the evening confirmed the standing deduction that the assassin had a strong moral compass. Quite a bit of additional data had been revealed as well, but Sherlock had not yet sorted through it. He needed to spend some time in his mind palace, arranging the pieces.

The laptop screen caught his eye when his brother’s face came into view. Sherlock had hoped to speak with Anthea first, but had no such luck. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the keyboard, a posture he often adopted when speaking to his brother.

“The assassin was there,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “I beat him to the mark, but he was there.”

“And you know this because?” Mycroft asked with an arched brow.

“I had a knife to my throat and he shot the man holding it,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to his own laptop.

“He saw you?” He probed with an edge to his voice.

“Not as such. I was wearing a mask. My whole head was covered,” Sherlock answered evenly. “There was nothing to give me away. I was merely a man in distress.”

He could see his brother relax a fraction and then noticed that his eyes were locked on the small bandage Sherlock had fitted to his own neck. The detective furrowed his brow and shook his head dismissively.

“It’s fine,” he told Mycroft in a dull tone. “Superficial. I’ll be able to go without the bandage in the morning.”

“Good,” Mycroft approved, looking more at ease. “That is to say, I am glad you are safe. I must admit, however, I am somewhat troubled by the assassin’s actions. Surely killing you both would have been more to his advantage.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “It would’ve been easier as well; hitting my attacker with pinpoint accuracy to ensure his demise before he cut my throat requires much more skill than shooting us both. It proves my point.”

“That the assassin has a conscience,” Mycroft supplied in a long-suffering tone. He sighed. “Sherlock, you are a romantic.”

“I most certainly am not!” Sherlock objected, his good mood quashed in the blink of an eye. “I have merely analyzed the data and reached the logical conclusion, as I have in countless other situations.”

He glared at his brother, who returned the look with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation because his pig-headed brother would not relent. He never had before and would not start now. Growing weary of him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Tell me about the next assignment,” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to move the call along so he could retreat to his mind palace.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mycroft smirked and began debriefing Sherlock on the next target, The detective both listened and imagined how best to have revenge upon his return to London.

****

The following assignment was easily completed in as much as it was finished before Sherlock even arrived. Four days after Montenegro, the detective stealthily entered a caravan dealership that was closed for the day. His target and a small band of men in his employ had taken refuge there, believing no one would find them. After entering the dealership, Sherlock followed music lilting through the air until he reached an extra-long caravan, knowing what he would find before reaching it. While the music played loudly, the absence of all other noise led him to one inevitable conclusion: The assassin had been faster this time.

Five of the six men Sherlock expected lay dead in the caravan’s central room. It occupied more or less the entire vehicle, housing a kitchenette along one side, a narrow couch and table on the other. Two seats and the steering column filled the front of the room, windscreen before them. A small loo cut into the back of the room with closets opposite. In between the two was a narrow hallway that led to a bedroom. Judging by the positions of the men and the angles of the bullets that killed them, the assassin had come from the hallway. He must have climbed in a bedroom window and used the element of surprise.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the bedroom, expecting to find the body of the sixth man, but the room was empty. It was also a mess. A lengthy struggle had clearly taken place in the cramped room and Sherlock could read it all in the broken and overturned furniture. The upper hand had shifted a few times throughout the fight. A stray shot was fired once, twice, and then Sherlock’s eyes came to rest on a piece of bloody glass lying on the floor near a cabinet on the far side of the room. He went to it in three long strides. It was part of a broken mirror that had been affixed to the wall above a waist-height cabinet. One of the two men had grabbed hold of it and stabbed the other, but which was which? Sherlock’s eyes tracked their movements through drips and smears of blood. The injured man eventually broke free and tumbled out the room’s only open window. The other man must have followed because the caravan door would have been left open had he used it.

Gun still at the ready, Sherlock hurried out the door and around to the back of the caravan. He walked silently along the trail of blood and shoe prints. More and more of the sticky, red substance stained the concrete as he went. There wasn’t enough to indicate that the injured man was bleeding out, but was still a troubling amount. Sherlock quickened his pace, anxious to learn which man was injured. He found himself hoping it was not the assassin. It made little sense, but he felt some odd camaraderie with the man. They did seem to have the same goal and were inextricably linked by it.

Sherlock wove his way through the parking lot, around one caravan and another, until he turned a corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet ahead of him, next to a chain link fence, was the body of a man. He was on his back and was obviously dead. Sherlock’s throat went dry and he quickened his pace. He and the assassin had narrowly missed one another for almost three months. They didn’t know the other’s identity and hadn’t even been in the same room together, but had come to expect one another. At least, Sherlock had. He supposed the same might not be true of the assassin, but he liked to think it was, especially after Montenegro. The man had blatantly made the decision not only to save, but also spare Sherlock’s life and the resulting sentiment had softened his heart toward the man. The detective would have considered these feelings a weakness in the past. Now, he saw it in a completely different light. The assassin gave him something familiar to look for, to count on. He couldn’t have John or home, but could at least have something, though it paled in comparison.

Sherlock was jogging by the time he reached the dead man. He couldn’t see his head properly until he stood right next to him. Once he did, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The man before him was not wearing a mask of any kind, nor was there one near the body. Instead, he matched the description of one of the six men Sherlock was sent to kill. The assassin had escaped.

Relief quickly turned to trepidation, however, as he got a better look at the dead man. He had no stab wounds on his body and looked to have been killed by blunt-force trauma. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the scene, picking out a heavy metal bar and more blood. He followed a trail of it with his eyes for a short distance. It led to, and passed through, an old opening in the chain link fence. Something had weakened the links and broken through long ago. The assassin must have used it to sneak inside or he would not have known to use it as an escape. Sherlock looked as far beyond the fence as he could see, but saw no body and no large pools of blood. It seemed the assassin had escaped, indeed. But how far had he gotten and how badly was he injured?

When he recounted the night’s events later for Mycroft, Sherlock left out the possible extent of the assassin’s injuries and hid his concern for the man. He knew precious little about the man. It made no sense for Sherlock to feel at all connected to him and yet, here he was. He couldn’t stop himself from viewing the connection as a separate but united force against what was left of Moriarty. As such, not knowing the assassin’s fate unsettled Sherlock in a way he couldn’t explain and he hoped their paths would cross again soon.

****

The next assignment was long and tedious. Sherlock spent nearly three weeks just garnering enough trust through various acts of theft and bullying as assigned by the target’s second in command to even be told the target’s location. He then spent another six days planning out how to neutralize successfully. His frustration grew day by day at having to waste an entire month on this one target, lengthening his time away from John. John, who he knew was struggling. His last few conversations with Anthea were vague at best, but informative enough to know that John’s grief had renewed.

The knowledge slowed Sherlock’s progress with the assignment and he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He would rather know at least something about John and be distracted than know nothing at all. He dreamt of his friend every night again; comforting him and assuring John he would be home again. He awoke each morning with renewed vigor at having spent the time with John, even if only in his mind. Part of him hoped dreams did the same for John, but they more likely only discouraged him. Sherlock had the advantage of knowing they would meet again, whereas he was dead in John’s world. Sherlock tried to ignore the regret and guilt that ate at him for it.

Motivated by the desire to end his exile and return home to John, Sherlock lost his patience and brought the assignment to an abrupt end. While in the target’s bunker for a debriefing, Sherlock broke into his office and waited. Nearly two hours later, the man and his second opened the door. Sherlock greeted them politely with one bullet each and left as fast as he could.

His work done, after the agonizingly long month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move on to the next assignment. He grimaced as he logged onto the secure server he and Mycroft used to communicate, knowing his brother would berate him for his slowness. Maybe Sherlock would get lucky and Anthea would debrief him. He hoped as he pushed enter and waited, then sighed when Mycroft’s smug face came into view.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured in greeting, saying nothing else. Mycroft more than made up for it.

“Good evening, Sherlock. I am glad to see you have finally finished your assignment. I was beginning to think that your target had persuaded you to stay on,” Mycroft’s snide words pushed Sherlock over the edge. The last thread tethering his frustration over the assignment snapped and he nearly swept the laptop off the table.

“Fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. “You know this is not how I wanted it to go. Just tell me about the next assignment and go back to your cake. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your greatest pleasure.”

“Sherlock, has it really come to this?” Mycroft began with an epic eye roll.

“You started it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“In due time, brother mine,” Mycroft dismissed Sherlock’s anger out of course, “I have come into some information about your mythical assassin.”

“Oh, yes, perfect. Just what I want to know,” Sherlock snarked back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Mycroft, how many assignments has he completed while I’ve been stuck on just one?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said blandly. “It seems both of you have succeeded in doing nothing. I have no indication he has made any movements during the last forty-two days.”

It was then that Sherlock remembered the trail of blood he had followed so long ago and the strange sense of loneliness he had felt. He had mentioned neither to Mycroft after that assignment.

“He was injured,” Sherlock stated almost without thinking, “in that caravan dealership in Skopje. I followed a trail of blood. He must need time to recover.”

“You failed to mention that in the debriefing,” Mycroft answered, his tone rife with skepticism.

“It was not relevant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Wasn’t it?” Mycroft speculated. “Hm. I wonder.”

“Is there a point to this, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, growing tired of the conversation. His brother had a certain knack for analyzing his motives at the most inconvenient times.

“Could it have been a more serious injury, brother mine?” Mycroft continued calmly, unfazed by his baby brother’s outburst. “We have no evidence of him at all in the time between today and that night. Could he have been neutralized?”

“Neutral- he’s not our enemy, Mycroft,” Sherlock countered. “He saved my life.”

“Because doing so suited his purpose,” Mycroft supplied, condescension slipping into his tone. “You are very obviously on a path similar to his own. Why would he want that assistance to end?”

Mycroft was right. It was only logical for the assassin to keep Sherlock alive so the man didn’t have to hit every target himself. The detective had allowed sentiment to color his views of the assassin and if Mycroft didn’t know before, he certainly did now. Damn him.

“No,” Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head after a moment of thought, “there wasn’t enough blood for the injury to have been life-threatening. He will appear again. Just give him time.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath through his nose. He had more to say, but obviously debated on whether to do it now or save it. Sherlock knew Mycroft had chosen not to wait the moment his lips parted.

“You will have to deal with him one day,” Mycroft said carefully. “The time will come when you are no longer useful to him.”

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. As if he hadn’t considered that particular inevitability already.

“I will handle that when the time comes, not before,” Sherlock said flatly.

****

As if on cue, Sherlock found his next target in a private train compartment with a bullet in his head. They were on a train in Hungary. The man’s two most trusted associates were at his side, also shot dead. The assassin was back.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he stood in the compartment’s doorway. He gave a subtle salute to the scene, closed the door, and casually walked back to his own compartment. As he went, he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and hope. With his own efforts coupled with those of the assassin, his timetable would change for the better and he could return home to John earlier than expected. Mycroft may have been right about an eventual confrontation between Sherlock and the assassin, but until then they would each enjoy the other’s usefulness without question.

****

Another handful of assignments came and went, Sherlock and the assassin working in tandem, but never encountering one another. Shortly after leaving another scene in which the assassin beat him to the mark, Sherlock calculated their joint progress once again and found that their current rate would see him back in London a full four months early. He was delighted.

A particularly successful month for both of them resulted in another revision of the time required. They had shaved off a few more weeks, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction. That was how, at eighteen months post-Fall, Sherlock found himself in Palermo, Sicily with only two targets remaining before he could return home to London and his life.

------

I know it was a long one, but I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and for all your support! I've missed you all so much! Tune in next week for chapter 2 and remember, keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.

Love, Jane

#johnlock #john watson #sherlockholmes #sherlock #johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic

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bugoutreviewgirlie · 1 month ago

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Miraculous Ladybug “London: At The Edge of Time” Review

also read here

The fourth Miraculous Ladybug special, “London: At The Edge of Time” sort of functions like an extension of the season five finale episodes. Unlike the other specials that showcase the city they’re set in, the London special shies away from showing much more than Big Ben and the London Eye on the horizon. Chronobug spends most of her time indoors, fighting villains in basements, bedrooms, prisons…anywhere but the streets of London itself.

So if you were hoping to explore the city through the movie, or even to see Felix, you’re out of luck. Luckily, the story has lots to offer elsewhere.

We knew he was granted his wish of returning to his wife’s side, therefore dying and leaving Adrien an orphan. And lastly, we knew that somehow, Gabriel Agreste was regarded as a hero to Paris, meaning the truth of him being Monarch was never revealed.

The London special’s job was to answer the questions lingering after the genuinely surprising results of the finale: how did Marinette feel after being defeated by Monarch? Who picked up the butterfly miraculous? Why does Paris think Gabriel Agreste is a hero? What happens to Adrien now?

Marinette’s relationship with Gabriel has been an interesting one; she went from idolizing him as a fashion designer to criticizing his cooking abilities in his own home. Ever since learning of Adrien’s mistreatment, she’s been Gabriel Agreste’s #2 hater. (Nathalie takes #1, since she tried to shoot him with a crossbow and all).

Despite her hatred for Gabriel, she wanted him to be there for Adrien. She was so against Monarch because she believed he would sacrifice an innocent life for his wife’s. When his wish resulted in his death, Marinette failed to protect the person she cared about most: Adrien.

As she entered the building where Adrien was being kept, she was listless and totally devoid of emotion. She wordlessly freed Kagami, who by nature isn’t the most emotional, but also treated Monarch’s demise like a non-success. Both girls are so tired that instead of feeling happy that it’s finally “over over”, or even crying together in relief, they robotically discuss how to break the news to Adrien.

Here, we hit the main snag. Marinette would literally rather die than admit to Adrien that his father was Hawkmoth. Technically, Kagami is right, like she usually is. Marinette’s love for Adrien stopped her from making the correct decision.

One has to think of the implications of Ladybug revealing the entire truth. The Agreste family name would be ruined. Adrien, once a beloved celebrity, would become an outcast. Nathalie would be sent to prison, as would Kagami’s mother. Adrien, as Chat Noir, would never be able to look Ladybug in the face again. His entire world be turned upside down, and the legacy of his father being the villain who terrorized not only Paris, but the entire world, would follow him to his grave. Nobody would ever trust him again.

Marinette can’t have that. Adrien is already in a fragile state, being locked up for so long when that’s his biggest phobia. When she breaks the news of his father’s death, he takes the news extremely hard, lashing out at Ladybug, someone he’s loved and idolized since the beginning.

The London special answers another question within its first ten seconds: the villain of the special and the person who stole the miraculous butterfly was Lila, aka Cerise, aka whatever identity she goes by these days. She continues the proud tradition of abusing poor Nooroo and using the butterfly miraculous for her own gain. She concocts a bulletproof plan where she uncovers Marinette’s identity, steals the miraculous straight off her ears in her sleep, and makes a wish that ends the universe.

Luckily, Bunnyx is there to safeguard against stuff just like that, so she and Marinette work together to stop the new villain from ever discovering her identity. Having to come in and defeat the mysterious time-traveling villain does Marinette some good, giving her a problem to solve outside of Adrien’s feelings, while forcing her to come to terms with what she did. Though she’s frustrated there’s another supervillain out there, her deduction skills are unparalleled, and she’s able to figure out their goal is.

Side note, Spectral Looter felt very much like they could’ve been a villain in ZAG’s other show, “Ghostforce”. Chronobug also drew a direct comparison to a similar villain who could also phase through objects, Troublemaker. I love when the characters reference people and events from past episodes; it’s evidence the episodic nature of the show’s early seasons serve a purpose. The characters are learning from these conflicts and applying their knowledge to solve bigger problems. Good stuff.

In a parallel to her speech to Hawkmoth in Season 1, Chronobug makes a declaration to Time Stalker that no matter how long it takes, she will beat them and recover the butterfly miraculous. Despite technically losing to Monarch, she’s still determined to bring peace once and for all, not just for the people of Paris, but so she and Adrien can be together in earnest.

So what happens to Adrien now? Well first, he goes through 4/5 stages of grief in approximately 2 minutes.

Denial: The camera tilts as Ladybug breaks the news and he sits back down in disbelief.

Anger: Ladybug reaches out for him and he lashes out.

Bargaining: He tries to reason that since her magic ladybugs repair everything, his father not being alive is impossible and he could’ve saved him if he hadn’t been locked up.

Depression: He cries into Kagami’s shoulder, the sadness finally setting in.

Acceptance: We have to assume that by the end of season five, when he’s peacefully picnicking with the rest of the class, that he’s accepted his father’s passing.

He’s now an orphan and the people who care most about him are the people who are lying to his face about who his family really was. He’s also carrying enormous guilt about not being available to help Ladybug fight Monarch, not knowing things could’ve been worse if he’d been present. Everyone’s entered this gray area where they do bad things for good reasons, and lie to protect.

I was delighted to see 70-year-old Bunnyx in her first ever appearance. The oldest Bunnyx is a little more stately, but still as competitive and ebullient. Like other adult miraculous holders, her suit isn’t skin tight and actually has different pieces to it, like pants, a vest, and an underblouse. Her design reminded me of the woman in the watch, when we first saw the miraculous of the rabbit. Time travel is confusing, but I’d like to think 70-year-old Bunnyx had something to do with the watch’s design.

I love that at the end of the special, Marinette is reversing the damage done to the miraculouses and making them pretty accessories again. Begone brutalist architecture! When season six rolls around, all the kwamis will be reunited with their holders and we can kind of start anew with a new set of conflicts and main characters fundamentally changed, for better or worse.

#miraculous ladybug #london at the edge of time #ml london special spoilers #miraculous london spoilers #chronobug #liveblog #bugoutreviewgirlie #review

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amyriadfthings · 9 months ago

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So, this post happened, and then this, so then I thought okay why not, then I went out to vote, and then this little thing happened @brindlelogs

The candle on his desk went out unceremoniously after rousing him with its violent flickering.

Alfred Hillinghead adjusted his glasses and got up to stretch his aching joints and find another stump in Charlotte´s dwindling supply in the kitchen. He groaned from limbs that had gone stiff and realization that age was happening to him whether he agreed to it or not.

It´s not that he had dozed off exactly; his eyes had just gone unfocused after staring at latin terms and intricate illustrations for too long, and the flame not only jolted him back to reality, but also returned with it a helpful, neverending loop of „H e n r y“ riding a merry-go-round in his head.

Whenever he stopped to think at any point in the last 48 hours they were the only letters his brain seemed to want to string together, so he did what he could to populate it instead with any information he could find on South American butterflies exhibited in private or public collections in London over the last six years.

Back by his chair, he lit the new candle and shuffled the leaflets of various entomological associations that were strewn across his desk. He hoped one of them would hold a clue that could save his partner before he could get himself into a situation he could not get out of (because Alfred wasn´t there with him, and Henry was always so damn reckless).

He never knew London had so many passionate butterfly collectors.

But then again, teaming up with Henry was inevitably going to deliver surprises and revelations of all kinds. It´s what made him feel alive more than anything these days. That and Henry´s hands on his skin. (No, he chided himself. He must not think of that now. Nor his hands on Henry´s strong body willingly, eagerly arching up to him, fond eyes never leaving him, soft lips inviting him in, always ready to receive him… no.)

Alfred jumped up again this time, so vivid was the image in his mind. So warm Henry´s skin in his memory as if it were life and not mere thoughts he was conjuring up. He was suddenly enveloped by a need so mighty that it took his breath away and made him clutch at his waistcoat. His whole body seemed to miss Henry, after only two days. And no contact for another one at least.

Another issue was the steady stream of Henry´s voice that was gone from his ear, but not his mind.

He could hear Henry tease him, how unable to keep his focus Mr. Detective Inspector appeared to be. He´d probably even ruffle his hair, Alfred thought, which would earn him his best glare (his own hand going up to the side of his head without thinking, to imitate Henry´s touch), but that would only widen Henry´s grin and he might ask what could possibly be distracting him from his oh-so important work. He might even sit on Alfred´s armrest or...

Alfred´s cheeks began to burn when he looked down at his desk and thought back to how they had said a last urgent goodbye right on this very surface two and a half days ago, even though they had already done that and more extensively the night before.

A knock on the front door rushed him back to the present. It sounded hurried, but before Alfred could even leave the study, or wonder why the mysterious caller did not use the door bell, he heard the door open and close hastily, key turning, locking them in. The only one with a key besides Charlotte and Polly would be…

„Henry! What in the-,“ Alfred took two fast strides forward as a sodden Henry Ashe (his Henry) stumbled into the room (when had it started raining?), a cut along one eyebrow bleeding profusely down his face and staining his shirt (how long has he been bleeding??)

„Change of plans,“ Henry announced with a weak, self-deprecating smile, and winced as Alfred´s worried hands fluttered over him.

Finally, Alfred held Henry in place in front of him and closed his eyes for a second. „Alright. Sit down. Tell me everything. I´ll get the bandages.“

#bodies #bodies netflix #alfred hillinghead #henry ashe #someone just has to say please write something and then this happens <3 so thank you for that #i´m just gonna hit post bc otherwise i´ll keep rewriting stuff and this is just a quick one shot anyway #bodies fanfic #*mien #never made a fic tag did i

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vickyvicarious · 1 year ago

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Today's entry does not match Lucy ill in London as of her last two diary entries, leaving two distinct options.

Stoker messed up the timeline (Doylist)

Lucy is lying to Mina (Watsonian)

There's no way to have both work at once, not really. I suppose you could try, but it would take a lot more effort to have both be true at once and I'm not really sure how it would work (either you take a halfway approach to shuffling some dates but not all, or you say Lucy isn't outright lying but is exaggerating, I guess?). Nor is this post super interested in that. Instead, I want to take a moment to look at what each interpretation would mean for Lucy.

Doylist

This interpretation is supported by such details as: lots of other timeline weirdness happening in the latter half of September, and the letter being postmarked from Whitby. It would presumably be harder to lie about where you're sending a letter from, after all.

What it would mean for Lucy is that she recovered for a while. She was able to experience true happiness for at least a little bit. And it shows up that she is someone who doesn't linger on her stresses once they are no longer actively bothering her; instead she throws herself fully into her joy with Arthur here. I like this in the context of chronically-ill!Lucy. She might be used to being uncertain about how long feeling well will last, or indeed when it will happen at all, and when she does feel good she tries to seize the day and make the most of it. Also, it seems like her recovery, if this letter is totally honest, is fairly complete/happens fairly quickly. This would mean, too, that her diary entries in London show a much more rapid fall, as opposed to her slowly getting a bit better than feeling worse again. It would have been such an abrupt, scary shock when it happened.

Lucy and Arthur get to spend a lot of time together. They get to be really happy and fall more and more in love, they get to look forward to their future together as they enjoy their present. I love them getting to experience such happiness, I love that the promised fun summer at Whitby gets to come true even if just for a short time. Lucy is full of life and love before she returns to London. And then suddenly, all the illness and fear and loneliness is back with a vengeance that she wasn't prepared for.

Watsonian

If we assume the dates are correct, but that Lucy is lying about the contents of the letter, there's a lot less rearranging to do (there would be a bit of a cascading effect of having to adjust when the Harkers got married/how long the mail took to arrive, etc.). The letter being sent from Whitby is harder to explain, though.

What this means for Lucy is that she has finally taken the next step from pretending she's fine to actively lying about lots of details. It gives a very bleak impression of her in London, scared and alone but choosing not to confide in even Mina after her mother rejected her attempt at seeking comfort. I imagine the reasoning to be an extension of what was going on in Whitby: Mina currently has to care for a very ill Jonathan, and Lucy doesn't want her to feel worried about her as well, or guilty for having her health take a dive after Mina left her side. Continuing the theme of self-isolation driven by love... She also is trying to answer the wishes Mina so sincerely expressed for her in her letter. Mina was looking forward to Lucy's happiness so much that Lucy doesn't want to tell her none of it is coming true at all.

Lucy never gets to be really happy during this time. She has a very brief respite in Whitby when Dracula left before feeling awful again almost as soon as she arrives in London. Maybe Arthur was never able to join her there, and she's only seen him in London. All the activities and joking around listed here, instead of being what really happened, become in this interpretation Lucy's daydreams. Her wishes. This is the kind of life she wants to have, and she's imagining it and pretending she really has it to Mina here. But it's all the more tragic because even as she writes this, she's incredibly weak and in pain.

In the past I've leaned more towards the latter, but honestly, both are very compelling in different ways. Especially after writing it out like this, I now feel torn on which I prefer.

#dracula daily #lucy westenra #my polls #polls

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aneurinallday · 6 months ago

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The Grey Man

Chapter 10: Wild Mint

One day, Holford awoke from a fitful nap to find the wagon a little brighter than normal. Tommy had left the doors ajar. Refusing the call of the sunshine and fresh air, Holford returned to his position facing the dark wall. He could smell wood-smoke from the campfire. A breeze stirred the curtains and the tassels.

After a while, Tommy’s voice came from outside.

“Are you awake?”

“...Yes.”

“Then come out here.”

Dragging himself out of his torpor, Holford rose, drew his blanket around his shoulders, and limped towards the wagon’s doors. He stepped blinking out into the sunshine, onto the narrow ledge where the driver would perch. Tommy was sitting with his legs hanging over the side, chewing on something. A small sprig of green.

“What do you want?” Holford asked. His tone was subdued and his posture defeated.

“Fancy one?” Tommy offered up a leaf.

“What is it?”

“Mint.”

Holford accepted, and nibbled the edge of the leaf cautiously. He expected it to taste like dirt, but it had the familiar cooling flavour, albeit with a bitter edge.

“Sit next to me,” said Tommy.

Holford obeyed, wincing as he manoeuvred himself down. He rested his feet on the steps which led down onto the grass; and turned his face towards the clouds, feeling the cool sunshine and fresh breeze on his skin. For a while, the two men sat in silence - Tommy chewing, Holford merely existing.

“Do you like horses?” Tommy finally spoke.

“I suppose so.”

“Do you keep any?”

“No. I prefer a car. It’s faster. And cleaner.”

“Afraid of a bit of dirt?”

“Well, I am a doctor, Mister Shelby.”

“True enough. Do you go to the races?”

“If obligation demands it. I don’t much enjoy crowds, though.”

“Not clean enough for you?”

“Not calm enough. I don’t like ruckus and sweat.”

“Or fun, by the sounds of it.” Tommy offered him another leaf. “Lived in Derbyshire long?”

“All my life.”

“Grew up in that house, eh?”

“It belonged to my mother’s side of the family. I was an only child, so when she and my father passed away, I inherited everything.”

“What happened to them?”

“Spanish influenza. The second wave of the pandemic, the winter of 1918. Even the rich weren’t spared its ravages.”

“Let me guess - that’s why you went into medicine.”

“Yes.”

“1918,” Tommy mused. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Who took care of you until your eighteenth birthday?”

“My servants. And, I suppose, distant relatives who wanted my money.”

“I see. How was your life before that?”

“Idyllic. Carefree. My mother was kind and my father…worked a lot, which suited us fine. I spent my time reading, dancing, singing, playing the piano. I had no troubles.”

“Sounds like paradise.” Tommy picked the final leaf off the sprig, popping it in his mouth. He flicked away the naked stem. “Do you travel much? When you’re not showing up at fascist weddings, I mean.”

“A few times a year. Medical conferences and such. Berlin, Munich, Paris.”

“You don’t travel for pleasure?”

“My work keeps me too busy.”

“You should try it some time. Take a break, get away from everyone. Like me - sometimes I just hop in a caravan and drive. Don’t need to go anywhere in particular, just drive. Enjoy the solitude, listen to the trees, eat what you catch with your own two hands. It clears the head. Gives you perspective.”

“Tommy,” Holford interrupted. “If you let me live, I am never setting food in the countryside again. I’ll stay in central London until the day I die.”

“Good to know. Maybe it’s different for me. My father was an Irish Traveller, my mother was a Gypsy. The countryside’s in my blood.” Tommy stretched a little, and rolled his stiff neck until it clicked. “I imagine you keep an extensive library in that big house. What books do you read?”

“Textbooks, mostly. I was obliged to learn the great classics at school, but I always preferred non-fiction for some reason. I suppose I thought real life was already strange and ridiculous enough, it didn’t need embellishment. What about you?”

“I’m partial to Shakespeare, as you may have guessed. And Dickens. What about sports, do you play any sports?”

“Mister Shelby, why are you asking me all these questions?”

“When you’ve been living with a man for over a month, and sharing a bunk on occasion, it seems appropriate to get to know him.”

“There’s not much to know. I’m an ordinary person.” Holford’s feet were getting cold. He drew them up inside the blanket.

“You never sang for me,” said Tommy.

“Pardon?”

“You offered to sing for me. I’m taking you up on that offer.”

“Mm…maybe another time. My throat’s still a little sore.”

“Fine. A poem, then. You seem like the sort of man who knows a poetry book by heart.”

“You think too highly of me. Let me think.” Holford sighed, rifling through mental filing cabinets that had grown dusty from neglect. “Alright, here’s one. When, like committed linnets, I with shriller throat shall sing - ”

“What is this?”

“Lovelace’s tribute to Althea. Written 1642.”

“I can’t say I know it.”

“Well, I have a fondness for old, doomed melancholics. I with shriller throat shall sing the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of my King: when I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be; enlarged winds, that curl the flood, know no such liberty - ”

“Christ.”

“Mister Shelby, please.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage: minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free; angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty.”

“Very nice.”

“What about you? Recite me something.”

“In the bleak midwinter,” Tommy began, and then stopped. “I think that’s enough poetry.”

“You can’t finish what you started?”

“Judging by the fact that you’re still alive, no, it seems I can’t.”

Holford was shivering now. His nose and ears were turning pink from the cold.

“I’d like to go back inside, please,” he said.

“Aye, go on, then.”

Holding his blanket tight around him, Holford turned and disappeared back into the wagon - back into the semi-darkness and the cramped bunk with which he’d become far too familiar.

And so their routine continued, with one new addition: when the weather was mild, the doctor would join Tommy outside, to talk or simply to sit in silence. The extent of Holford’s liberty grew further and further, until he was sitting on the bottom step, then on the grass, then by the small campfire where Tommy cooked their supper. Tommy no longer bothered closing the doors, leaving them wide-open when the weather permitted it.

The rabbits which Tommy brought back were already skinned - he never did the skinning in front of Holford. Partly because he didn’t want to spill blood in the camp, and partly because he didn’t want to trigger memories of the doctor’s torture. Holford would always be haunted by the spectre of Pascoe, but Tommy shielded him from the recollection in whatever small ways he could.

Holford didn’t have the stomach to help spit-roast the rabbits, but he helped with the herbs and wild-flowers that Tommy gathered; picking apart the leaves and the stems. He had to ask Tommy what they were. Mint, nettles, dandelion, sorrel, yarrow, wild garlic. None of it anything he would’ve considered eating a month ago, but all of it precious. He watched the leaves and petals wilt in the simmering water, imparting flavour to the lean meat, and tried to discern if the steam smelled different.

Finally, there came a morning when the dressings were taken off for the last time. The site was ugly and tender, and it would still need to be washed regularly, but it was no longer an open wound. He would remember the feel of the knife every time he saw it, every time his sleeve dragged over it; but every day, Pascoe’s ghost grew more faint while Holford’s mind grew more clear. More awake. More alive.

Chapter 11: Home

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