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hb-writes · 3 years

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We’re Alright

Summary: For the angst prompt “I miss being in your arms.” John and Lucy Watson keep in touch by email while he’s away for the war, but when Lucy’s latest missive goes unanswered for several weeks, she begins to worry about her brother.

Characters: John Watson & Lucy Watson (Watson!sister)

Content Warning: Angst (and comfort), War, Alcoholism

It was so quick, email.

The short span of time that passed from inception to send to received made it so Lucy Watson could connect with her brother in mere minutes, or half a minute if she typed quickly enough, almost no time at all in the scheme of things. She should have been more grateful for it, for the connection, for the ability to reach her brother when he was so far across the globe, unable to reach him or hear him. And she was grateful, even if it always left her wanting for a bit more.

It was much faster than dealing with the standard post. In theory, John received the messages as soon as they were sent. He had hypothetical access to her words at the very moment she hit the send button. He could write back the very same day, even.

These days, Lucy rarely felt closer to her brother than when a response made it back to her within the hour, a coincidentally timed missive full of what always seemed to be a detailed, thoughtful response to almost every word she'd sent his way, John's words swallowing her up like a hug, like an arm snaked around her shoulder while he asked after her day at school, like his careful hands addressing the careless wounds as he did in her childhood or his soothing voice calming her juvenile worries, the man chiding and commending and soothing her as appropriate, the perfect blend of stern and fun and proud. It sometimes amazed her how John managed to be all of those things in a matter of seconds, achieving it all through the medium of a simple email.

It was the knowledge of that very fact that brought Lucy Watson a bit of concern.

Her latest message had been sent almost two weeks before, cast off in the middle of the night, sometime after her older sister finally passed out, after her wife had left and Harry was exhausted from the booze and the fighting, tired from yelling at her wife and younger sister when the person she really wished to yell at was herself.

Harry and Lucy Watson had reconciled in the time since, the shouting and painful words that had passed between them a willingly forgotten piece of the past, something in Lucy almost wishing she hadn't sent the email to John that night, not at that alarmingly late hour when he'd be questioning her for being awake. Part of her would have been happy now to let the moment remain in the past, to allow it to become buried, to eventually be overshadowed, forgotten by the inevitable next time arrived, the encounters cushioned by the calm they were living in now.

It was a cycle Lucy was familiar with, the times of peace and war that passed through their household, its bounds determined by Harry’s drinking and the apologies, the unfilled promises and the feelings both sisters often left buried and untouched. They were back to peace now, back to their usual indifference, but the cycle was steady, predictable.

Lucy knew they'd go around again soon enough.

She read through the email settled in her ‘sent’ box once again, the eleventh or so pass since she’d originally sent it, her eyes skipping over the introductory small talk about school assignments and the weather to the only thing that had brought her any comfort during her brother’s digital silence, the vague picture she’d painted for them, a small memory revisited, nothing more than a casual question to test his recollection.

‘Remember when I was little and Harry’d chase me around the garden and when I grew tired, I’d run to you to keep me safe?’

The inquiry had originally been followed by ‘I miss being in your arms like that,’ a sentence Lucy deleted before sending the message into the ether, feeling too sentimental and obvious by it, too exposed even though it was only John on the other end of the message, or maybe feeling that way because it was John on the other side and he’d know the question truly meant something more, was hiding something more.

Lucy hadn’t wanted to place that concern on her brother, had only hoped he’d take the same comfort in recalling the moment that she did. Or maybe she’d wanted him to know, to pry, to make her confess it all, comforted more by the prospect of that than the memory of simpler times ever could accomplish.

In John’s silence, the comfort any of it brought her was waning. The longer she waited for a response, Lucy thought more that this was one instance of ‘no news is good news’ that brought her little satisfaction, and even beyond the silence, beyond the need of confirmation that her brother was alright...and safe...and alive, Lucy simply needed her brother. She needed him to remember the moment, to bask in the inherent and nostalgic goodness of it, and though Lucy had made it difficult for John, made it more cryptic to decipher, she did want him to simply know that things weren’t quite right at home without her having to say it. She wanted him back.

Lucy knew she couldn’t really have that, though. She couldn’t have him or his hugs or his smiles or the dry wit or the knowing looks he’d often dole out, a gentle scold offered with just his eyes, a message of doting care given with just a twitch of his lips as he tried to temper an insistent smile. Lucy had accepted that, accepted that she had to subsist on a more meager version of her brother’s comfort. His words. Imagined expressions. Memories.

Lucy spent more nights than anyone would have believed tucked away in bed with her older sister’s laptop, re-reading the messages she and John had passed back and forth since he’d gone away, imagining her brother’s voice as her eyes scanned over the screen, imaging his laughter and scoffs, imagining him fixing her with a look which said he knew precisely what she was leaving out, that he somehow knew that there was more there, more she wasn’t telling him.

John always knew. He was well aware that Harry wasn’t the perfect caretaker for their Lucy, knew that the girls had their rubs, knew that Harry had her struggles with the drinking, but there hadn’t been another choice, and John had always been comforted by the fact that his sister’s wife was there, a source of stability and calm for Harry, and for Lucy, too, but there were still things that troubled him.

Lucy read over her original message another time before pulling up the message she’d started drafting to her brother days ago. It was short and overly formal for the two of them, a brief ‘I hope you’re well. Please write me when you can,’ sandwiched between a sterilized greeting and send off.

Lucy hovered over the send button, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she prepared herself to click, hoping beyond hope that John’s lack of reply was nothing more than a mistake, praying that his silence was due to a message gone incorrectly to the spam box or an instance of an unread email mistakenly set to read, willing herself to believe that the follow up message wouldn’t go unanswered.

Lucy’s finger continued to hover as the weary sort of silence that usually followed the woosh of a newly sent message prematurely settled within her. It was a terrible sort of vacuum that sucked everything along after it and she imagined all of her hope and wishing and patience would be sent off with the message itself, leaving her with very little left inside. She resigned herself to passing what little remained of the night, or the morning rather, with just that feeling for company, curled in her bed watching as the rising sun reached through her curtains to ease her into another day, but the chime of a new message came before she could bring herself to hit send and she moved to her inbox, pulling up the message from John, only two lines in length.

The first chided for the time her previous email had been sent, but the second was a morsel that could feed her for a bit. It was just an overly casual ‘You can reach me here for now,’ the words accompanied by a phone number, one she recognized as originating from England, in London.

The computer fell to the side as Lucy scrambled for her phone, fumbling with the keys as she dialed the number, her breath held as the rings continued on, a sob caught in her throat as a gruff throat clearing sounded from the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Joh—” Lucy swallowed down the lump in her throat. “John?”

John sighed at hearing his sister’s voice, the heightened pitch nearly catching, nearly breaking before she’d reached the end of his name. His sigh was heavy despite being such a small gesture, filled with exhaustion and impatience, and still yet an ounce of understanding and compassion and pity at the very same moment.

“Lucy…”

She felt the lump in her throat thickening at hearing him say her name after so long, a few insistent tears spilling down her cheeks in the short moment of silence that engulfed them, her breath quietly hitching before John continued.

“It’s rather late, sweethear—”

A sob broke from Lucy’s end of the phone line. How long had it been since Lucy Watson had heard that particular endearment directed her way? John hadn't even finished with the word and she'd already been pulled apart by it, years of feigned strength and composure at John's absence ripped entirely from the girl.

John sighed again, setting aside his incriminations about the hour, hoping the curtain pulled closed between him and the roommate he’d been assigned to just the morning before was enough not to disturb the man. He seemed to be snoring still, so it was either that or the sturdy painkillers he’d been prescribed keeping him asleep.

“Alright, sweetheart,” John whispered into the phone, turning his body away from his neighbor best as he could with his limited range, shifting the borrowed laptop to safety. “It’s alright.”

Lucy continued crying on the other end of the line, coughing over her sobs and gasping for breath, seeking more air to fuel the painful howling, her attempts at verbal response to her brother nearly incomprehensible. And the pain of hearing that, the ache of listening to his sister in such a state and not being able to do a thing to help, he could swear that was far worse than the residual pain in his knee, far worse than the gunshot itself or the surgery or the intensive physical therapy regimen he’d been enduring since. The sensation filled his entire body. He felt it in the dropping of his stomach, in the drying of his throat, in the persistent ache in his heart, but John pushed it all aside and cleared his throat firmly enough to speak over the growing lump.

“It’s alright. Let it all out, sweetheart.”

John lost track of how long it went on like that, with him simply listening to the sounds of his sister’s anguish, a few years of pent up frustration and grief and hurt coming out of her in waves as he listened on helplessly from his bed in the London rehab, wishing he was there to soothe a bit of her pain, but settling for uttering of a string of comforting words that Lucy latched onto like they were an embrace, clinging to it as if John was right there in her room tending to the passing of a nightmare, dulling her pain and cries until it all shifted and the sounds that came from her were no longer filled with anguish he hadn’t known her capable of holding. They both shared a bit of relief as the line grew quiet, nothing more than their cadenced breathing falling between them.

Lucy sniffled and cleared her face. “You’re in London?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re home. You’re safe.”

John considered the allegations, considered the truth of her words even though there were parts of him that felt far from safe, parts of him that still felt kilometers and countries away, still in Afghanistan, still fighting, and a sound came from his mouth, the start of a shaky breath stifled almost as soon as he’d released it.

“You’re alright,” Lucy offered. “We’re alright.”

John cleared his throat, his grip tight on the phone receiver as he nodded to himself.

“Yeah, we are, sweetheart.”

Three or four deepened breaths passed between them then, the Watsons each staring out their respective windows at the dawning sky, the dark night slowly, but insistently turning to day.

“Lucy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re alright?”

“Better,” she mumbled. She wouldn’t be quite alright until she actually saw him, but hearing John’s voice had made her feel better and it would be enough to carry her through until she could have the real thing. “You?”

“Better,” he confirmed, “but you should get to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Lucy hummed as she smoothed her hand out across the quilt, reaching out to shut the laptop and set it away on the nightstand. “But I am already in bed, John.”

John snorted, his sister’s cheek loosening a part of him that had become too stiff while he had been away, some small part of him thawing as he smiled into the receiver.

“Better indeed,” John laughed. “Sleep well, sweetheart. Call me tomorrow.”

Sherlock BBC (Lucy Watson) Masterlist

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist

#sherlock fanfic #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock bbc #john watson #watson!sister #sister fic #500 follower celebration #hb.writes angst

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angstyaches · 4 years

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No Fly Zone

If anyone’s relatively new (or wants a refresher), it might be useful to read this fic from the Prologue arc, where you can see exactly what goes on with Shayne’s foster family.

This is not really a sickfic, it’s mainly for comfort, character development and plot.

CW: implied mentions of grief, abuse, conditioning. Very slight touch aversion. Shayne swears quite a lot. There’s no emeto, but there’s angst and Emotions.

Swallow the World: The Ouija Board Pt. 9

They never thought to close the curtains, so the sun woke Shayne again as soon as it broke the tops of the trees and spilled through the window and across the floor to Charlie’s bed. He was lying on his back, so it fell right across his face, and he would have rolled over to block it out if he didn’t have a sleeping Charlie on him.

Shayne watched Charlie’s head rising and falling gently as he tried not to breathe too deeply and disturb him. He also dreaded to think about whatever noises were happening under Charlie’s ear; his stomach felt weird, like it was doing backflips inside him.

He found himself running his fingers across Charlie’s head for a minute or so, freezing when he felt the blonde boy shift slightly. He didn’t take his hand back, but he didn’t keep fiddling with his hair either; he just held his head, which felt just as awkward as it sounded.

“Morning,” came Charlie’s soft laugh.

“Good morning.” Shayne pushed his fingers a little more firmly through Charlie’s hair, now that he knew he was awake. He couldn’t remember saying good morning since he’d lived in this exact house with his birth parents; Madelyn and Watson were always sleeping while most people were starting their day.

Charlie started to sit up, eyes heavy with sleep, hair sticking up from where Shayne had been playing with it. The smile that crossed his face made Shayne’s heart skip a beat, but it quickly disappeared as Charlie turned his head and covered his mouth to hide a yawn.

Shayne started to sit up then too, eyeing Charlie carefully as he straightened himself. The screams he’d heard come from him still rang in his ears if he let them, and he had to suppress a shudder. He wanted to ask if Charlie was okay, but knew the uncertain answer he would get. Charlie might have been thinking that way too, as he eyed Shayne back with the same resigned worry.

“We should, um – we should text Rin,” Charlie said. His voice was so thick with sleep that he sounded drunk, or out of breath. “Let her know we survived the night.”

God, yesterday was such a mess in Shayne’s head that he couldn’t even remember when he’d last seen Rin. Or the vampires, for that matter. The more he thought about it, the tighter his chest felt, but it loosened again as Charlie yawn-yelled into his hands and rubbed at his face.

“My, uh, my phone’s downstairs,” Charlie mumbled when he’d recovered.

Shayne watched in fascination as Charlie climbed over him, positioning his legs at either side of Shayne’s on the way. He shouldn’t have been shocked, not after the way Charlie had huddled up on him after his nightmare, but somehow the closeness seem different in the light, in the calm.

“I can grab you a towel on my way back, if you wanna take the first shower?” Charlie smiled, stretching his shoulders. "Sound good?”

Shayne blinked up at him and his dishevelled hair, nodding shyly. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Coffee’s almost done. Want some?”

Shayne mumbled something inaudible, even to himself, before crumpling into one of the chairs. He curled one elbow onto the dining table and rested the side of his head against it. Every muscle in his body felt like it was being massaged, his skin tingling pleasantly inside Charlie’s clothes. He’d been physically shaking and thought he might fall on the stairs, but now that he was sitting down, the trembling had eased to a slight humming sensation in his bones.

“Are you – are you okay?”

“Mmmmm. Hot showers. Amazing.”

Charlie gave a heavy-lidded frown. “Do you not have hot water at home?”

“I live with vampires. Cold blood. Cold water.” Shayne almost added cold hearts, but he cut himself off. The morning was too warm, and Charlie was too sleepy, for him to bring up anything like that.

“You should come shower here, more - more...” Charlie leaned on the shiny countertop, rubbing his face with both hands as he yawned yet again. He still hadn’t fixed his hair. When his gaze met Shayne’s again, he cut the yawn short with a laugh.

“More often,” he finished. “I seriously don’t function until I’ve had coffee. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shayne tried to think of something to say while his stomach did another confusing little flip. “Your hair’s a mess,” he said. Weak, considering his own was wet and dampening his borrowed hoodie.

“And whose fault’s that?” Charlie grumbled as he started trying to flatten his hair down a bit. “Any better?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll shower in a minute anyway.” Charlie combed the hair out of his face with his fingers and gave up, folding his arms over his chest. He glanced to his left, towards the glistening touch-screen stove and the newly-fitted oven. “So, um – what, you used to help your mum bake in here, right? I’m still struggling to picture you as domestic in any way.”

A slow wave of grief drifted over Shayne’s head and shoulders, chasing out the deep relaxation in his muscles. A quick intake of breath made him feel a little steadier, and he lifted his head from his arm.

“Mmhmm, I mean –” He got up from the chair and made his way over to where Charlie stood, feeling like he was walking on clouds. “The kitchen’s been ripped out and put back in since the – the, um, the stove and everything used to be on that side.”

“Yeah?” Charlie followed Shayne’s gaze only for a second.

“Yeah, and the tiles weren’t white, they were brown and -”

Shayne’s heart skipped a beat as Charlie’s hand slipped into his. It was Charlie’s right hand reaching for Shayne’s right hand, and he felt himself slowly being pulled in front of Charlie.

“And dark green.”

Shayne’s throat fluttered. He was used to the handholding, and being close to Charlie when they were sharing a bed, but this was new and he didn’t even know what to call it.

Charlie gently pulled Shayne’s back against his chest. He looped his arms around his waist, hands crossing against his stomach. Shayne felt his hair lift despite being wet, his adrenaline spiking at the sensation of suddenly feeling bound and immobilised. Even if it was just by Charlie.

“I-I –” It was hard to concentrate, but he scrambled for words anyway. “I was short for my age, so I’d stand on a chair next to her so I could see what she was doing.”

“Cute. I can kind of picture it now.” Charlie hummed happily to himself as he tilted his chin upward and rested it lightly on Shayne’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re still kind of short.”

“Fuck off,” Shayne mumbled, though he couldn’t help curiously turning his head to look at Charlie’s face.

He’d imagined putting his head next to Charlie’s from behind, just yesterday when he’d been sitting above him on the picnic table. He’d wondered what it would be like to get a whiff of his hair from that close, and now here he was, having just used Charlie’s shampoo himself.

Charlie’s smile shifted slightly, and Shayne closed his eyes before he could see what happened after that.

He sure felt it though.

One of Charlie’s hands moved up to his neck, fingers spreading apart to tilt his jaw and hold it casually in place while also making his neck and throat tingle. Charlie’s mouth pushed against Shayne’s, lips tugging at lips until they were both pried apart. Charlie’s other hand slipped under Shayne’s hoodie and t-shirt. Fingers glided across his just-washed skin, up his belly and over his waist, resting briefly against his chest while his heart pounded wildly.

Shayne had no idea what to do with his own hands, or with his tongue even, because Charlie’s was in his mouth, and it was moving -

It’s just a demon. This is what you are.

And he was being held and restricted -

Ungrateful shit, why can’t you just do it? This is what you’re for.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he gasped.

He shuddered out of Charlie’s embrace. His stomach was twisting painfully, and he put his hands on the back of a chair to stop himself from doubling over.

“Oh, god,” Charlie whispered. “I – I’m so sorry, Shayne –”

“What the fuck’s wrong with me?!”

Shayne slammed his hands down on the dining table. He went dizzy with anger and self-hatred, fear of damaging the table piled onto everything else. His teeth cut into his lip and the insides of his cheeks and he swallowed against the taste of blood. He felt like he was going to dry heave, but despite being painfully inexperienced in this kind of thing, he reckoned dry heaving after kissing just wasn't right.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Charlie said quietly. That was the response he’d chosen to give to the question that Shayne himself knew was a pointless one. He had chosen to lie.

Shayne knew what was wrong with him. He knew what was wrong with Charlie. And somehow, he’d still let this happen.

“Shayne.” Charlie rounded the table, so he was in Shayne’s view again. He was squeezing his fingers together and pulling them apart repeatedly.

“Listen, please,” he said, “I – I don’t know what I was thinking, I –”

A sound rang out that made Shayne take a sharp, painful breath and duck his head even further. A clean, elegant shriek that could only be meant for him this time.

“Damn it,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Fucking damn it all.”

“Wh-who is that?” Charlie stammered, as though he’d heard it too. In reality, he’d probably just heard the crunch of gravel as a car pulled up outside the house. The colour leeched from his face.

“Elliott and his sidekick,” Shayne told him. “I’m getting rid of them.”

He slapped his palms on the table once last time before turning to leave the kitchen. He heard Charlie call out his name, but he ignored it. He was trembling all over, but it felt good to direct the mess of emotions and fears into something clear-cut like hatred. He let it solidify, dark and swirling, in his chest. He let it push everything else into a tidy knot in the pit of his stomach.

In the front hallway, he drew his fists across his face to get rid of a couple of tears. He widened his jaw with a crack that made his ears ring.

“Oh, I don’t fucking think so!” he yelled towards Elliott’s car as he opened the front door. “No fucking fly zone, assholes!”

#swallow the world #angst #tw abuse reference #tw language #tw grief #shayne and charlie #shayne #charlie #my ocs #not a sickfic

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againstallelse · 5 years

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The Confessionals of John H. Watson: First Draft

Hello all. Now that the month from hell is being pushed behind me (Don’t ask), I’m back to writing and I bring you The Confessionals of John H. Watson. Written by John after The Reichenbach Fall, it focuses on the question that everyone has asked in one way or another. What is John Watson’s relationship to Sherlock Holmes?

This is a first draft that I do plan on continuing. I’d love any feedback anyone has. A beta reader (or a collection of them) would be very appreciated.

Why I’ve chosen to write this now I’m not entirely sure. It feels far too little, far too late. Just like everything else seems to always be.

This will never even see the light of day. Maybe someday, long after I’m dead, someone will research into the great Sherlock Holmes’ legacy and find it. But my expectations are low. Even though it’s what everyone always wanted to read. The blog post everyone was practically begging for.

I have received one question above all others over the course of the past few years of my life. It’s one I’ve avoided addressing because in all honesty, I still do not have a simple answer.

“What is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?”

And in a sum of words, I genuinely don’t know.

I have never had a real answer to this question. I got it from the very first day I met Sherlock, seemingly from everywhere. At that point, there was no suitable answer. A stranger? A new friend? An interest? I didn’t know. And I was too afraid to ask him what I was to him.

To me, he was like a light in the darkness. Everything had felt so dull, so painful, so dark. I was entirely alone in the world. I trudged forward every day because I wasn’t sure what else I could do. But then he came. He was enematic. Charismatic. Bright.

He lit up my entire life all at once, thrusting me into a whole new world where I finally felt like I belonged.

He was strange and finicky. A total prat. Early on, I couldn’t tell if he cared if I lived or died. I couldn’t tell if I cared if I lived or died. As long as I didn’t have to return to the darkness, I didn’t care. I felt so empty for so long. I did everything I could to keep things steady between us. Stable.

I couldn’t jeopardize losing the only good thing in my life.

I had known I had an interest in Sherlock from day one. I would have rather ended it all then admit it to a soul. But I knew it was quite obvious to anyone who bothered to throw us a second glance.

However, I didn’t realize how bad I had it for Sherlock until we had been living together for a while. I knew he was gorgeous. I knew that my heart beat faster when he was close enough to touch.

One morning I came downstairs to find him shirtless in our kitchen and found he had made tea for us both, I was overcome with something unfamiliar. I sat beside him as he read and drank his tea, ignoring me for more interesting things.

I stared at him. I studied the curves of his face. His bare chest. His lips as they curled around the edge of his mug. The most dangerous realization settled in my heart.

I wanted to be here, with him, forever. I wanted to be with Sherlock for the rest of my life. I couldn’t imagine spending my mornings with anyone else. I wanted to wake up beside him in the morning and have him be the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.

I choked a bit and laughed it off, trying to seem casual. His eyes peered up from his book to look at me and I shook my head. He crooked his brows and before going back to his reading.

I got more serious with Sarah, my girlfriend, after that incident. I wasn’t sure what Sherlock’s sexual preference was, but I was fairly certain that it didn’t include me. Or possibly any human being. Which didn’t phase me that much.

Did I want to be sexually involved with Sherlock Holmes? Admittedly, yes. I did. He was on my mind far more often then he should have been, in scenarios he shouldn’t have been involved in. Especially when I was shagging my girlfriend.

But I didn’t mind it if Sherlock never had an interest in me. As long as I got to stay by his side for the rest of my life. That was always the priority. Anything that might scare him away had to be kept at a minimum. So I was careful about staring at him. I avoided touching him in any way at all. I knew he’d see through me and connect the dots if I indulged myself too much, so I was careful.

I still think he might have known.

Sarah figured it out. We went on a trip together, alone, since she kept asking. The whole time I was checking my phone, calling and checking in on Sherlock, talking about him nonstop. One night on our trip she found me up late, scrolling through Sherlock’s boring blog.

She asked, “Do you really love me?”

I put my computer down. She caught me off guard. “Why are you asking that?”

“Because… you don’t look at me the same way you look at Sherlock. I’m not blind John. You could be enjoying your holiday in bed with me. But you’re not. You’re thinking about him.”

Her words burned into my brain. She was right. My god, she was right. She was so kind, letting me keep my privacy. We parted amicably when the trip was over and she wished me the best of luck with Sherlock. She never told a soul, even though the papers would have paid her enough to retire a year down the line if she had.

Why couldn’t I have just loved her?

My life continued with Sherlock. Our cases were interesting, he was vibrant. He had his days, but overall we were very happy those months. That summer was likely the happiest of my life, traveling around with Sherlock, chasing after criminals in the warm summer evenings.

Sometimes I wonder if he had any concept of how romantic that summer was. Sometimes I wonder if it was the best summer of his life too.

Then she came.

The woman.

Everything changed when she came into our lives. She excited Sherlock. In ways I didn’t. Mentally. And seemingly physically, I think. It was such a shock to see Sherlock attracted to anyone in any way. Especially a woman.

It frustrated me. It hurt. After everything we went through, it seemed momentarily like she would come between us and break us apart. It was a whirlwind, one day it was he and I against the world. The next he was composing music for her.

I ran through three girlfriends in three months, trying to distract myself. Trying to distance myself from Sherlock, steal my heart so when I lost him to a dangerous dominatrix it wouldn’t hurt so badly. It didn’t work even remotely. All three of them saw right through me in record time.

When Irene pretended to die, some part of my selfish self was relieved. Maybe things could return to normal. But Sherlock’s reaction… he was totally devastated. It was heartbreaking to watch. He was quiet, reclusive even. His mourning wasn’t loud and external like most people. It probably would have been invisible to most people.

But I wasn’t most people. I was his blogger, his roommate, his best friend. His family. And I saw the way his shoulders hunched and how sad his eyes were in the reflection of the window glass.

When she returned, expecting my help, I had wanted to throw her out the window. She hurt the man who my world revolved around and wanted my help? But then she saw right through me. No matter how I denied that I wasn’t gay, she saw me.

She could see me. She could see my real feelings, probably better than anyone else ever did. I felt raw. Naked. Exposed.

Even once she was really dead, Sherlock and I never truly went back to normal. He looked at me differently. I never identified the look in his eyes our final year together. Sadness? Fear? Pity? He hid his emotions well, very well. But I could still see that hint of something there that felt cold. And it broke me.

I felt like he knew. Maybe she had told him my true feelings. Maybe he pitied me? Maybe he couldn’t see me the same, knowing I had feelings for him? Maybe he was afraid that I couldn’t truly be his friend without my feelings getting in the way?

I’ve driven myself insane with the maybes. I’ve gone over it again and again. It still keeps me up at night. What did those looks mean? I will never know, now.

When everything happened with Moriarty, it shook me to my core. Not the cases, not the insanity of the man who was chasing Sherlock, but how hard Sherlock pushed me to believe he was a liar in the end. I could not, would not ever believe that. I still do not believe that.

Sherlock was magnificent. He was brilliant. And beautiful. He came into my life and hijacked it entirely and it was the best thing to ever happen to me. None of my past experiences nor my future ones will ever compare to the part of my life I shared with him.

I could never have written this down with him still alive. If I had ever acknowledged this much, even to myself in private, he would have known and it would have broken us. But now he’s gone. And I’m left with this.

If I ever had a soulmate on this earth, it was him. I knew on some level from the night we met. More than how alluring he was both mentally and physically, something drew me to him. Something I doubt I will ever feel with another human being. With him, I felt complete in a way I never had before.

And never will again.

God, I can’t continue writing this. What’s my relationship to Sherlock Holmes? I don’t know what I was to him. But he was my soulmate. And now he’s dead.

#johnlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #sherlock #bbc sherlock #unrequited love #angst #major character death #kinda #we all know how this ends #first person #first person pov #John Watson POV #fanfic #so if this gets picked up at all I will probably write a season 3 fix it in which Sherlock sees this #so uh?#yes if you'd like to see that please let me know

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thebeethathums · 5 years

Text

Home - 6

Pairings: John Watson x HolmesTwin!Reader

Warnings: Mention of depression and some dark thoughts. The reader in this fic is a TWIN to Sherlock Holmes and as such shares some physical features to him.

A/N: Bolded text indicates John’s Blog Posts.

You sat on the coffee table, one leg pulled up so you could rest your chin on it and the other folded underneath you, and stared at the wall in front of you. Working the case had already put you through a number of mood swings- at times you felt normal, letting your brain do what it did best was enough of a distraction, and others you felt alone or angry, unable to ignore the gaping hole in your life. John had grown used to you going from contemplative and calm to abruptly yelling or disappearing into Sherlock’s room with a door slam over the past week and a half. He could loosely say you were friends now since you chatted casually when you needed to rest your mind and you often cooked or made tea for the both of you.

Right now, looking up at your failure of a wall as you went over the case again in your head, you were teetering in between screaming and just plain sobbing- you were missing something and your entire being told you that with Sherlock there that wouldn’t have been the case. John had looked up from his laptop when you stopped humming, knowing that it meant something was about to happen with you, and was more than surprised when you softly asked, “Was he happy, John?”

He stopped what he was doing to look over at you more seriously; you hadn’t said a word about your brother since your outburst when Mycroft was over, “I think he was, (F/n).”

You continued to stare at the wall for a minute and then let out a heavy sigh, “We were so angry with each other when I left… He didn’t want me to go.”

He got up to sit next to you on the coffee table, seeing the tears beginning to shine in your eyes as you rested your forehead on your knee, “The last thing I said to him was that I didn’t need him- that I could make my own decisions… but I do n-need him. I-I always n-needed h-him.”

A few tears had started to run down your face and you were quick to wipe them away as you got up to lock yourself in his room again but John stopped you, catching your arm, “You don’t have to be alone in this, (F/n).”

You looked up into his blue eyes, firmly stating, “Yes I do. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone- If I had stayed- It’s my fault he’s dead.”

John floundered for a moment and it was long enough for you to pull away and slam the door to your room, leaving him alone and slightly lost in the living room. He sank down in his chair to hold his head in his hands feeling angry, not at you but at your brother for doing this to you- for doing this to him- and that quickly turned into his own wave of sadness.

John Watson let the tears creep down his face because without his best friend he was lost and with you here it was like losing him all over again. He quickly shook his head, wiping his eyes, and went back to his computer to do what he did best- blog.

Will it Ever End?

It’s been seven months, but it feels like just yesterday I was watching him fall. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. She’s driving me up the wall and I doubt she even knows it… it’s not really her fault either. I don’t think two people could have been put in a worse situation than this. We’re complete strangers at different stages of grief over the same man stuffed into a flat that seems to be growing smaller by the minute. How can I help her like everyone keeps telling me I should when I’m only barely keeping it together myself?

His thoughts were interrupted just after he hit post by a quiet and slightly distraught voice, “John?”

Looking up, he found you standing hesitantly in the doorway as you rubbed at your nose in an attempt to stop the sniffling, your eyes rimmed with red from crying. You opened your mouth to say something but quickly shut it, chewing on your lip before trying again, “I’m sorry. This can’t be easy for you either… and you’ve been so patient with me.”

Knowing that must have been hard for you to admit, he sighed and joined you in the doorway to take one of your hands up in his, “It’s alright, (F/n)… but I wish you wouldn’t shut yourself away. It’s all right to be sad- to need other people. Let me be there for you.”

You hated everyone and everything- even yourself- but you couldn’t stand being alone anymore. The theories in your head that resulted from staying that way were all awful and dark. Frankly, you didn’t care if any of them happened… but if it got bad enough, you’d have to deal with Mycroft and that you cared about. Thinking it over for a second, you resignedly nodded, “Okay… I’ll try.”

“That’s all anyone can ask of you, (F/n)… You tell me what you need and I’ll do my best to help you.”

You gazed into his eyes for a moment and then looked down at the ground, seeming a little conflicted before raising your eyes to look at him, “Would you- c-could I…”

John squeezed your hand reassuringly, offering you a small smile, “It’s okay. Tell me.”

You studied the floor for a moment and then softly breathed, “May I hug you?”

There was no pause between your request and him enveloping you in a hug and for the first time since you’d gotten home, you returned it, burying your nose deep into his shoulder as you wrapped your arms tightly around him. It was exactly what you needed. After living your entire life deeply connected to another person, being alone now was overwhelming and some form of human contact, no matter how small, helped you more than John would ever know.

At the same time, it was what John needed as well. He rested his cheek against your shoulder and tightened his grip on you, weeks of frustration melting away. You were going to let him help and maybe… just maybe- you would both be okay.

The first true act of comfort you’d allowed to penetrate your sadness also managed to clear your mind and you startled John when you pulled away very quickly to jump on to the couch, “How could I have been so stupid… I just assumed it was a pill.”

He gaped at you for a second as you scrutinized the things pinned on the wall and then let out a soft, surprised chuckle- your mind would always be a mystery to him just as Sherlock’s had been. It was good to see you at least a little fired up… he’d only seen it happen once or twice and then it was so slight that it was almost undetectable, but when it happened, it was like seeing your real self shine through all the pain.

Your phone rang and you waved a hand at John for him to answer it, causing him to roll his eyes, as had become reflex from his time with Sherlock, and pick it up so you could continue with your thoughts. Lestrade’s voice rang through the receiver and John nodded, humming, “Alright. I’ll tell her,” as you leaped from the couch to grab your coat, stealing the next words from his mouth, “There’s been another murder. Tell him not to touch the body.”

John huffed and did as you asked while grabbing his own coat and following you out of the flat as you took the stairs two at a time, humming softly as you mulled over your most recent thoughts. Between John and the case you just might be able to get through another week without locking yourself away from the world… right now that was all you could ask for.

#John Watson x reader #John x reader #BBC Sherlock #reader insert #Holmes!Reader #SHerlock #SHerlock Holmes #John Watson #reader #twin!reader #sibling!reader #slowish burn #x reader #fanfic #fan fiction #thebeethathums #home #SAD

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voyages-extraordinaires · 6 years

Text

C:R ~VE~ Chapter 61

"I see.”

Queen Victoria sets her teacup down, the ‘clink’ of porcelain masking a chuckle. “You two have made your points very clear. But I can’t help but wonder, why go to all this trouble...?”

“This is no trouble for me, Your Majesty.” Aouda sits, tall and proud, across from the Queen. Next to her is the Count of Saint Germain- his pleasant smile a stark contrast to Aouda’s serious expression.

“I came to Buckingham Palace to see that my kinsman’s memory would not be sullied. I will repeat my story as often as necessary to ensure that this doesn’t happen. Dakkar, son of the Raja of Bundelkhand and descendant of the Tipu Sahib, was killed by British soldiers.”

Aouda’s frown deepens as she picks up her own cup of tea, one that had hardly been touched. “The very thought that his identity could be muddled with this whackjob scientist’s...”

“Now, now, Miss Aouda,” Saint casts his smile towards his companion. “We’ve discussed how this mistake happened. I’m certain that Her Majesty has all of the information she needs to make sure that the right information is presented.”

He smiles towards the Queen, who smiles right back at him.

In truth, Aouda had very little to do with the negotiation. Saint Germain and Victoria had already spoken for many days by the time Aouda was invited to tea. She is playing a role, presenting the backdrop to a story that will make a lie believable. Aouda is as aware of this as the other two, but none of them say it.

It’s all a charade to clear Nemo’s name. A charade that, thanks to the Count’s influences, will benefit Britain for years to come.

There are no losers in this deal, no lambs to slaughter, and in the end Queen Victoria nods.

“Very well, then. Count, Lady Aouda, I will make an official statement clearing Nemo of any involvement in the Indian Rebellion, as well as ensuring that his identity is not tied with former Indian nobility.”

A smile plays at her lips. “Will that suffice?”

“You are indeed quite generous, Your Majesty. It has been a pleasure sharing tea with you these past few weeks,” replies Saint.

-----

Outside of Buckingham Palace, Aouda lets out a sigh she had been keeping through the entire tea party.

“You were very brave, Miss Aouda,” says Saint.

“I must admit, meeting British royalty was never high on my list of to-dos,” Aouda says with a shrug. “But you were really the man of the hour, Count. My family and I will never be able to thank you for all that you have done.”

“Your family has brought my family safely back to London,” replies Saint. “I was simply returning the favor.”

“Oh? Is that all?” Aouda finally lets a smile cross her lips as an automobile pulls up.

“How did the meeting with Her Majesty go?” Arsène Lupin casually leans over the side, a dashing smile on his face.

“Just about as expected,” Saint replies with a smile. “It would seem that France has been pressuring Victoria quite a bit. The aristocracy had something to do with it, I’m sure, but...”

“Hehe, don’t underestimate the common people!” Lupin opens the car door with a flourish. “Humanity just can’t resist a good love story.”

He holds out a hand to help Aouda climb into the automobile, but she hesitates when she sees something in the backseat.

It looks to be a pile of blankets, but it’s definitely... vibrating?

“... Hee hee hee...”

Aouda’s eyes widen for a split second before a boot emerges from the pile.

Then, the blankets are swept back and the owner of the boot lays looking up at Aouda with a metallic grin.

“I’ve missed yoooooouu!!”

“Nemo--!” Aouda yelps as he leaps up and yoinks her into the automobile.

“How?! When--?!” Aouda’s sputtering questions are cut off by a multitude of hugs from her overly affectionate cousin.

Lupin looks over the back seat with a pitying smile. “The airship touched down while you and Saint were meeting with the Queen. Really surprised us, too.”

Nemo’s rubbing his cheek into Aouda’s, humming happily. “It’s so good to be back in Londooooon...!” His happy musings are cut short, however, when Aouda smacks him upside the head.

“I can’t believe you! Do you even realize where we are? Victoria hasn’t made the proclamation yet-- and what if she hadn’t agreed to in the first place? You put yourself in great danger coming out here! For a genius, you really can act like a nincompoop!”

Nemo sinks down past the seat and into the leg space, still grinning. “It’s been so looooong, I couldn’t wait to see you, Aouda deaaaar!!”

“You’re so incredibly lucky that the Count got through to her!”

Aouda continues her scolding, but at the mention of ‘the Count’, Nemo’s smile twists into an angry grimace.

“Count... that... Apostleeeeeeeeee...!!!”

He wrenches himself off of the floor and looks towards Saint with a snarl-- only for it to vanish when the fashionably-dressed Apostle of Idea is nowhere to be seen.

“Eh?” Nemo’s face droops in confusion as he looks around. Finally, he looks at the Gentleman Thief idly tapping his fingertips on the wheel.

“Lupiiiiiin, where did he gooooooo?”

Lupin lets out a charming laugh. “A gentleman never reveals his companion’s secrets!”

“Gentlemen cannot be gentlemen when it comes to science! I must knoooow! For Isaac-sensei’s memoryyyyy!!”

“Fine, fine, if it’ll get you to quiet down,” Lupin wags his finger at Nemo. “He vanished while none of us were looking. It’s M-A-G-I-C.”

Nemo stares at Lupin blankly before sinking back into the seat. “I should have known better than to consult with fools.”

“You’re too kind!” Lupin puffs his chest out before stepping on the gas.

“I still can’t believe you risked coming out here...” Aouda sighs as the automobile begins to drive away from the Palace. “Where’s your better half? She certainly would never have agreed to this.”

“Hee hee, you mean the one who agreed to wear my riiiiiiing?”

Aouda looks over at Nemo. “You mean... engagement ring?”

Nemo pulls off his glove with a flourish and moves his hand so that his ring gives off a dull gleam. “Ta-daaaaaa! Your cousin is proooooudly engaged to the very brightest mind of marine biology--! And you’re right, she probably would have protested. But, ignorance can be bliss even for geniuses! She’s out and about right now getting a friend settled into his new abode, hee hee!”

“Right, so he forced himself on me,” Lupin mutters from the front seat.

“Aw, I think it’s been a good booonding experience!”

Nemo leans over the front seat and pokes Lupin's cheek. “After all, I owe a great deal to you, Gentleman Thief!”

“O-Oy, don’t prod at me like that, you’ll make me lose control!”

“Nemo, get back in your seat!” Aouda tries to grab Nemo by his coat, but he panics and digs his fingers into the front seat, letting out a shriek of surprise.

Lupin regrets everything.

-----

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Doctor...”

“Watson,” the man standing before me gives a confident smile. “John H. Watson.”

He looks around the lobby we’re standing in as though he’s examining it. “Though I don’t normally visit this place, I’m better with scrapes and bruises and the like...”

He rubs the back of his neck before he looks down at the sullen man sitting in one of the chairs.

Hatteras doesn’t even give Dr. Watson a glance.

“Can you hear me?” Dr. Watson puts on a smile that would charm the fussiest toddler. “I look forward to working with you, Jonathan--”

“Captain,” he replies. “Captain... or, if you’re insistent on being informal, Hatteras.”

I look over at Hatteras. “That’s the most you’ve spoken since we’ve landed.”

Hatteras matches my stare, his lips drawn thin. “I’m staying here... so it should be comfortable...”

“Now we’re talking!” Dr. Watson pulls over a chair and sits across from Hatteras. “I definitely want you to be comfortable here, so what can we do for you?”

“Quiet,” says Hatteras.

Dr. Watson shuts his mouth, looking at Hatteras curiously.

“I want... quiet,” Hatteras continues. “Silence. Silence, and... I want to be able to see the night sky.”

Hatteras shifts in his seat so he can’t see me.

“I want to see the moon at night.”

I also look away so that he doesn’t see the smile reaching my lips. Barbicane would be glad if he knew.

“Whew! You looked so intense, I thought you would ask for something crazy!” Dr. Watson sits back in his chair with a warm laugh. “That shouldn’t be a problem at all!”

“Noisy already,” Hatteras’ words are sharp. “Fine, but there is one more thing.”

Dr. Watson smiles an apology before nodding for Hatteras to continue.

“This close friend of yours...”

Hatteras suddenly looks up, the white of his teeth glinting behind long strands of hair. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Huh? It’s who?” Dr. Watson blinks a few times.

“It’s him, the voice on the transmitter... this friend of yours.”

His eyes are glinting with an interest I never thought I would see outside of the North Pole.

“This friend of yours is the love of Jimmy’s life, isn’t he?”

“... Huh?”

-----

When Dr. Watson and I leave the room, Hatteras is sitting quietly in a chair looking out the window, a blanket tucked over his knees.

“He sees people as stories,” I say. “I don’t know how to explain it... but I’m glad that there’s something here that interests him, at least.”

“Stories, huh?” Dr. Watson shrugs. “I won’t pretend to even understand what he’s talking about. Hatteras doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would appreciate it, anyway.”

“You’re right,” I say before I turn to him. “Thank you, Doctor, and thank you to your close friend... whoever he is. I promise I will visit Hatteras often to check on him.”

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he, miss?” asks Dr. Watson.

“I couldn’t say,” I answer honestly. “I suppose I feel... a little responsible for him. Not quite like he’s a brother, but...”

Dr. Watson laughs. “Most people would call that ‘friendship’!”

I smile. “I suppose they would.”

-----

The Count of Saint Germain’s mansion is practically glowing like a beacon of rest for weary travelers.

And, my goodness, am I ever weary!

Ever since the airship landed, it’s been nonstop motion. We were barely on the ground when Cardia was practically barreled over by a group of men, out of whom I only recognized Dr. Frankenstein.

After Cardia introduced me to them, one by one, I find that I’ve met almost the entirety of the Lupin Gang- except the man himself.

But now, as I’m walking towards the mansion, I see a charming man in a top hat who fits the description perfectly.

“You must be the famous Lupin,” I say with a tired smile.

The dark-haired man sweeps his top hat offf his head and gives me a low bow at the waist. “And you must be the Bride of Science herself, Pauline Aronnax!”

It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve heard the nickname that I find myself laughing at it. “You really are proud of the nickname you’ve given me, aren’t you? Well, I can’t say I mind it... Nemo and I owe you a lot, gentleman thief.”

“Any friend of my lady’s is a friend of mine,” says Lupin. “And I know that going on your adventure helped her realize her own feelings, too. Impey’s a fantastic guy, I have no doubt he’ll make her the happiest girl in all of London.”

Lupin is looking off into the distance nostalgically, and when I look in the same direction I see the moon hanging high in the sky.

“Well, that’s enough of that!” Lupin gives me a smile. “You must be starving, right? You haven’t eaten until you’ve had a meal with the Lupin Gang!”

“I’m more tired than hungry, to be honest,” I say with a sigh. Still, it would be rude to pass up their hospitality, so I let Lupin usher me into the mansion.

-----

“Woof woof!”

I quickly step aside as Sisi, as charmingly dressed as ever, runs past us. Next is a young boy that I don’t recognize, and finally Cyrene Smith bounding after them both.

“It’s good to see Smith being able to get some of her energy off,” I say.

“Delly doesn’t usually warm up to people too quickly, I guess they’re connecting as dog lovers...” Lupin muses.

“Oh! Professor!” A moment after I hear her voice, Smith comes running back up to me. “Glad to catch you, I wanted to say goodbye before I shove off.”

“Shove off?”

“Yeah! Unlike you all I didn’t go on this voyage by choice... I have a lot of work waiting for me. And now that I know who’s actually loyal and who’s still a lapdog for Aleister... we’re really going to take Lincoln Island back. Then, I’m going to turn the island into a paradise for all the sciences! I’ve already started having some interested parties reach out to me-- one’s even been writing about trying to journey to the center of the earth!”

“My, and I thought a transcontinental voyage under the sea was ambitious,” I say with a smile.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Professor!” Smith pumps her fist excitedly. Then, her smile falters as she stares at me and takes a step forward.

With a gulp, she bends down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Lupin lets out a low whistle, and Smith practically jumps back, the color drained from her face.

“No disrespect meant for you or sensei!” she shakes her head. “It just... felt right, that’s all.”

I put a hand to my cheek and give her soft smile. “Thank you, Smith.”

“A-All right, then!” Smith turns around. “Gotta make my rounds, then it’s time to set sail!”

She stomps triumphantly down the hall, and I watch her until she turns a corner and disappears from my sight.

...

“Quite an interesting bunch you know, Miss Aronnax,” says Lupin.

“An interesting bunch?” I turn towards him. “You’re one to talk.”

I hear a loud crash coming from the other room, and I gesture to it.

“That very well could have been your interesting bunch,” replies Lupin.

I pause.

“V-Van?!” I hear Barbicane’s voice. “No way, I’m doing the cooking! Why don’t you go talk with the others? I got it, really!”

I look back at Lupin with an ‘I-told-you-so’ eyebrow quirk. Then, I straighten up. “That reminds me. When Barbicane rescued us from Aleister, there was a voice on the aether transmitter that I had never heard before. Another member of your ‘interesting bunch’?”

“Oh, you must mean the Great Detective himself, Herlock Sholmès,” Lupin frowns, and I can practically see steam rising from his head. “I don’t enjoy dealing with him, but apparently he knows that Aleister fellow. Saint asked him to contact me.”

“The Count,” I laugh lightly. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. He always seemed to be three steps ahead of me. I doubt I would have made it back to London without his help.”

“He’s a good friend,” Lupin’s smile returns now that the subject has shifted. “Possibly the most interesting of my interesting bunch!”

“VIIIIIIIIIIICTOR…. FRANKEEEEEEEEEENSTEIN!!”

“Oh, speaking of ‘the most interesting’ of our respective parties,” Lupin looks on apologetically as Dr. Frankenstein suddenly bursts into the room and walks quickly past us. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man move that fast.

“Cover for me—” is all we hear through his clenched teeth before the door shuts behind him.

A moment later, Nemo comes bounding into the room with a happy grin on his face.

“Ahh…? Where did my esteemed rival gooooo?”

“I’m afraid you just missed him,” Lupin says with a shrug. “He was saying something about ‘delicate testing’. He probably should be left alone right now.”

“Oooohhhh!!” Nemo’s practically bouncing now. “If he’s performing EXPERIMENTS, I simply should heeeelllpp--!!!!”

“Woah, woah, Nemo!” Lupin steps in front of him, shaking his head gravelly. “You should know best of all…”

He puts a hand on Nemo’s shoulder. “Some tests can’t have outside interference! If you go there now, poor Fran might have weeks of work lost!”

Nemo gasps and puts a hand to his mouth in horror. “I…. I could never…!!”

…..

He… he really does get played easily, doesn’t he? I feel a little bad.

But, now that Nemo’s here, I can ask: “Nemo, did… did anything happen with Queen Victoria?”

He turns to me and stares for a moment before putting his hand over his heart.

“Alaaaaaaaas…”

At that word, I stop breathing.

“Alaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas….!!!”

He suddenly throws his head back, dramatically crying out: “She begged and PLEADED for me to return to the Royal Society! It seems the place has been in shambles without my guuuiiiiiiding light!”

What.

“What.” Lupin’s voice matches my thoughts.

“Buuuuut, no matter how much she may beg! I will never, neeeeeeever sully my brilliance by allowing it to be bridled by—”

“Miss Aouda and Saint had tea with Her Majesty earlier today,” Lupin nods towards me. “She’s officially acknowledging that Nemo’s not any kind of lost prince. He’s just a whackjob scientist.”

“Oh, Nemo, that’s wonderful!” before Nemo can protest his unfortunate nickname, I throw my arms around him and hug him tight. “I told you they would come through, I told you!”

I feel Nemo lean into me and gently pet my head. “You did, didn’t you? Well, don’t let it get to your head, now…”

He steps back and tilts my chin up, looking at me with a surprisingly soft smile. “Science has no boundaries, no limits. Nothing can stop us from…”

As Nemo’s lips close over mine, I hear Lupin clear his throat. “Right, well, I’ll leave you two to conduct your science. I’d better check on Impey—”

“IMPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!” Nemo leaps up, smacking my nose in the process. “That’s what I meant to tell you all aloooooooooong! Dinner’s reeeeeaaaaaaaaady!”

I nod, one hand holding my nose and the other hand giving him a thumbs up.

Dinner consists of sandwiches and front-row seats to a bunch of grown men (plus a boy and a dog) trying to monopolize Cardia.

“Hey! HEY! She’s my girlfriend, you guys, give her some space!” Barbicane protests.

The various members of the Lupin Gang look at one another.

“… She was stuffed in that little submarine,” Finis says with the sigh. “It’s the only explanation I can think of.”

“Maybe the difference in pressure got to her,” continues Van Helsing.

“Or maybe she wasn’t getting enough air…” Delacroix II pipes up.

“Oh, my my,” the Count’s crystalline laugh punctuates their words. “Aren’t you being a little unfair, now?”

“Y-Yeah, seriously…” Barbicane looks a little deflated.

Cardia looks around at the chatter before standing up in her seat.

“Impey’s right,” she says.

“C-Cardia-chan--?!” Barbicane looks over at her with red cheeks.

“Impey’s right,” Cardia repeats, her own cheeks reddening. “I… I do care about him a lot…”

“… Sister…” Finis looks over at her, his eyebrows arched. “… Well, if you do love him then I suppose there’s nothing to be done, unless...” He takes a bite out of his sandwich and locks eyes with Barbicane.

“No worries,” Barbicane shakes his head. “I’m going to make her the happiest girl in the world!”

“Hee hee hee… and on the moon!” Nemo yells from across the table.

Cardia looks over at Barbicane with a smile.

“Cardia-chan… you really are an angel! My angel!!”

Surprisingly, the one to change the subject is Philomena Fogg. I imagine she hates to waste time on a subject once the point has been made.

“What do all of you plan to do now that you have returned to London?”

Ned is the first one to pipe up: “I’m taking my sweetheart on a cruise to Canada!”

“What?!” Conseil sets down his fork and glares over at Ned. “You didn’t ask me about this!”

“Huh? Yeah I did!” Ned turns to Conseil with a confused expression. “Remember? Our first night, you know? You said you wanted me to take you away to my world—”

“THAT… THAT WASN’T…”

I haven’t seen Conseil look this angry in a long time. With a scowl he slams his sandwich into his beau’s mouth.

Ned swallows. “Aw, man, Impster! You really are one hell of a cook!”

“I-Impster…?” Barbicane looks over at Ned, cringing.

“Anyway!” Conseil waves his hand. “In actuality, I will be returning to Paris.”

“I hope it’s not on my account!” I interject.

“I am still your assistant, Professor,” Conseil shakes his head. “The least I can do is get your estate in order in your absence…”

He looks over at me, a smile creeping on his lips. “You are staying in London, aren’t you?”

I stare at him for a long time before a relieved smile crosses my face. “Conseil…”

“Very good, veeeeeeeeeeery good, hehe!” Nemo nods his head sagely. “Perhaps you aren’t such a rotten assistant after all!”

Conseil’s eyes narrow into slits.

“As for meeee…” Nemo leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “We have a lot of work to do, don’t we, Impey Barbicaaaane? If we want to replicate the effects of the Gravity Alleviator…”

Barbicane nods, his expression suddenly showing fierce determination. “I’m never giving up.”

“Ha! Good, goooooooood! That fire burning in your eyes will take you far in the glory of science! I, the great scientist Neeeeeeeeemoooooooooooo, will be glad to assist you!”

The Count sets down his cup, smiling serenely. “Ah, then I suppose you will need lodgings here, won’t you?”

“… Huh?!”

The Count tilts his head politely. “Not permanently, of course, but until you and Impey make progress…”

“I… I’d rather rot on the streets than share a roof with one of Isaac-sensei’s greatest enemies!!”

“Would you mind telling me what you plan to do, then? You need space for a laboratory, don’t you?” the Count continues.

I can hear Nemo grinding his teeth in frustration.

“O-Oy, Nemo…” Barbicane shakes his head.

“I don’t think the sewers would make a particularly good honeymoon location…” Fogg’s voice is low.

The grinding’s getting louder. He’ll have to mend them if he keeps this up, so I put my hand over his in an attempt to calm him down.

“Are you… are you trying to make ameeeeeends, Apostle…?” Nemo’s voice is low. “Are you trying to make amends for what you did to Isaac-senseeeeei--?! Is that why you’re offering to assist the progression of science…?!?!”

The Count decides not to answer his question, instead offering: “We have a mutual friend, and both of us want to see him accomplish his dreams. Is that enough?”

Nemo’s hand begins to tremble under mine.

“I’ll never… never ever…” he’s muttering. “But… Impey…”

“Hey, is he bothering you, Saint?” Van Helsing nods towards Nemo.

“Hm? Oh, no,” the Count shakes his head. “We were just taught by different schools of philosophy, is all.”

“Look, Nemo, he was just offering…” Barbicane frowns. “If it bugs you that much, just say no.”

Nemo stills.

“I … am a scientist,” he speaks slowly. “No matter my personal values, I will never let them stand in the way of progression. Just know… just know that this doesn’t change anything, Count of Saint-Germaaaaaaaaain!”

“… You sure he isn’t bothering you?” Van Helsing repeats.

“I am accepting your patronage for friendship! For science!”

“He’s bothering me, that’s for sure…” Delacroix II mutters. Sisi yaps in agreement.

“Then, I look forward to seeing the collaboration between you and Impey,” the Count gives a nod.

“You sure he just doesn’t want free food?” Lupin’s the one to interject, and I’m familiar enough with him at this point to give him a light smack on the arm.

That noise jolts Nemo back to reality and he looks over at me. “Um, I didn’t aaaask…”

I shake my head.

“I’ve grown rather attached to this mansion,” I admit. “I’m really happy we can all work on this together... I’m glad that you’re doing this for science, Nemo.”

His smile is worth everything.

“Glad enoooough… to give me a kiss~?”

My own smile falters.

“Not at the dinner table.”

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handfulofsky · 6 years

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So @actiaslunaris came up with an Elementary prompt that I just couldn’t resist (the first line of the story, to be specific) and @joaneuglassiawatson helped pimp it. Partial spoilers through early season 6. Unabashedly Joanlock, rated T. 1/1

Notice

“I’ve made you aroused. Why?”

Sherlock’s question is casually phrased, but it crashes through what had been a comfortable silence between them and rocks her completely out of her reverie. “I, uh—“

I don’t know what you’re talking about,

she wants to say. But that’s not fair to either of them, and, although he would likely drop the subject, the lie would continue to hover between them indefinitely.

The truth is far from simple. Joan’s been watching him like a hawk ever since he first revealed his post-concussion syndrome to her, and she still feels a little guilty for not putting the pieces together earlier. He suffered needlessly and in silence, and the doctor in her has been taking note of his symptoms almost obsessively ever since. He’s tried to take a less active role in their investigations, but Sherlock’s never been the type to skate around the edges of a mystery—he leans in for all he’s worth—and it’s been up to her to see that he doesn’t overbalance and fall flat in the process.

Maybe that’s how it all started; or maybe it started a long time ago, and she was loath to acknowledge it. But she’s been keeping a close eye on him, and she can’t help liking what she sees. Not the pain, of course, or his frustration with the limits placed on his activities, but she’s far more physically aware of him than she used to be.

The eyes that she looks to for early warning signs of a change in his condition are clear, focused, and ever-changing, ranging anywhere from gray to green depending on the lighting and his clothing choices for the day. But they droop with fatigue more often than they used to, and the tiny wrinkles around them deepen when the headaches begin in earnest. He’ll close them when the pain gets bad and cover them entirely when it’s excruciating, and she thinks it’s probably just as well that he can’t see her fists curl in frustration at her inability to help him.

Sleep poses problems as well. He still needs more of it than he used to, although it’s typically broken into intervals of an hour or two here and there. His shoulders hunch awkwardly when he gets overstimulated and needs a break, so she’s become adept at reading his body language before he can reach that point of discomfort. Urging him to put his head down for a few minutes (she’s scattered throw pillows over all the sofas) usually results in him being able to nap or at least breathe deeply for a few minutes until the worst has passed. Sometimes she puts her work aside and takes advantage of the opportunity to study him. Like those of most people, his features soften while he’s relaxed. His lashes look longer when they’re resting just above his cheekbones, and his lips, so often pursed in thought, twisted in contempt, or pressed together tightly with resolution, are smooth and full above the ever-present stubble dotting his chin.

He’s been working with the single stick more than he used to as well. The exercise is good for him, but he’s taken it too far a time or two and experienced headaches brought on by overexertion. She now makes it a point to check in on him every time she hears the slapping sounds of wood hitting plastic resonating through the brownstone. Sometimes he wears an undershirt, but more often than not she finds him wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of sweatpants and a fine sheen of sweat over his back and chest. He’s always been lean, but the increased workouts have left new accumulations of muscle and sinew standing out like whipcord beneath and between the tattoos. Even when he’s fully clothed, she can see the effect of the exercise in the way he moves. He’s never been clumsy, but he moves with the control and grace of a dancer now. On his good days, at least.

And when, just a few moments ago, she glanced at his hands to check for any signs of tremor, she also realized just how fine and articulate they are, especially the strong, slim fingers that are equally at home wrapped around a singlestick or a lockpick. Those hands were resting atop the arms of his chair while he studied the crime scene photos plastered on the wall, and his thumbs were idly stroking circular patterns against the upholstery. The thought welled up in her without warning—unbidden, but decidedly not unwelcome—

How would they feel on my skin?

Even as startling as the idea was, she couldn’t let it go. Maybe more to the point, she really didn’t want to. And it hadn’t taken him long to recognize that and call her on it.

She clears her throat and starts over again.

“Because you’re...” What? Beautiful? Strong? Brave, intelligent, remarkable in ways she’s only now beginning to appreciate? All of those, really. And more.

“Because you’re you, Sherlock.”

He snorts dismissively, but not unkindly, and gives her a sad little self-deprecating smile. “Some days more than others. One could make the argument that simply being me, as it were, is not considered by most people to be a positive thing.”

“Of course it is,” she blurts out. She’s a doctor, and well-versed in worst-case scenarios. His symptoms could’ve been caused by an aneurysm, a blood clot, a tumor—treatable conditions, of course, but the thought of someone using a knife inside that brain makes her sick to her stomach. The fact that he’s still himself in all the ways that matter is nothing short of an absolute miracle, and the sudden surge of emotion blurs her vision and constricts her throat, but not enough to keep her from whispering, “It’s everything.”

“Watson?” He stands and crosses the room, stopping directly in front of her perch on the sofa before bending at the waist and looking intently into her brimming eyes. “Are you...” He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment as though he’s concerned about offending her. “Are you flesh, or are you phantasm?”

She gets to her feet, not caring that the motion makes the tears finally spill over the edges of her eyelids. “Would anything I say really convince you?”

“I suppose not. My mother was very... realistic. I fear I can no longer fully trust my own eyes, nor my ears.” He waves a hand toward her body. “If I may...?”

“Of course.” She welcomes his touch, wants him to know that her thoughts and feelings are just as real as she is, so she steps well inside his personal space to facilitate that contact.

He bends over towards her and she sucks in a quick breath in unconscious anticipation of a kiss, but instead, he lowers his face into the space just above her shoulder, nuzzling lightly against her hair. The perfume she dabbed there this morning has largely diffused, but she still catches a whiff of it occasionally, and it seems that he’s reassured when he finds it as well. Then he turns his head just far enough so that his lips brush against the line of her jaw and her breath catches at the fleeting caress. When he straightens again, she sees the dot of moisture at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth vanish as his tongue edges out to capture the stray tear. He nods almost imperceptibly at the salt tang, and Joan shudders at the raw intimacy of the moment.

His fingers reach hesitantly for the knot of her tie, and this time his hands really are trembling as they loosen the knot and then remove the fabric altogether, tossing it onto the couch behind her. He gazes questioningly into her eyes once more time, sees her consent, and proceeds to undo the top button of her blouse. It’s a recent purchase, and his brow furrows a little at the stiffness of the material as he undoes another. Then a third. And just as Joan begins to wonder just how far he intends to go in order to verify her existence, he slides a warm hand into the opening of her shirt, resting the heel of it against her sternum with his fingers splayed across the skin directly above her carotid artery.

They stand there silently with her heart literally in the palm of his hand; it’s beating out a rhythm as strong and as steady as the course of their friendship. He tilts his head back as his eyes close, but she’s seen that look on his face often enough to know that it’s not resignation but recognition—that sudden, magical moment when all the disparate pieces fall into place and the mystery ceases to be.

She takes his wrist and presses his hand even more firmly against her body. “So what’s the verdict?”

His eyes fly open and focus intently on hers, and she watches, mesmerized, as the the dark pupils shrink rapidly into the hazel irises. He looks more than a little stunned, and she knows her expression must match his.

“You are indeed flesh, Watson, as well as fidelity personified.”

“How so?” She wanted his skin on hers even before she had any idea how good it would feel. Now that his investigation is concluded, he’ll likely withdraw again, and she steels herself against the loss of that touch as she reluctantly releases his arm.

Instead, he’s content to leave his hand where it is, and his thumb resumes the sweeping motion she’d noticed earlier, only now it slides along the curve of her collarbone, dipping briefly beneath the strap of her bra before making the return journey—back and forth, warm and gentle, the motion slowing slightly even as the pace of her breathing picks up.

“You told me that being myself wasn’t just a good thing, but, to use your word, everything. And in that particular moment, I was able to see myself the way that you see me. I wasn’t just an addict with relationship issues and odd synapses that insist on firing at random intervals. In your eyes, I was whole.”

“You always have been.”

“Not to anyone else,” he says gently. “Not to myself, especially in my current condition. Make no mistake, I’ve known for quite some time that you value our relationship, that it’s grounded in mutual respect and trust. But then to suddenly realize that you might want something more? It’s truly been an evening full of epiphanies.” The smooth glide of his skin against hers slows even further before finally stopping entirely, but thankfully, it seems as though he’s in no hurry to break their contact.

“I didn’t try to hide this from you,” she explains. “I just never really realized it until now.” As much as it pains her to have to say them, her next words are of vital importance because she knows from experience that he will do just about anything to keep their partnership together. “And I need you to understand—I would never want anything more from our relationship than you’re willing to give.”

He shakes his head a little and smiles, as though she’s said something amusing. “Willing isn’t the word I would choose, Watson. Eager would be more apt. Perhaps now that our eyes have been opened, maybe even bordering on desperate?”

Sherlock finally pulls his hand away from her heated skin, but before she can begin to feel bereft, he plucks at her placket, quickly undoing the remaining buttons. She makes quick work of his shirt as well, and, within moments, the entirety of their respective wardrobes is scattered around the study.

His eyes darken and take on a dangerous gleam as they reach for each other. The shoulders she admired while she watched him practice are firm and supple beneath her hands, and when he finally kisses her, his mouth is a revelation: full, warm lips, softer than she expected, and a little reserved, right up until she teases his tongue out with her own. His hands are restless, constantly moving, stroking, igniting sensations she couldn’t possibly have imagined a scant few minutes ago. She never told him about that first stray thought that she had entertained—the one that started this cascade of desire and emotion. But it seems as though he recognized it anyway and is intent on answering her question just the same. As always, she’s more than happy to let him.

fin

#elementary #joanlock #fanfiction #actiaslunaris #joaneuglassiawatson #joan watson #sherlock holmes

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darpok · 6 years

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Blog Post: On Fan Fiction and Other Storytelling Traditions

When I was twelve or thirteen years old, and even our family finally had DSL internet, I discovered the joys of fan fiction. In case you haven’t been living under the same rock as I have, allow me to explain. “Fan fiction” refers to stories written by enthusiasts of a particular book, TV show, or other creative work. While most “fics” – as my friends and I would call them – take place within the particular universe of the original story, others take known characters and put them in an entirely new setting. (That’s how 50 Shades of Grey was born.) There’s also fan fiction that doesn’t deliberately draw on any work but revolves around real, famous people in imagined situations. (See Graham Norton and Daniel Radcliffe discuss this type on the former’s show.)

The stories that interested me ranged from shorter “one shots” to multi-chapter epics, but most were placed in the Harry Potter universe and nearly all were tales of romance – if you could call it that.

The pairings I read about (and often ‘shipped’ – a verb that comes from the ‘ship’ in ‘relationship’ and means “hoped would bang”) – whether true to canon (i.e. the original books), such as Lily and James Potter, or wildly inventive, such as Hermione and a Tom Riddle to whom she has traveled back in time – usually engaged in the kind of love/hate banter that sends real couples to therapy. The pair would glare at and insult each other (often employing strangely American turns of phrase for a pair of ostensible Brits), their apparent mutual disgust hiding a deeper attraction. For my friends and I, it was riveting stuff.

While I was mainly a Lily/James shipper myself, you can’t talk about Harry Potter fan fiction and not mention Dramione. The fan-invented romance between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger was a tale of forbidden passion, a defiance of Hogwarts housing norms and the mandates of Potter canon itself. Draco did need to be less of a whiny loser to be a deserving match for Hermione, but this could be arranged without too much trouble. In the fan fiction world, Draco was dark and brooding, and he didn’t bring his dad up in conversation quite as often as in the books. Hermione was clever and empathetic, and although she was rarely depicted with less than Yule Ball-level beauty, her looks were not her main characteristic.

Sometimes fan fiction Draco and Hermione fell for each other while at Hogwarts. In other fics, they met again under changed circumstances years after the fall of Voldemort. Then there were the AU fics in which a brilliant young paralegal named Hermione Granger begins work at the firm where successful lawyer Draco Malfoy practices. You get the idea.

Photoshop creations starring Tom Felton and Emma Watson (no credit belongs to me). The purple one in particular has stayed in my memory for years, and brings on a familiar feeling of excitement at all the great content to peruse in the world. It was the banner for a website that allowed fans to nominate and vote for their favorite Dramione fics.

A particularly sexy iteration of the Draco/Hermione story was called Water by kissherdraco. In it, Draco and Hermione are Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts. Of course, this means that they must live sequestered in their own dormitory, with its own entrance, common room and adjoining bathroom that ensure they see each other in a state of partial undress when the story demands it.

Water was held by many to be the pinnacle of the genre. It had lust and angst in equal measure, executed with a liberal dose of swear words and aggression. Moreover, Water took the common flaws of the Dramione world’s characters and actually explored them, allowing character to drive plot. In the story, Draco is brooding and cruel as ever, but these traits are linked to vicious abuse at the hands of Lucius. This backstory is not seen as an excuse for Draco’s behavior and he is forced to grow and change as the story progresses (although not quite enough, tbh).

I never finished the story, perhaps because my young brain was alarmed by all the hate-sex, but I revisited it with curiosity for this piece. Here is a relatively benign excerpt from the text, although please skip if you’d rather avoid themes of physical dominance:

“You’re crying,” growled Draco, leaning in and flicking his tongue onto her cheek. He tasted salt.

She struggled then, and he brought his hands to her shoulders to hold her still. “Don’t, Granger,” he warned. “I fucking need this. I can’t fucking…” He trailed off.

He never would have noticed before. Not like he did now, at least. Her lips were wet. They were red and moist and magnificently ripened for him. So full of blood. Hot, heated, sullied blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.

Other fics situated romance within a larger plot about the politics of the wizarding world. Prelude to Destiny by AnotherDreamer took place in the Marauder era (i.e. the time of Harry’s parents) and focused on the coming-of-age of Lily Evans and her role in the battle against evil. It begins, “Two cultures and a thousand miles from you, there is a castle on a hill…”

Another fave began life under the title Ancient and Most Noble and is now called Druella Black’s Guide to Womanhood. It is about the diverging lives of the three Black sisters — Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa — in the early years of Voldemort’s power. The sisters confront the crumbling of the their easy closeness as they make different choices in a changing world.

”It’ll be a laugh, you’ll see,” Bellatrix whispered into her ear, her breath sweet and thick from wine. They were curled in the cool grass, tangled in the layers upon layers of lace and satin that were their dress robes; it had taken them an hour to get them on right and just ten minutes to unsettle them. Andromeda’s head was spinning: from the liquor, from the heat, from far too much dancing. “It’ll all be just like this,” Bella was murmuring, her lips brushing against her ear. Stars whirled by overhead, maybe close enough to touch. Close enough to try.

“Always just like this.”

—

Andromeda swore as she stepped off the train. From inside the nicely cool travel car, summer had looked so charming, green and bright and gloriously school-free…

I was most interested in these fics, the ones that revolved around the generations before Harry’s. There was something compelling about the knowledge of forthcoming tragedy for many of the characters…Plucked away from the happy ending of the books, these fics became an exploration of why life is meaningful even in its flawed and finite scope.

I look back on my fan fiction experiences as belonging to a beautiful time when the internet was less like Janet from The Good Place* (if Janet were selling everything she knew about us to profit-hungry corporations and belligerent, militarized governments), and more like a library you went to when you felt like checking out a book. Nobody knew what I ate and where I went every minute of the day, because I didn’t put that stuff online, nor did I (to my knowledge) carry a tracking device with me when I went downstairs to play with my friends. At 5 pm, our moms would have to call each friend’s landline to reach us and remind us to stop home for our daily glass of milk or what-have-you.

*Janet is a humanoid presence in the afterlife who holds all knowledge in the universe and can create objects out of the void.

Fan fiction was a commerce-free creative space – devoid of ad revenue and the quick accumulation of likes. Since there was neither money nor social capital to be gained, everyone who participated did so out of pure interest. One did have the hope of raking in reviews from other community members, but these were about more than validation; reviews allowed people to have conversations about a shared passion and often included constructive criticism along with praise. There was little need for bitterness – if a fic was well-written, everybody won, since it meant they got to read it.

Below are some examples from the reviews section of Prelude to Destiny. It’s certainly no Twitter.

Written by rach on chapter #13. (March 28th 2009, 5am) Hey,

So I’ve read your whole story before, and now I’m reading it again, because I saw it spotlighted on the site. And this chapter is amazing. I love the end…I’ve never (well, before I read this the first time) compared Lily to Mrs Crouch. But it’s so true. They both gave their lives for their sons and…this chapter is phenomenal. Just thought I’d let you know

Rach

Written by Smith on chapter #26. (April 29th 2008, 11am)

…If I am to find any fault in the story, then I should say that Remus was rather dull. Not that it was completely out of character, but I imagine him being funnier and also good Lily’s friend. Their friendship is mentioned by Lupin in the third film and, I should think, in the book as well, though I don’t have a copy right now and thus can’t provide a quote. Pity, that. [Given my extensive knowledge of canon, I can tell you that the reviewer is mistaken on this last point.]

Thank you very much for writing this story. Reading it was an enjoyable experience that I might repeat in the future. You’re brilliant, to put it short.

Author Response: Thanks for the review!Yeah, Remus was a bit dull. Actually, I didn’t intend for Lily to be friends with any of the marauders besides James. I just wanted them out of the way. But I know what you mean. After Sirius entered the story, Remus was even duller in comparison. Plus, I wanted to make Peter seem like he fit in, and Remus just fell by the wayside, you know?I’m enjoying writing Gertrude again after taking over a story from my friend who used my characters. Anyway, thanks again!Miranda

For me, too, fandom was a more than a casual hobby. Since I was only allowed an hour of internet use a day, I would spend the time copying and pasting chapter after chapter of fan fiction onto Microsoft Word, allowing me to read all I wanted later. (As you might imagine, Water was not stored on the family computer.) I remember scouring for new fics on fanfiction.net and clicking through page after page of fan art on deviantart.com (both of which retain their early-2000s layouts, unlike Mugglenet or JK Rowling’s official site), very differently from how I scroll through Instagram today. I admired works of fandom the way one appreciates springtime’s first flower, or the décor of a friend’s bedroom – I admired the stamp of individuality they bore and that inspired me to create something myself, to express my joys and sorrows, to be a part of the world.

RIP old websites

When I did put Harry Potter-inspired art out there, somewhere around age fourteen, it was of course in the form of fan fiction, writing being my weapon of choice. I wrote two one-shot pieces, one funny and the other sad — or such were my intentions, though perhaps the results were inverted. While some friends wrote longer stories, I never felt talented or inspired enough to commit, which is a typical self-doubting move of the kind I am trying to leave behind. (I now plan to write no matter how untalented and uninspired I may be.)

One piece was about a character of my own invention, a Slytherin guy with the requisite pure-blood, Dark magic-loving family, and a perky, ponytailed Huffelpuff girl on whom he develops an obsessive crush. It was intended to be a BBC-inspired mockery of the character, taking all the gloomy sexiness of the Dramione universe and making it ridiculous. It was also a thorough exploration of really wanting to make out with somebody sitting in the same classroom as you, not that I’d know anything about that myself.

The other short story was a sincere ode to the books and an exploration of some of their core questions on death and loss. It followed Harry in an imagined scene that takes place (SPOILER ALERT lol) after Dumbledore’s death in the Half-Blood Prince. Harry is climbing the steps to the Owlery with a package in his hand, thinking over his relationship with Dumbledore. As I wrote, I found that I absolutely had to include excerpts from a fairly unexpected source, a chapter in the first and most overlooked of the Harry Potter books. The chapter is “The Mirror of Erised,” whose titular object reveals to the onlooker their deepest desire.

“Professor Dumbledore. Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.” Harry stared. “One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful.

In my story, Harry gazes out at the Forbidden Forest for a little while, wondering who Dumbledore had been behind the mask of calm wisdom and pondering the burden of those left alive and grieving. Harry then ties the package he’s been holding to Hedwig’s arm and sends her off, chuckling a little through tears. In the last line it is revealed that – OMG – he has just sent off a pair of thick, woolen SOCKS. To DUMBLEDORE. Even though Dumbledore is DEAD. Isn’t that profound?

Two years later, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, and to my complete surprise, it delved deep into some of the questions about Dumbledore that had tumbled out of me, stream-of-consciousness-like, in the story I wrote. The text even includes part of the above excerpt from “The Mirror of Erised”. At the outset of Deathly Hallows, Harry learns that Dumbledore’s childhood was a difficult one, the true details of which remain murky and contested by his admirers and critics. Harry regrets never having asked Dumbledore about his past, but recalls that, after all, the one personal question he had asked Dumbledore was not answered honestly…

While writing my story, I had imagined Harry’s pain and longing to know Dumbledore better. Because fan fiction allowed me to externalize my interpretation of the text, the questions in my mind took on concrete form. Their answers, when the next book presented them, became all the more striking and emotionally impactful. It was as though I had written a letter to the series of books that had shaped me and received, in a way, a gentle but meaningful response.

In 2004, JK Rowling released a statement about the phenomenon of fan fiction. She was flattered by fans’ desire to write about her characters, and her only caveats were that fan fiction should remain suitable for children (unfortunately that ship had already sailed, and Water was truly the least of it), as well as a non-commercial activity so that fans’ creative pursuits would remain unexploited. Other authors have not been as accepting, and have asked for fan fiction based on their work to be removed from popular websites. After all, in our current world, a story is classified as property. A sentence, a verse, a character’s name, can belong to someone the same way as the furniture in their house and the dollar figure in their bank account.

In the long history of storytelling, however, ownership is a relatively recent idea. Bear with me while I make an analogy – in pre-industrial Britain, every town had a commons, an area of land where anyone could gather firewood, take their cattle to graze, or hunt and fish to supplement a year of poor harvest. Storytelling has historically functioned as a kind of commons of ideas, one that anyone could pull from when the time came to tell a tale. Want to warn your kid against going near a well? Tell them about the hungry demon that lives in it. Were you hired to entertain a crowd at a wedding? Maybe you dust off an old poem about a prince and princess who meet one evening in the forest but spend years apart, not knowing each others’ true identity until it turns out they were betrothed all along.

Nobody invented well-dwelling monsters or estranged lovers for the first time – they simply existed in a shared cultural space, available when needed (or when it was particularly enjoyable to use them), ready to be shaped into something new and old at the same time. Even today, no one questions the use of familiar tropes in books and movies; we know that all storytelling involves a certain amount of borrowing and repetition, and we deem this acceptable as long as the storyteller has put an adequately original spin on the themes they utilize. The legal line is drawn once you get to the particulars – character names, or sentences and dialogue. These must be brand spanking new if you want to avoid a lawsuit and getting dropped by your publishers. (Does anyone else remember How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life?)

But for thousands of years, people told and re-told stories of beloved and familiar characters, not just unnamed archetypes – characters like Odysseus and Arjuna, Gilgamesh and King Arthur. The Sanskrit Mahabharata (Maha-BHA-rata) an epicly long, genre-defying story from South Asia, especially challenges the idea of a single, canonical text (much like other ancient story traditions from the subcontinent). It was told so many times by so many people that modern-day folks are not always able to agree on what the Mahabharata even is. The story is like a vast ocean — recognizable to all, but appears different depending on where you happen to be standing.

In the 20th century, some scholars collected Mahabharata manuscripts from all over the subcontinent, extracted the most commonly occurring parts to form a text, and detailed the many variations of each verse in footnotes that turned out longer than the text itself. No one can quite agree whether to treat this resulting (multi-volume) “Critical Edition” as the essential Sanskrit Mahabharata tradition, or as some kind of strange, post-colonial Mahabharata scrapbook. All this so that whenever somebody wrote an essay about the story, there was a single text, pieced together as it was, to use as a point of reference. (My Bachelor’s thesis was one of the lesser works of this scholarly genre.)

The plot of the Mahabharata goes like this: The five Pandava brothers, namely the prone-to-gambling leader Yudhishthira, morally-conflicted archer Arjuna, lovable beefcake Bhima, and something-to-do-with-horses twins Nakula and Sachdeva, along with their badass wife Draupadi, are exiled from their kingdom and forced into a year of disguise after a rigged dice game that Yudhishthira loses, and in which Draupadi is stripped and humiliated before a hall full of men. Eventually the Pandavas regain what they lost through a bloody war that leaves both sides devastated and questioning the point of all this conflict. The End.

Does my summary reflect my biases a little bit? For somebody else, the Pandavas might be perfect heroes, Draupadi a whiny ungrateful shrew who won’t stop yelling at them. To me, she is the moral backbone of the Pandavas, unafraid to call for what she feels is right even as everyone around her takes the coward’s way out of trouble.

Interpretations of Draupadi from various traditions

But it’s not just me who has a take on the story: the Mahabharata itself reflects a range of interacting and conflicting views, which might indicate that people from various backgrounds heard it and were able, in some way, to influence it. For example, although the text generally upholds hierarchies of caste and gender, it also pulls at the listener’s heartstrings with stories of characters who must confront these oppressive norms.

There’s Amba, who is stolen from her future-husband at her wedding and rejected by him when she manages to return; she later chooses to be re-born as a man in order to kill her kidnapper in battle. There’s Ekalavya, the talented archer from a forest tribe who trains with the Pandavas in youth and asks to prove his devotion to his archery guru any way he can; the guru, who favors the upper-caste prince Arjuna, asks Ekalavya to cut off his right thumb. There’s Kunti, who finds herself pregnant after an illicit affair with a god and places her baby, Karna, in a river; Karna is adopted by a lower-caste charioteer couple and goes on to fight against Kunti’s legitimate sons in the great battle that destroys the universe. And there’s Satyavati, whose husband/baby daddy pretends not to recognize her in front of his kingly court but gets completely schooled on how not to be an asshole.

“You know very well [who I am], your majesty; why do you say that you don’t, lying like a common man? Your heart knows the truth, and knows your lie. A man who does something wrong thinks, ‘No one knows me,’ but the gods know. If you do not do what I ask, your head will burst into a hundred pieces.” She discoursed at length on the reasons why a man should honor his wife, quoting the dharma texts.

(from The Ring of Truth: And Other Myths of Sex and Jewelry by Wendy Doniger)

Perhaps, among the traveling bards and indulgent grandmas who told the Mahabharata over centuries, there were some who identified or empathized with the pain of oppression and through whom otherwise-marginalized voices could ring out into the millennia.

The many Mahabharatas, along with the many conversations inside the Mahabharata, illustrate how the human imagination is prolific and messy, not content with merely absorbing information but impelled to remake, to take inspiration, to create, create, create. Isn’t that what happens when we read? We see the world we are reading about in our own way. We make up something in our own head as we go along, and that’s where the entertainment lies. The book itself is but a wonderful tool.

Perhaps if I had a right-wing patron who paid me to tell stories, I would tell the Mahabharata a little differently from how I do here, focusing on how the Pandavas were self-made men or how the ethnic minorities they killed were thieving encroachers. Or if I were telling the story to children, I might leave out anything particularly frightening. In the telling of a story, the will and whims of the teller have influence, as do those of the listener (or reader) and the financial benefactor (or publishing house).

What remains inevitable, however, is that rarely is a story told the same way twice. Even in our post-printing press, post-internet world, where stories are replicated identically again and again, we continue to dissect, analyze, and change them, whether it be through everyday conversations, online forums, or the prestige lens of a critic’s review. (A perfect example is the adaptation of works from one medium into another, be it from literature to film or from film to theater.) Sometimes the authors themselves continue to tweak and interpret their work – Virginia Wolf was known to make changes to her books prior to reprinting, and we all know that JK Rowling can’t leave the Potter universe well enough alone (love you Jo!).

For me, fan fiction is a grand storytelling and textual tradition not entirely unlike the Mahabharata. Fan fiction not only illustrates the malleable, generative nature of stories, it also provides a rare space, in our capitalist global economy, for storytelling to be that malleable, generative thing it has always been. It allows for democratic engagement in the storytelling traditions of our time, free from the boxes of profit and ownership. It lets us expand the possibilities of our collective imagination. Importantly, it allows voices from the margins into the story, where our canonical texts routinely fail us.

I’m also thankful to fan fiction for being a rare space, outside overpriced college English classes, where literary discussion can thrive. When I say discussion, I don’t mean mere binary criticism – like book reviews, or the Goodreads star rating-aggregates that help determine book sales. I mean questions about how a text makes you feel, what it reflects or critiques about our world, the things that literary characters, beloved and abhorred, may teach us about our shared humanity and flawed choices. And yes, some of these conversations involve Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy as co-Heads of Hogwarts, using the same bathroom.

Are you a reader or writer of fan fiction? Have you you dabbled in fan art? Or do you engage in a non-online form of fandom, like a book club? Please share!

Thanks for reading.

#fan fiction #writing #storytelling #early internet #dramione #mugglenet #mahabharata #harry potter #feminism #romance #indian history #draupadi #longform #long post

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trashyazeohane · 7 years

Photo

Life is hard… so yeah…

Enjoy! Hope it will bring a smile to your face!

(Scene from above happens in this part xP)

Part 1 here!

Adult!Maxvid!AU - Part 5 (when one act ends)

Max woke up pretty refreshed. He was surprised about this fact too.

But he woke up to the beautiful smell of breakfast. And then, poof, his brain jumped into top speed working.

Where he was? He didn’t recognize this place. Was he abducted?!

No, it was just David’s house.

Everything was fine.

Wait no-

HE WAS IN DAVID’S HOUSE AND HE SPENT THE NIGHT OVER, WHAT THE FCUK!

“Good morning, Max!”

Max groaned, massaging his face with one hand.

“Come on, wake up. I prepared breakfast for us! It’s the most important meal of the day and you need energy for the test!”

Shit, test! Max quickly checked his phone to find out he woke up few minutes before his alarm was supposed to ring. What the fuck. But Max stood up, because what else he was supposed to do and trudged to the table where David was putting two plates on it.

David also made Max coffee. Black as his soul.

They ate and talked. David mostly asked if Max slept well. Max was still living in that half dazed world, so he was answering using half-words, yet it looked like David understood everything. Must be the training he had with kids.

Anyway, David’s food was delicious. But only after Max drank half of his cup, he became a more over living person, and not a zombie

Max quickly refreshed himself in the bathroom.

“Where should I put the t-shirt you lent me?”

“Oh, you can take it if you want. Or leave it here so you have something in which you can sleep next time.”

Next time?! Next time!?!

After that they went out and David drove Max to his campus. But before exiting he sent Max the biggest grin, wishing a good luck on the test.

Max had to return to his dorm to wash his teeth and make himself more over presentable for the test.

He answered all questions, beside two. He had a good feeling about the test, but he tried to not think about it that way. It was better to be prepared for the worst.

Hey. How did the test go :) :) :)?

not bad, but not cool either

I’m sure you passed it :) :) :) :) :)

After the test, Nikki was waiting for him outside. She sent him the most evil smirk she could muster and, when they were alone, she asked:

“So, how was your night at David’s house?” Oh, yeah, she definitely wanted to hint at something with her seductive voice and glinting with amusement eyes.

But the only thing Max’s brain could process was:

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Deduction, my dear Watson!” Nikki said, proudly puffing out her chest. “But honestly, give me all the juicy details!”

Max just stared at her, with this dumbfounded look, until all pieces clicked together.

“Jesus, Nikki, I just spent the night over, so I could learn and get enough sleep to not pass out during the test. ‘Cause you remember the last exam from Fluid Mechanics?”

Nikki blinked and then made an ‘o’ shape with her mouth, moving away from Max’s comfort zone she had invaded few seconds ago.

“Uh, yeah, I remember.” She nodded, more to herself than to Max. “But you seriously did nothing?”

“What? Did you expect me to jump on him the second I stepped inside?”

“Kinda?”

Max groaned, facepalming himself.

“What kind of my image do you have in your head?”

“Really fucked up.” Nikki said, shrugging. “But maybe because I know you since we were kids.”

So long story short

Max spent the night over at David’s house few more times. After the third night he brought few clothes with him and a toothpaste with a brush. David grinned so broadly that Max never thought it was possible. Also the pure happiness radiating from his eyes almost blinded Max.

Max didn’t intend to leave his spare clothes there.

But then fucking finals happened!

So he started to spend even more time at David’s house, learning for exams. Few times even Nikki came over for some learning session.

Max asked David if he didn’t mind him coming so often, because at some point he was spending there every day (and he was guilty because of that). But David shook his head, still with that kind smile plastered to his face.

“I like having you here. It makes this place less lonely.”

Max then asked, before he could bite his tongue.

“Didn’t you think about bringing someone home? Like a girlfriend or…” Here Max’s throat became dry to this point it was almost hard to speak. “…a boyfriend?”

David stopped chopping paprika to laugh softly. He didn’t look up at Max, but with his wrist brushed his forehead.

“I tried.” He said and his everlasting warm and happy voice was tuned with sad tones. It was like a music, now intertwined with melancholic notes. “But as you can see… it didn’t really work out.”

Max wanted to look like he didn’t care. He leaned casually on the counter and crossed his arms on his chest, staring at the window where city lights shimmer and blinked behind it.

“What happened?” He asked. His stomach swirled uncomfortably, making him want to throw up. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

David hummed and returned to chopping.

“It depends about who you’re asking.”

“Just how many partners did you have?” Max rose his eyebrow, actually surprised by this information. And still uncomfortable.

David shrugged, making a weird noise inside his throat.

“A few?” He lifted his head. “Bring me two onions, please.”

Max moved from the counter to the basket standing under one cupboard. He grabbed two medium onions and started to peel them.

“The longest relationship.” Max finally murmured, finding the strength in him to speak. He gave one peeled onion to David and started working on another. “What happened between you two?”

David grabbed the vegetable, first throwing the paprika into the bowl. He started to cut the onion into thin slices.

“Another person appeared between us.” The smile was gone from his mouth. Maybe not gone as the corners still tried to remain upwards. But it definitely took a lot of David’s strength, judging by the tiny trembles of his mouth. “And then I wasn’t enough.”

Max put the second onion next to David’s hand.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. The curiosity got the best of me.” Max said, stepping closer to David.

“No, no, I don’t mind. It happened some time ago.” David cut then the rest of onion into nice, small cubes. His hand was moving methodically from right to left.

“Are you sure?” Max inquired.

“Yeah I’m… I’m sure.” And then David moved his shoulder to wipe his face.

Oh fuck, Max fucked up and David was… David was… David was crying! He knew he shouldn’t ask about such personal things, even though he was interested and terrified both in the same time. But the worst, of course, got the best of him and now he messed too much.

“David, I… I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have asked.” Max reached and put his hand on David’s shoulder. The hand which was cutting the onions stopped midair.

“No, it’s not that… it’s just-“

Oh no, even his voice sounded watery, like he was on the verge of bursting. He was croaking. He was breaking inside right in front of Max.

“No, I know. I’m a brat and I shouldn’t push you to talk. It was irresponsible of me.“ Max was stepping closer, turning David so the male would face him, but his gaze was still directed at the floor. ”You don’t have to talk anymore if you don’t want-“

And then David finally lifted his face. His eyes, oh god, his eyes were rimmed with red circles and there were tiny drops forming in the corners with few pearly beads already rolling down the blushing cheek.

“Fuck, I’m really-“ Even Max’ eyes started to prickle. “I shouldn’t-“

And the David started to laugh. Like really. Right in front of very concerned Max David burst into laughter mixed with hot tears still streaming down his cheeks.

Did David lose his mind? Totally possible.

“David? Are you okay?” Max asked, still keeping now his both hands on the male’s shoulder.

David stood up and brushed the corners of his eyes with his wrist.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just this… this onion made me cry. I didn’t want to scare you!” He said, between chuckles. “Oh, shoot, you’re crying too!”

Huh?

Max lifted one hand and touched his cheek where definitely he felt something wet. Oh, that was true…

After that they talked a little bit about their relationships.

David told him that he had been both with girls and boys. And that his longest relationship had lasted for four years. David even told Max that he had a very sensitive neck (memorized immediately by Max). He pleaded to not share this fact with anyone else. Max, of course, didn’t plan to share this information with anyone else.

Max also told him about his few flings relationship, but he was never long with any of them. He refused to tell David why.

Because he still liked David duh.

Then the final exam came and Max almost felt sad after finishing it, because it meant he had no more reasons to spend time at David’s house. And he was pretty bummed because of that.

Max, of course, celebrated the end of the finals with his friends, but there was something missing inside of him.

Even Neil noticed it.

“Hey, dude, what’s wrong? You look… gloomy?”

“Oh, Max is just sad that he can’t come over to his boyfriend’s house to learn ‘cause finals ended!”

“Nikki, he’s not my boyfriend!”

“But you didn’t deny missing him!”

“I- You- Argh, fuck you!!”

“Why do I spend time with you?” Neil mumbled, massaging his eyes and finishing his shot.

Nevertheless around four days later he had a new message from David, asking if he wanted to come over. And Max, of course, found himself already packing his things and going out of the dorm room.

They started to hang a lot. Not like every day, of course, but when Max was bored he found himself going over to David. Plus David really looked happy when he was there. Few times Gwen was also there. And few times he couldn’t come over because David was somewhere else (but not that many times).

So they became pretty close, to this point they were often talking with each other through messages.

Nikki was now almost constantly teasing him about David. Gladly Neil wasn’t such a shit, he just patted him on the back. Preston was only curious where Max was disappearing so often.

dont get too noisy dramaboi!!!

I love some good drama, so you can’t stop me!!! >:D

David was also teaching Max a lot of sign language, especially when they were hanging alone at David’s house.

Okay so coming to an end.

One day Max was talking with David while he was picking up Little Star. He was showing him something on the phone, when LS came back and he put the phone down on the desk.

Only when he was in Little Star’s house and wanted to call his auntie, he found out he had to leave his phone in the kindergarten. And he couldn’t call David to check if he had it! Max’s tried calling his own phone from the LS’ landline phone, but no one was picking up.

Shit, he had to go back…

So he did. Actually he was quite stressed, because he really needed his phone (like for alarm)?! And already thirty to forty minutes had passed and he wasn’t sure if anyone was still in the kindergarten.

So he almost ran there, cursing under his breath.

The parking was empty. Max cursed loudly, the echo of his ‘fuck’ probably audible few blocks away. Until he saw David’s car under a tree. So he was still there! Great.

Unfortunately front door was closed, but he knew where the back door for staff was. That door was open. Max sneaked inside, fully intending only to check one room. So he did and found out that the phone wasn’t there. This time he cursed quieter, under nose. He slowly retraced his steps. It had to be here, he had to lose it here.

So he searched the room for ten more minutes, but then resigned shuffled to the back door. He could always come here tomorrow to ask David if he had seen the phone.

But then boom, his phone was laying next to David’s bag on the table near the back door. So David did find it! (How the hell Max had missed it while entering!?)

Max quickly grabbed his phone and was just about to go out when he thought it would be weird if he disappeared with the phone. So he decided to stay for few more minutes and explain to David the situation.

Bonus points – spending more time with David

So Max waited near the exit for a minute…

Then two…

Five…

Seven…

What was taking David so long?!

Then he heard a crash. A loud one, then a yelp, even few sounds of scuffle.

Shit, that sounded weirdly familiar….

DAVID!

Max literally ran to the source of the sound and opened the door to some kind of side room.

Only to find David almost laying on a desk, trying to push some man away.

There was a moment of silence when everything froze.

David and the male looked at the door and specifically Max. Who had stopped for a brief second to process everything that could happen here.

Then he saw a bruise (hickey) on David’s neck and the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. After that he noticed the look David was giving him – pleading, helpless and scared.

And in that moment Max attacked, storming forward and pushing the man off David and onto the floor. He gave the man few kicks, but before he could land a solid punch, David stopped him, grabbing from behind.

“Max, stop!”

Max turned to him with fury blaring from his eyes.

“Why?! He hurt you!”

“Just… stop…” David pleaded, voice breaking at the end. He still gripped his shirt tightly between his fingers, trying to tug him away from the man who was gathering himself from the floor with quite bruised and bloodied face.

Max stared at David, feeling all his anger dissipating under this gaze. Fuck… He didn’t want to stop, but him acting on his emotions could bring David and this place more problems. Max… Max didn’t want that.

“Okay.” Max said, letting his hand fall limp near his body.

“Thank you.” David said, sending him a warm, comforting smile, even though his eyes told that he was distressed.

After that David politely asked the man to get out. Max personally escorted the man to the back door, threating that if he see the man near David again, he will call the police.

By the way the man was reeking of alcohol. Like really…

Max returned to the staff room to find David trying to gather some papers. His hands were trembling. When he was speaking he wasn’t looking at Max. David asked what Max was doing here and Max answered that he had been searching for his phone when he had heard David.

They went out and Max said that he will walk David back home. David said that he didn’t have to do it, but he kinda looked relieved. When they were near David’s house, he asked Max to come inside for a tea or dinner. Max agreed quickly, but not straightforward, more like he grumbled that he had nothing better to do.

To be honest he only wanted to check if David was alright.

For the whole afternoon David was often touching his neck in the place where the man had left the hickey. Only after they had eaten dinner and were watching TV, Max decided to ask about the encounter.

He found out that David actually knew the man. It was his last ex-boyfriend (Jonathan or whatever) and they broke up due to the other man’s alcohol problems. Max asked if David considered calling the police on him, but David said no, because the man had other problems. Max said that was bullshit, but David only smiled sadly at him and told him to let it go.

Like, bitch, how?

And Max was actually like fucking jealous. He didn’t feel this kind of emotion for a long time, but now it was taking over his whole body. Because how someone so terrible like that drunk man he had seen could still hold a special place in David’s heart, to this point David didn’t want to hurt him!

“Max, are you okay?”

“Do you still love him?” He asked, before his coherent part of the mind caught up with his words.

David looked lost, with his surprised eyes directed right at Max who was sitting on the couch. Then after a second, he put his legs on the armchair and embraced them, swinging back.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t think I could after that.” He mumbled, resting his head on his knees.

And just like that all this jealously slipped away from Max’s brain.

“I’m sorry.”

David chuckled into the material of his trouser and then glanced at Max.

“You apologize a lot nowadays. You really did grow up.” And then he hummed. “Thank you, Max.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For staying with me. For everything, I guess.”

“I think I should thank you more actually.” Max said after a second, scratching the back of his head and staring dumbly at the TV, so he didn’t have to look at David.

“Why?”

“If it wasn’t for you at Camp I would grow up into a shithead. I don’t know… I still hate Camp Camp, but I guess it helped me not hate life so much? And I don’t know, I met a lot of people there who are… kindaimportantotmerightnow so thanks for everything…” For not giving up on me when other people did, but Max didn’t say it out loud.

“No problem, kiddo.” David mumbled, sending him a radian, kind smile. Even though it was honest, it didn’t fully reach his eyes. However the small spark of fire flickered in it. “I’m glad I could help.”

Then there was silence, until David fidgeted in place for few seconds. He nibbled on his bottom lip and then stole a few glances at Max. The bright light coming from the TV’s screen made him look like a ghost.

Max didn’t push.

But then David spoke anyway.

“Why did you stop coming to Camp Campbell?”

And fuck, Max froze. Because he couldn’t tell David the truth and yet, something inside of Max was telling him that he couldn’t fully lie either. However he didn’t want to tell the real reason – because this way he would have to admit to what he was feelings. And his feelings were still vivid, beating rapidly inside his chest.

“I… can’t tell you.” Max finally said, feeling like a shithead for hiding the truth. But he couldn’t do it, he wasn’t sure if he could even force the words out of his mouth.

David looked mournful after hearing this response, but he tried to hide it behind yet another soft grin.

“Okay. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. It’s just… I missed you.”

Max missed David too, but he can’t say it out loud. He would show David that he had emotions. Yuck!

So he only grumbled something in response, glancing away from the man.

But while exiting Max told David that he want to tell him the truth one day. David said that he will wait. Then Max also told David to call him if he ever wanted to talk. David looked surprised, but then thanked him one more time, still with that sincere look.

Max thought that David would jump back into his usual cheerful self quite quickly, but it looked like this wasn’t the case. When Max messaged him, he often didn’t add his smiley faces. And then when Max had visited him to pick up LS he was still looking perturbed. Not to mention the hand was still moving to his neck, whenever David thought no one was watching.

But Max was watching.

Even Little Star noticed it and asked Max if he knew what had happened with her favourite teacher. Max knew, but he told her that David needed some time to think.

But Max couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what he could do to help – something that was quick and didn’t need much planning and something that could make David’s stop worrying over life.

Answer was one and simple.

Alcohol. But would David be up for some casual night of drinking?

Was Max up for some casual night of drinking? After those finals? Definitely. He needed some alcohol.

You shouldn’t do it – said some voice inside his head, but it was small and timid, so Max paid it no mind, because the other part of his brain was already buzzing with endorphins after the idea formed inside his head.

And under the influence of a sudden urge he grabbed the phone and messaged David if he had some free time tomorrow (Friday) to hang out and drink?

He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

Sure, it sounds like fun :) :) :)

Max smiled at his phone, even though he still could hear a faint echo of a voice whispering behind his ear.

He was going out tomorrow with David for a night of drinking.

What could possibly go wrong?

The answer is: everything.

Because due to his bad mood David drank a lot.

And Max… Max did too.

What happened next… well, you can probably already guess ;)?

When will next Part appear? Idk, because I’m working on three small chapters that happen immediately after Part 5. So stay tuned and safe, guys and gals! <3

#Maxvid #Mavid #Adult!Maxvid!AU #my art?#my stories?#Act 1 is finally finished #I know I said it a lot #But it's really late

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peantbutter-honeycombs · 4 years

Text

Prologue

Title: Prologue

Word count: 1,586

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: Hints of abuse, unedited.

Notes: So here’s the prologue of my Sherlock story. It’s shorter compared to the next chapter I’m currently working on. If there are any triggers please tell me so I can add them to the tags. I haven’t edited it yet so take all typos and grammar mistakes with a grain of salt.

———

The waiting room was nothing like she'd imagined it being. It was small and crowded. Crowded with sick adults and sick children. It appeared each and every seat was filled by someone. Not everyone was sick but they were clearly afflicted with some sort of ailment or issue, very few appeared to only be in for a casual check up. Every now and then a nurse would come call out a name and off the patient in question went. They'd disappear behind the plain painted blue doors.

At least the waiting room had some form of entertainment for the young children. A small flat screen hanging from the wall about the children's area. She'd seen it on her way in, mutedly broadcasting Peppa Pig, that hadn't interested her in the slightest. Instead she focused her attention on the floor, head down trying to bring as little attention to herself as she possibly could.

She didn't dare touch the toys. Not only were they colourfully decorated breeding grounds for germs, they weren't hers. And she'd been rigorously taught, never touch what doesn't belong to you.

So she sat. Sat amongst the grownups in the room. Her neighbour seated to her right a complete stranger seated to her left.

A sharp acidic smell burned her nostrils. An unmistakable mixture of both cheap booze and classless cigarettes. She had a hunch the foul smelling stranger beside her engaged in the distasteful hobbies as her father.

She wanted to look, to just sneak a peek at the person beside her, but again that was something she knew better than to do. So she kept her eyes, those deep, earthy brown orbs, trained on her old trainers. They were so worn, her big toe was pushing its way through her right toe cap.

All she could do was sit and listen to the gentle repetitive tune of the wait rum music. It's soft rhythmic hum provided some comfort. It was enough to relax the poor girl's tense muscles. She didn't want to be there. She couldn't be there. But there she was and she felt utterly sick.

It was her well to do neighbour who'd made the appointment. The young woman claimed she wanted to ease some of the weight off the girl's busy father's shoulders. The child had had questions but thought it better not to ask them. She should have been more bold. Then perhaps she wouldn't be there.

Her neighbour, Cartia Hennigan, was a lovely young woman approaching her early thirties. She often meant well but had a tendency to overstep her bounds. Nonetheless, the little girl couldn't help but feel pity for the woman. Cartia, all her kindness and charity was nothing more than a façade, covering her great loneliness.

The little girl twiddles her thumbs, replaying the unfortunate event that landed her little butt in the stiff plastic chair. I have to be less of myself, she swore, this never would have happened if I had.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Her forehead throbbed, as if her brain was protesting. Her rational analysis was fighting against her self blame. She massaged her temple with her left index and middle fingers, pressing her right arm tightly against her stomach. It didn't help.

She sat straight, mimicking the posture of a proud queen, eyes still shut, she placed her palms on her knees gripping the fabric of her pant leg. In times of great distress she often found it best to disappear. Unfortunately, unlike the deep sea pelagic octopod she couldn't actually become invisible. She could retreat to the quiet sanctity of her own mind.

Some people retreat to what they call a "happy place". Her? Well... At least she had some place all her own, where the world would slowly fade away.

"Matilda Hennigan.”

Her little head flew up, eyes snapping to the kindly nurse standing in the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the clinic.

Her eyes darted to Cartia who was already standing, walking toward the blue, aluminum trim door. Her eyes widened, pupils anxiously constricting, she quickly pushed herself out of her seat then hurriedly followed after her neighbor.

When she finally reached the door she cast one more nervous glance up at her neighbor. "Shall we?" the nurse smiles warmly and holds the door open wider for the two to enter.

JWJWJW

Matilda sat on at the practice table hands folded like so, neatly rested on her lap. She had to admit this wasn't going as terrible as she'd originally envisioned it going. From what her father had told her, the doctors clinic was an utterly awful place reserved for terrible, no good people. And Matilda was certain she wasn't a terrible person. Or at least she tried not to be.

Her dad mustn't have done his research or had to have been thinking of another clinic. This one was adequate.

The nurse was nice enough. Mary? Yes, that was her name.

She was kind, she made the tedious tests Matilda was forced to endure more bearable. She'd commented on how cute Matilda purple pink polka dotted leggings were. And even promised the little girl a lollipop before she left.

Mary did however seem suspicious when Cartia explained the reason for her bringing Matilda to the clinic in the first place. Matilda wasn't sure why, maybe the explanation sounded weird. It was rather silly. She shouldn't have been playing so close to the stairs.

Matilda tried not to vocalise her disappointment when Mary left to retrieve the doctor, but failed accidentally letting slip a small puppy like whimper. It was unintentional and it bothered her.

Now she sat in the room, not quite alone, with her neighbour. Matilda hated the dressing gown. It left her exposed, back half vulnerable and visible.

At the very least if she moved in front of the mirror she could count how many freckles dotted her skin back there. Maybe like her forehead, nose, and cheeks they formed shapes in a connect the dots kind of way.

Matilda pushes herself up and jumps to the floor. Pain sliced upward like a swift blade through her left ankle. This unbalanced her making her landing less than perfect she ignored the feeling knowing the pain would subside momentarily. Then under the critically watchful eyes of Cartia, she pressed forward across the room toward the only thing that interested her. At least now that Mary was gone.

It was like most things in the public clinic, cheap, only standing about two Tildas tall. Matilda, standing a little less than an arms length away from the mirror, extended an arm gently resting her hand on the smooth reflective glass. It felt cool, good against her skin.

She stared at her reflection, eyes narrowing. She angled her body to one side. She didn't get why both Cartia and Mary seemed worried. She thought she looked fine.

Two rich brown eyes sparkled back at her - the colour of the earth after long torrential rains. Freckles dotted her face, like a chaotic mess of chipped marble. Matilda loved her freckles. A tumble of stringy blonde hair, with dark brown roots, messily pulled back into a low lopsided pony-tail hung between her shoulder blades. Yeah she looked fine.

Hold on. Matilda rolled her tongue across her cheek. There was a jagged cut that'd scabbed over on the right side of her temple, giving her a Harry Potter esque mark.

Matilda frowned, noticing the somewhat sickening shade of blackish blue on her skin, creeping out from beneath the neck lining of her dressing gown. Matilda pulled her collar down revealing a dark purple bruise spreading from the lower half of her neck to her shoulder.

Matilda could feel a lump form in her throat. Still... nothing to worry about. Bruises fade. She shouldn't have played so close to the stairs.

JWJWJW

Matilda heard the door open and shut, it's swift creaking noise made her arms go rigid.

The Doctor entered in a cable crew neck sweater and dark almost black jeans, his pepper salted hair was closely cropped. He had a face like some guy that'd seen much pain, and suffered much loss.

"Hello." Greeting the two, he had the posture of a soldier but after shaking hands with Cartia he visibly relaxed. "What's your name?" His voice came out like he'd just pulled a double shift the day prior, only functioning because he was running on six cups of tea.

Whilst he exchanged casual pleasantries Cartia, Matilda mindfully walked around him back to her seat at the practice table.

She knew how to keep a poker face, even in uncomfortable situations. As she went she observed the doctor carefully, eyes critically analysing every last detail of the pale man. Matilda bit her inner cheek. She'd found it was always best to keep her final findings to herself. Kept her out of trouble.

Dr. Watson gave a brief look at his clipboard before turning to Matilda. Already still, she felt a tight knot form in her chest, under his gaze. He knelt in front of Matilda, allowing her to see the stethoscope draped round his neck. Her first thought, strangulation hazard.

She leaned back sitting further in your seat. "Hey there, you must be Matilda." Her breathing stopped momentarily as the man extended his hand out for her to shake. "What a lovely name." He gave her a smile that just seemed so genuinely sweet. "I'm your doctor, Doctor Watson."

——————

I actually really enjoyed writing this story and it might be the one I chose to continue. I’ve seen stories where Sherlock has a child but none with John and so I’m writing this. Her name is Matilda in honour of my favourite reading character as a child. I hope she lives up to her namesake. She doesn’t have a last name as far as anyone thus far is aware hence her name being Matilda May. Her first name and second middle name. I do enjoy this story but am considering another for front runner of the year.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #john watson #john watson x oc!child #platonic fic #platonic #mild angst #matilda may series #MM Series

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kittrook · 7 years

Text

My thoughts on Lord of Shadows

i am deceased

Major spoilers ahead

don’t expect a nice organised review of Lord of Shadows, i’m going to go all over the plot with no arrangement.

18/10

Let’s start with Kitty!

holy shit.. the kitty was INCREDIBLE in this book.. I cried tears of joy at every Kitty scene. There were so many!!

Their first encounter in Lord of Shadows; “Those are pretty good,” “but I like the butterscotch ones better” I choked on my breath, TYY!

“put your arms around me” I...

^^Kit holding Ty tightly on the roof of the London institute, i ugly sobbed.

THAT’S CANON

He [Ty] looked very formal and neat-haired in a way he usually didn’t; Kit was used to him being casual in his hoodies and jeans, and handsome, older-looking Ty left him a bit tongue tied.

I.. THAT.. I STRAINED MY VOCAL CHORDS

Kit constantly describing Ty’s features so descriptively!

And also, that snippet Cassandra posted with Cassandra Jean’s art Ty: Why did you say you wanted to be my friend if you didn’t mean it? Kit: ... it’s not in Lord of Shadows..?

“Ty’s mouth crooked at the corner. “Very good, Watson.” “Don’t call me Watson,” said Kit.

Kit being protective of Ty!

“He’d pulled his hood down, and his hair stood up around his head, soft as the downy feathers of a black swan.”

“He wanted to kill anyone who would try to hurt Ty. It was a very peculiar feeling.”

Livvy telling Kit that Ty doesn’t wear his headphones as often when he’s around Kit!!

Kit feeling an odd stab of emotion go through him being told that!

“He grinned, and the grin changed his face completely. Ty when he was still and expressionless had the intensity that fascinated Kit; when he was smiling, he was extraordinary.”

GUYS

THAT SCENE WHERE TY WHISPERED WORDS TO COMFORT HIMSELF AND

“It’s not meaning, just the sound,” he said. “Glass, twin, apple, whispers, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt.” He glanced away from Kit, a shivering figure in his too-large hoodie, his black hair absorbing the moonlight, giving none of it back. “Whisper would be one of mine, too.” said Kit. He took a step toward Ty, touched his shoulder gently. “Cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns.” “Blackthorns,” said Ty, with a dazzling smile, and Kit knew, in that instant, that whatever he’d been telling himself about running away for the past few days had been a lie.”

SOS

TY BLUSHING WHEN KIT SAYS HE’D MISS TY!

Cassandra Clare said Ty’s romance would be a slowburn, subtle build up.. Well it’s NO DOUBT Kit! I’m the happiest person on earth!

Kitty is going to become canon, i’m not just saying that because they are my OTP but there are literally so many hints in Kit’s POV, it’s not even funny.

Just have to wait 2 more years ‘til they kiss :))

Blackstairs

ANOTHER SEXY SCENE!!! TWO?!

i adore them!

them going to the Inquisitor about their exile

revealing their love for each other to him!

well, due to... stuff, that is no longer a threat.

BLACKSTAIRS WAS AMAZING AND EMOTIONAL

I’m so glad they are sort of back to their normal selves and not awkward around each other!

Julian kissing the faerie girl thinking it’s Emma but he knows Emma so well, he knows it isn’t her.. I’M

i hope the seelie queen can actually break the parabatai bond???!!

“draw me like one of your french girls”

^^ I’ve been WAITING FOR THAT-

those small Domestic!Blackstairs moments were ADORABLE, my heart!

other things

THE MORTAL SWORD WAS DESTROYED?!!!?!

DRU MEETS (POSSIBLY) SEBASTIAN MORGENSTERN’S FAERIE OFFSPRING?!?!?!?

KIT HERONDALE

DIANA IS TRANSGENDER!

i love diana so much..

GWYN IS A TEDDY BEAR

GWYN AND DIANA ARE MY NEW OTP

KIT’S LIST OF WHY HE HATES SHADOWHUNTERS

KIT HERONDALE

This book just added more reasons why Kit is my ultimate favourite character, he’s SUCH A HERONDALE?! I adore him so much!

Emma’s sass... I’m

KIT HERONDALE

Malec!!!!!!

Julian and Emma burn stone using their parabatai

Why are all the warlocks sick!?

Where did Annabel go?

Was Ragnor Shade?

now that Robert Lightwood is dead.. the spot for inquisitor is up for grabs and some shit from the cohort will try to take it!

Alec calling out for his dad broke me..

Livvy... wanted to run an institute... (im tearing up)

okay

Livia

It’s been hours since i read LoS and i’m still full-on crying because Livvy... got murdered by that bitch, Annabel.. I honestly was not expecting it and i just.. broke down..

I can’t even imagine how it will be for poor Ty, remember his reaction when Livvy was hurt from the Shadow Market.. now Livvy’s.. dead, I want nothing more than to console him!

Livvy was so young and she had so much to live for i can’t believe she’s dead..

Queen of Air and Darkness

QoAaD is not going to be a happy book, The Wicked Powers, according to Cassandra Clare, will sort of be a continuation of TDA but with different characters (my lifesavings are on Kit and Ty) so there’s just going to be a issue at the end of this series that will need to be solved in TWP.

so we’re getting QoAaD in 2019... 2 years from now... maybe it’ll be released at the start of 2019? January? :) please, cassie.

#lord of shadows #son talks #son dies #son is deceased

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flexi-lexi · 7 years

Text

(/ω＼)ﾟ.+(〃ﾉωﾉ)ﾟ.+°50 More Interesting Questions

Rules: fill this out and tag at least one person you’d like to know more about! Or just fill it out! Or don’t! Answer only some of them! Make up your own questions! “What kind of requirement is that”, you ask? A reasonable one! Who am I to tell you what to do? Anything goes!

tagged by: NO ONE BUT @matsujunkie WANTS TO KNOW MORE ABOUT RANDOS SO HERE WE GO

1. What kind of food can’t you stand?: Bland food--unseasoned, monochromatic, flavorless food. Like, I legit feel a specific kind of depression when I eat flavorless food.

2. If you could choose one minor inconvenience to never have to deal with again, what would you pick?: Commuting to work because it’s such a waste of time. The dream is to walk across the street and just be at work, that’d be amazing tbh

3. Have you got any useless talents?: I can type at like 94wpm lmao

4. If you could be really really good at one thing, what would it be?: Public speaking--the sheer power behind good public speaking skills and general charisma is not to be underestimated.

5. Name a few people you think are extremely good-looking: My bf let’s be real Also Emma Watson, Jay Park, T.O.P, Chris Pratt, Ryan Gosling, and Eiza González

6. What was your favorite way to pass the time as a kid?: I played, played, PLAYED all fuckin day. When I lived in my house in the Philippines, I felt like I always had a million things to do--I’m playing kickball in my garage, I’m playing dolls with my sister, I’m playing pretend chef with my mom, so many things. And when I think I’ve run out of things to do, I’ll just watch cartoons lol

7. What is something you’re proud of?: I’m extremely proud of my family, especially my parents who worked extremely hard and overcame so much struggle so that my siblings and I could have a brighter future.

8. What’s one character flaw in people that you just can’t tolerate?: Lack of basic compassion and consideration for others

9. Do you consider yourself to be more of a leader or a follower?: I don’t often consider myself a leader, but people have always said I exude the qualities of one. I’ll only be a leader if a group needs a leader. Otherwise, I don’t think I’ve ever been a follower, I’m more of a collaborator.

10. What kind of student are/were you?: I consider myself painfully average only because I hold myself to a painfully high standard. I think I did relatively well in high school and college, but I was always very hard on myself in high school for not getting straight A’s or not going straight to a reputable university. I’ve learned to ease up on myself in college. Instead, I learned how to be the laziest overachiever possible in college. My motto was, “What is the least amount of work I can do to still get an A- in this class???” lmao

11. Butterfly effect question! Has there ever been a seemingly minor decision you’ve made (at the time) that ended up having a profound influence on your life?: When I decided to sit next to some goody-two-shoes looking girl in 5th grade (lowkey because I was also a goody-two-shoes and I knew she wouldn’t judge me). We’ve been best friends for 15 years.

12. Name your most irrational fear/aversion: Cockroaches and the dark

13. Are there any fictional characters you find especially relatable?: As much as she annoys me, Sakura from Naruto is probably the most relatable character because she’s someone who has so much potential but struggled so much to become a better version of herself. She annoyed me in her early days because she was so useless but I think that quality in her annoyed me so much because I’m also kinda useless and I hate that about myself haha

14. If you drink, what kind of drunk are you? Alternatively, what sort of person are you at parties?: I’m the social butterfly drunk; I suddenly become an extrovert and I’m just annoying af because I just scream my words at everyone. Alternatively, sober me is typically a recluse at parties--I will hang out with my phone, anyone I actually know, or the resident pet. Which is why I tend to drink at parties--I take the term “social lubricant” quite literally.

15. Do you fall in love easily? Or does it usually take a long time for you to trust someone?: Yes, it’s the absolute fucking worst. I hate it. I have a tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt, but I’m trying to lower my expectations of people bit by bit until it’s at a safe level where I can look out for myself.

16. Would you rather have one close friend or 100 casual friends?: 1 close friend, 200%

17. Do you consider yourself to be more of a slob or a neat-freak?: I am a neat-freak at heart and my dream is to stay that way, but I’m also a really lazy person who can’t be bothered to pick up after myself until something’s been on the floor for 5 months and I start to notice it again.

18. Describe a place (imaginary or real) that you would find incredibly cozy: A porch on a gloomy October day facing an autumn forest. Alternatively, the same porch but on an early July morning when the sun is just creeping up.

19. Do you have kids? If not, do you want them someday?: No kids. I’m very wishy washy about kids. I tell myself I don’t want kids, but I still think about it every once in a while. Most recently I think I’ve been having baby fever because I keep imagining what my child would look like if I had one with my bf and what kind of personality he or she would have and how they would call me as their mom (mommy? ma? nay? mi? who knows) and how cool my kid would be if I could get it to speak English, Tagalog, and Korean. I don’t know if this is just a phase or if it will only get worse and more insistent as I get older...

20. What was your favorite book as a child?: The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke

21. Name one thing you just don’t get what all the hype is about: Juicing??? Why are people so into juice and like expensive af juice??

22. Name one thing that you think is tragically underrated: lol free education

23. If you had to be glued to a person for a month, real or fictional (who you have never met), who would you choose?: Probably my papa’s grandpa, Alex Sr. Three generations named after him and I don’t know a thing about him, who he was or what he looked like.

24. What’s something you’d like the chance to do someday?: Save a life

25. Do you typically speak your mind when you have a controversial opinion? Or do generally prefer to not rock the boat?: I generally prefer not to rock the boat. I wish I was more straightforward, but the reason why I’m not is because I tend to get very emotional over things on which I have a strong opinion, and that doesn’t help me state my case at all. I think I’m learning to be more outspoken, though, especially because certain things just touch a nerve with me.

26. What’s the dumbest fad you’ve been caught up in?: My entire middle school life and parts of my high school life was a dumb fad tbh lol

27. What’s something you thought was cool as a kid/adolescent, but now cringe at yourself for?: Being punk/emo lmao

28. What’s a trait you consider to be very admirable?: Conviction; the ability to stand up for what you believe in

29. Is there a particular kind of item people always tend to give you as gifts? (For instance, people always get you things with ducks on them because you like ducks, etc.): I guess it depends on the person or my situation? Like, my bf always gives me necklaces and he needs to stop my parents always give me furniture and household items because I’m always too poor to buy my own. But overall I don’t think I get any one particular gift on the regular...

30. Do you speak multiple languages? Which ones?: If by “speak” you mean “learned and know subconsciously but too afraid to practice,” then yes I speak multiple languages aside from English: Tagalog, Japanese, and Italian. I really want to learn Korean next, but where to find time and money......

31. Would you rather live in the big city or the countryside?: Probably the big city because I’ve always been a city girl and I easily get bored without stimulation. But I also tend to get irritated by excessive noise and hubub, so if I could get a suburb that’s closer to the city side (where there’s more to do than just eat burgers, watch movies, and go bowling), then yeah that’d be awesome.

32. Has there ever been something you were certain you’d hate, but ended up loving?: The book All Quiet on the Western Front. I saw clips of the film adaptation in high school and thought it was the most boring thing in the world. But then I had to read the book in college and it nearly brought me to tears.

33. Do you mind being the center of attention, or do you prefer the spotlight to be on someone else?: In my imagination, I crave attention and want to be the center of it. But irl I push that shit away because when the attention is on me I become awkward.

34. Favorite holiday?: Christmas

35. Are you a more go-with-the-flow type of person, or do you need to have things planned meticulously?: I think in my heart I’m a Type B, spontaneous, go-with-the-flow type of person, but when I try to be that way I just get anxiety because my mind is too Type A to allow it to happen.

36. Is there something you loved so much you wish you could forget it and experience it all over again? (A tv show, book, series–anything.): Italy, hands down.

37. What hobbies do you have?: lol i hate this question because i’m reminded of how boring i am as a person watching TV, listening to music, reading, cooking, practicing makeup (a.k.a. watching makeup tutorials all day), occasional exercise, karaoke, eating, spending time with family

38. If you could have a superpower, but it was only mildly useful, what ability would you want to have?: I really want to fucking fly but if it’s only “mildly useful” does that I mean my power will fail from time to time??? Because I am absolutely not down to fall at any point. So I guess invisibility? Because the power itself is mildly useful--what the fuck am I gonna do with it? Eavesdrop? Become a voyeur??

39. Something people are always surprised to learn about you: It varies. 1) That I’m into cars (because people assume that girls aren’t interested in cars???) 2) That I’m a nerd (because I’ve learned to keep it on the DL lol) 3) That I wasn’t born here lmao (because apparently my English is “so good” lol bye)

40. Something that took you way too long to figure out: That things pretty much never happen that way you plan or hope, but that things still somehow always fall into place.

41. Worst injury you’ve had?: All of my major injuries occurred when I was just a baby so I have no recollection of any of it. I think the worst was when a cookie jar fell and smashed on my tender two-year-old cranium lol

42. Any morbid fascinations?: Sure, maybe old-timey b&w crime scene photos, especially the super gruesome ones because when it’s b&w it’s somehow less nauseating to look at. I also love “true” ghost stories and reading creepypastas and shit, even though I know it could potentially keep me up at night. Strangely enough, despite these fascinations, I still hate horror films. Go figure. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

43. Describe your sense of humor: Lots of slapstick, good deal of self-deprecation, a little bit of sarcasm. Bonus: I have a great appreciation for dry humor, but I can’t do dry humor.

44. If you had to be born in another era/place, which would you choose? As a historian, as much as I admire certain eras, I know better than to ask to be born in a time when I’m way more likely to contract polio or the bubonic plague or be enslaved by Spaniards. I also thoroughly enjoy modern conveniences such as running water and grocery stores LOL I think I want to be born in the ‘80s in the U.S. so I can experience the joy, excitement, and prosperity of the ‘90s in the U.S. It seems like a very minute difference given that I was born in ‘92, but I feel like I’ve missed out on a lot of the ‘90s because I was way too young to appreciate it.

45. Something you are irredeemably bad at: ~ S P O R T S ~

46. Something that sucked but you’re glad you went through: Being kicked out of the house lmao Forreal tho, it was an extremely tough and humbling experience, but I’m really happy to be independent. Strangely enough, I feel like I have a much greater sense of love and appreciation for my parents now that they’re not always breathing down my neck LOL

47. Would you rather have a really godawful ugly tattoo in a place that is only slightly inconvenient to conceal with clothing (upper arm, thigh, etc.), or the coolest, most beautiful tattoo ever in the middle of your face? (Neither tattoo can be removed or concealed with makeup, and the ugly tattoo will deeply offend anyone who sees it.): Ugly tattoo in an inconvenient place. Because imho a tattoo in the middle of my face, regardless of the level of artistry, is an ugly tattoo anyway, and it’s one that I'll have a harder time concealing.

48. Are you more of an optimist or a pessimist?: I’d like to think of myself as an optimist but I think I come off as a pessimist. Does that makes me a realist? I don’t know but I just told my bf to stop buying lottery tickets because he never wins. You tell me what that makes me lol

49. What would be the most flattering compliment someone could give you?: If someone ever told me I was “cool.” Because I’ve lived my whole life never thinking I was ever “cool.” Not “cool” as in “I want everyone to like me,” but “cool” like the way I look at someone who has accomplished something that changed the world or someone who stood their ground and gave no fucks about what others thought or someone with a fabulous and unique sense of style. If someone ever told me I was “cool,” to me it means they see something in me that’s admirable or even enviable, and I can’t even begin to fathom how they see those things in me but wow ok yeah cool I’ll take it thank you

50. Something you feel people often misunderstand about you: Over the years I’ve put up a front of being super happy-go-lucky, even though I’m actually not like that 100% of the time. So on days when I just don’t feel like engaging with people, people just assume I’m angry or sad about something like no I just don’t wanna talk to people rn bye

Tagging: anyone who wants to open up to me, @me because i find these things fascinating as hell

#about me #i find this therapeutic

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mldrgrl · 8 years

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The Detective, The Writer, His Ex, and Their Darling Daughter

by mldrgrl Rating: NC-17 Summary: Continuing in the adventures of Hank and Stella, the unlikely duo spend a weekend in Connecticut…at Karen’s. Note: This will probably not make much sense without reading the rest of the stories in the series. I will add the links to each part at the end of this story.

July was probably the worst time to come to New York, but it fit into both of their schedules. Heat, humidity, summer tourists. All things both Stella and Hank would have rather avoided. They landed at JFK at 8pm EST and waited in the sweltering taxi stand for over half an hour amongst throngs of tired and impatient travelers for a ride into the city. All Stella wanted by the time they arrived at Hank’s loft, was a cool shower and a soft bed.

Stella knew that Hank was tired as well by the simple fact that he made no attempt to invade her shower. She left her hair wet, knowing it would be wild and untamed in the morning, but all she’d wanted was to get the stink of jet fuel and sweat off of her before she headed to bed. Hank had already crashed, sprawled on the bed in his underwear with the sheets kicked away. She slipped on a pair of panties and a loose, cropped camisole and joined him, falling quickly asleep to the metronomic click of the ceiling fan.

She woke early, her body’s natural alarm clock pulling her from sleep at 4am. She waited just long enough for the predawn light to begin to bleed in through the blinds to get up. Moving quietly, so not to wake Hank, she slipped on her silk robe, tied her wild hair back in an elastic, and went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. From across the room, through the door she’d left open, she watched him turn over onto his back. One arm flopped to the bed and his fingers groped at the empty space beside him while he draped his other arm across his head, blocking his eyes.

Stella left the coffee, which had only just begun to percolate, and went back to the bedroom. She crawled up onto the bed and straddled Hank’s hips, resting her weight fully on his upper thighs and setting her hands gently on his beautiful bare chest. He grunted softly as she slowly rubbed herself against him, encouraging him to rise and greet the day.

She rocked slowly, but deliberately, using his chest as leverage to lift up every so often, tip her hips, and slide back down against him. His arm fell back over his head and he gazed up at her with drowsy eyes and a sleepy smile. She licked her lips for him and he flexed the muscles in his backside to offer up a little more pressure for her, but otherwise just watched as she slowly used him to build herself up.

For awhile, he turned his gaze to the sway of her breasts under her camisole and then he looked a little further south. Stella all but stopped moving, giving him a view that would be later worth the slow burn when she let him fuck her. Her panties were already soaked with arousal and his grey boxer-briefs were spotted with her wetness. She could feel it, but she could see it without even looking away from his face.

Stella dragged her crotch up over each and every ridge and inch of Hank’s erection and then back down into the cushion of his balls. She could see the sweat forming at his temples and his hips began to give restrained little jerks beneath her. She walked her hands up to his shoulders to lean against him at more of an angle, looking for that sweet spot where the drag and pull of her hips against him would soon have her pulsing.

It wasn’t hard for her to find. She knew her body well and knew the exact pressure and rhythm to give herself. She breathed roughly through her nose, her face inches above his. He squinted and grit his teeth when she paused to swivel her hips. She bent closer as though she was going to kiss him, but just let her erect nipples graze his chest through the thin camisole and his thigh muscles flexed against hers. She pushed up and walked her hands back down his chest to sit up.

She was hovering on the edge of a pleasure cliff, inching closer, retreating a little with every pause and then pushing herself forward to peer over the side. With her hands firmly on his chest again, she circled her hips counterclockwise, slow and narrow at first, then faster and broader. She was at the brink and gave herself the little push she needed by arching her back and grinding her hips down at the same time. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes rolled back and a shiver ran through her body.

Without giving her any time to recover, Hank put one hand on Stella’s thigh to keep her steady and lifted his hips up under her. He reached down and pulled his underwear off and then pulled hers to the side and held her hip in place. He slipped inside of her with ease and she came down onto his thighs again so that he was buried to the hilt. He anchored both hands to her hips under her silk robe and he swept his thumbs over the bare skin of her abdomen.

Her eyes told him she wanted him to take control. He had cataloged the many different expressions she had for how she wanted it and this one, the slightly open mouth, narrowed eyes, and relaxed brow screamed ‘take me now and do what you want.’ So he did. He kept his thrusts even, but deep, making her gasp, over and over. With nothing else to grab onto, she gripped his forearms and he continued to hold her hips steady, putting red thumbprints into her pale skin. The coffeemaker beeped just as Hank groaned and the muscles in his neck strained with a final thrust. Not quite there herself, Stella let go of one of Hank’s arms to touch herself, but he got there first, fingers working quickly and skillfully until she was writhing above him.

They didn’t move until their breathing had returned to normal and then Stella lowered herself down to lay on Hank’s chest. Both were slick with sweat and heat and her robe stuck to her in patches. He tickled the back of her thighs with his fingers and then grabbed both cheeks of her ass, kneading her tight skin.

“Mornin’, Sherlock,” he said.

“Good morning, Watson,” she murmured back.

They were due to take the 10:34 train from Grand Central, which would put them in Old Greenwich just before noon. Karen would meet them at the station and drive them out to the house where they would stay, overnight. Hank had never been to her Connecticut house, but he had met her lover of the last two years, Fisher Everleigh, who insisted on everyone calling him Fish. Privately, Hank referred to him as The Trout, but he liked the guy.

Stella occupied her mind with last minute work that by no means was pressing, but she made one promise to Hank for the weekend and that was to leave the laptop at home and relax. It wouldn’t be easy for her to do, she was already nervous about finally meeting Karen and Becca. She could interrogate a hostile suspect for hours without batting an eyelash, but the thought of spending a weekend with the family of the man she loved was just a little bit terrifying. A lot depended on the weekend going well - maybe not so much for her, but for Hank. Because she knew if either Karen or Becca did not approve of her, she was almost certain that he would take that seriously enough to walk away. For perhaps one of the first times in her life, she very much wanted to make a good impression and that was difficult for her to do.

The train ride seemed to go by too fast. When the overhead announced Old Greenwich as the next stop, Hank unfolded himself from their seat and grabbed the single overnight bag that held both their things. She plucked nervously at the sash of her wrap-around dress, suddenly wondering if she’d made the right choice. Not about the navy dress or the wedge heels or the jasmine perfume, but was coming here the right thing to do?

As the train slowed and pulled into the station, Hank slid his arm around Stella’s waist and pulled her against him as he leaned down and kissed her. She unconsciously squeezed his black t-shirt where her hand rested on his back and he pulled his head up to look at her. She looked away so he wouldn’t catch the trepidation in her eyes and slipped her sunglasses on. The doors of the train opened and she stepped out onto the platform, Hank at her side and his hand resting possessively on the curve of her hip.

“Hank!”

Both Hank and Stella turned at the sound of his name being called. On the parking lot side of the platform, just over the rail, Karen stood inside the driver’s side door of a silver Mercedes SUV, waving her arm.

Tall, is the first thing Stella thought when she saw Karen. She’d seen photos, of course, and even spoken with her on the phone, but pictures and abbreviated conversations didn’t really adequately describe who Karen was. Tall, slim, regal neck, casually elegant in a peasant skirt, wide leather belt low on her hips, bangle bracelets. The smile on her face seemed to imply she was the kind of person that wore joy like a second skin.

Hank hoisted the overnight bag up higher on his shoulder as they approached the car. He gave Karen a one-armed embrace, keeping Stella at his side. Karen hugged Hank with both arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the lips before she turned her attention to Stella.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, pulling her away from Hank’s side and into a tight squeeze.

The embrace startled Stella. By the time she figured out what to do with her hands, Karen had let her go, but slipped an arm around her shoulders as she turned to Hank.

“Ready to go to the house?” she asked. “Or did you want to look around town for a bit?”

“House,” Hank answered. “Sweating my balls off out here.”

“Descriptive, as always,” Karen said. She squeezed Stella’s shoulder affectionately and then let her go to turn towards the car. With the click of a button on a remote on her keyring, she opened the back hatch for the overnight bag.

“Where’s The Becca?” Hank asked.

“Ah, our darling daughter,” she answered, shutting the hatch. “There’s been a change of plan.”

“She’s not coming?” The immediate disappointment in Hank’s voice gave Stella a guilty pang. If Becca wasn’t coming…

“No, she’s coming,” Karen replied. “She was just supposed to be here last night, but something ‘came up.’ She’ll be here later this afternoon.”

Hank ran his hand down Stella’s back. She breathed a soft sigh of relief and touched a backward hand to his chest. It occurred to her she hadn’t said a word since before they got off the train, but she wasn’t sure what to say.

“Well, come on,” Karen said.

Stella was ushered into the front passenger seat, but Hank and Karen managed all the conversation on the short drive to the house. She recognized the names of people she’d never met that passed between them. Their conversation was a relief for her.

They pulled up to a Cape Cod style house, all peaks and points, blue-grey paint and dark shingles. The lawn was so green it looked unnatural.

“The Trout home?” Hank asked.

Karen rolled her eyes as she shut off the engine. “Fish had a class today,” she said. “He’ll be home soon.”

The overnight bag was retrieved from the back and Karen led them through the house on a tour of the first floor. It was a standard house, a little too large and open for Stella’s tastes, but beautiful, full of artwork and light. French doors opened up to a patio and a pool. On the other side of a pool was a scale model of the house.

“Here’s where you’ll be,” Karen said, opening the doors to the miniature house. “I haven’t really gone through it since Marcy was here in May, so if you find anything weird, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I changed the sheets.”

Hank laughed.

“Come,” Karen took Stella’s hand. “You like red wine?”

“I do,” Stella said.

“Perfect. Hank, you can find a way to amuse yourself, I’m sure.”

Stella was soon to learn what a tactile and physical person Karen was. She held hands, she touched arms, she brushed hair, she sat too close on the couch. It was unnerving at first, but it soon became comforting. The wine, of course, helped with that.

“Tell me about yourself,” Karen said. “I mean, I’ve heard everything from Hank, but you know how he embellishes.”

“What has he said?” Stella asked.

“Well, according to him, you’re James Bond in high heels and a pencil skirt.”

Stella smiled with amusement into her wine glass. “Nothing that exciting. Just a detective with a bit of authority.”

“I knew you had to be something pretty amazing though when he first told me about you.”

“Why is that?”

“It isn’t exactly a secret that Hank’s been on the wrong side of the law a few times. He was never really a fan of authority.”

“He can be quite…obstinate.”

Karen laughed and rolled her eyes a little as she took a sip of her wine, nodding in agreement. “I’m glad someone agrees,” she said.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Karen laid her cheek against her arm that was stretched out along the back of the couch and smiled. “I’m glad,” she said, her gaze soft and pure. Any other time, any other place, Stella probably would’ve kissed her for looking so sweet. Her eyes dropped to Karen’s mouth and then she looked away and sipped her wine. She was practicing impulse control these days.

It should feel more awkward than it did, Stella thought. After all, the only thing she and Karen had in common was a man they had both fucked. But, Hank was also a man they both cared about, and it bonded them as well.

Hank came through the patio doors wearing board shorts and flip flops. “Where’s the bar?” he asked, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on his head.

“Cabinet over the dishwasher,” Karen answered. “Glasses next door.”

After pouring himself a scotch, Hank came over and squeezed onto the couch behind Stella. He kissed her shoulder and rested his glass on her thigh.

“You ladies done listing all the reasons I’m a giant asshole yet?” he asked.

“That would take all weekend,” Karen answered.

Hank lifted his arm up over Stella’s and dipped two fingers into his drink, which he then flicked in Karen’s direction. She unfolded her leg and kicked at him, but he caught her big toe and gave it a twist. She laughed and yanked her foot back. It was more friendly than flirty, but Stella felt herself dropping a possessive hand to Hank’s thigh anyway. He nuzzled her neck and moved his arm across her waist, though all he could do was brush her abdomen with the backs of his hands since he had to hold his glass.

“Wanna swim?” he asked.

“Hank said you were a swimmer,” Karen added.

“For exercise,” Stella said. “Laps in the mornings.”

A phone rang somewhere and Karen got up from the couch to grab it. Hank played with the sash of Stella’s dress like he was going to tug it open and she brushed his hand away. Undeterred, he slid his hand up her thigh.

“Quick, before she gets back,” he said.

“Stop,” she whispered.

“Later?”

“We’re in your ex’s house.”

“I know, isn’t it hot?”

“Stop,” she said again, this time with a bit of a breathless chuckle as Hank tickled her ear with his breath.

Karen came back into the room with a panicked expression. “I hate to do this, but I need to walk a client through some design changes or this deal will fall apart. Twenty minutes, tops, but I need to run upstairs to the office and call this guy.”

“Twenty minutes is cool,” Hank said. “It gives us enough time to get freaky on this lovely couch of yours and go for a swim.”

Heat immediately rose to Stella’s cheeks, but Karen merely rolled her eyes.

“That’s why we have a guest house,” Karen said. “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

Hank jumped up from the couch as soon as Karen ran upstairs and then downed his scotch. “Pool,” he said.

“I can’t believe you just-” Stella’s embarrassed rant was cut short by Hank’s mouth descending on hers as she got to her feet. His whiskey soaked tongue swept past her lips and he snaked one arm across her hips and buried his other hand in her hair. She moaned in spite of the annoyance she felt and he moved his hand down to squeeze her ass.

“Pool,” he murmured against her lips.

He let her go and backed away from her with a sly smile and dropped his sunglasses back to where they belonged, obscuring his eyes. She was flush with heat and anger and arousal and she downed the rest of his wine as he walked out the door before she followed him. He was already wading into the shallow end of the pool, dragging an inflated raft behind him as she breezed past into the guesthouse. Maybe the cool water would do her some good.

She searched their bag for her swimsuit, and while she found a swimsuit, it was not the one she packed. She shook her head as she undressed and then joined Hank at the pool. He was sunbathing on the raft, floating peacefully until she dipped her foot into the water and kicked it at him. He jumped, sloshing even more water up onto his raft as he struggled for balance, but he grinned up at her and whistled.

“Lookin’ good, Sherlock,” he said.

“Any idea how this got into our bag?” she asked.

“Must’ve been a gift from the bikini fairies.”

“I see.” She eased herself down the steps into the shallow end, taking her time to adjust to the cool water.

“It’s certainly better than the pair of panties you make me wear at the pool.”

“So this is Speedo revenge?”

“I can’t really call it revenge when the view is so amazing. More like a gift, to myself, and to the world, really.”

She shivered a little and reached up to make sure the band in her hair was secure. Hank slipped off of his raft and paddled closer to her. She was waist deep in the water by that point and he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him until her toes could no longer touch the bottom. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He could still touch the bottom, but he lifted his legs and stroked with his arms to keep them afloat.

“Relax,” he whispered as her arms tightened around him. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m not worried.”

He put his feet back on the bottom and his hands glided over her bare back to her tailbone. She tightened her thighs against his hips and he stretched his neck to kiss her as he dipped one hand inside the front of her swimsuit. She bit his bottom lip and he chuckled as he tried to pull free from her teeth.

“Police brutality,” he said.

“Resisting arrest,” she countered.

“What’re the charges?” His brows rose up behind his sunglasses as his fingers danced through her folds.

“Unlawful entry.”

He chuckled and pulled his hand out of her swimsuit. He stroked his arms and walked backwards until his back was against the side wall of the pool and then he pushed his sunglasses back onto his head and pulled hers up as well.

“Blue really is your color,” he said, hooking the left strap of her top over his finger and sliding up and down from her shoulder to the top of her breast and back. “Brings out your eyes when you look like you want to kill me.”

“Not kill,” she answered. “Maim, a little.”

“I’m flattered that you would keep me alive.”

“Purely selfish.” She reached down between them and cupped the front of his shorts. “I would miss this too much.”

He groaned and tipped his head back on the lip of the pool. “God, I’m so fucking glad I’m not wearing pool panties right now.”

Stella chuckled and kissed his chin. She moved her hand inside his shorts and he groaned again.

“Woah, all hands on deck sailor,” he said.

“Why?”

“I think fucking in a pool is supposed to be bad for the vagina. And I’m a big fan of your vagina. I love it too much to put it through any suffering.”

“Who said anything about fucking in the pool?”

“So what are you doing?”

“One would think you’d know what a hand job is by now.”

“It did seem a little low for a handshake.”

Stella covered his mouth with hers to get him to stop talking. Sometimes he just talked too damn much. He was slower to respond than usual, but it probably had more to do with the cold water than her. She worked him vigorously, staring into his half-closed eyes the whole time.

“You sure about not trying to kill me?” he panted.

“I wouldn’t let you die before we got to test out that guest house.”

“God, Stella.”

“Hey, lovebirds,” Karen called, stepping out onto the patio.

Stella jumped and straightened her back, her hand still tightly gripping Hank’s penis. Hank groaned and tipped his head back even farther.

“Great, fucking timing, Karen!”

“Thought you’d appreciate knowing that our darling daughter is in a taxi and will be here in five minutes.”

“Fantastic,” Hank said.

“I’ll keep her inside while you…finish.”

“Be out in a minute.”

The doors closed behind Karen and Stella put her face against Hank’s shoulder. She unwrapped her hand from around his shriveling erection and eased out of his shorts. He drew a line down her back with the tip of his finger and kissed her ear.

“To be continued,” he said.

They got out of the pool and headed back to the guest house to dry off and change. Stella felt a little subdued. They lived in a little anti-social bubble in London and she wasn’t quite sure she fit into the world Hank had left behind for her; a world where staying in your ex’s guest house was normal and getting caught fucking in their pool was shrugged off as though it was expected. It’s not as if Stella was a prude or uncomfortable with her sexuality, but what happened within the privacy of her house, or even beyond the door of a hotel room, was one thing. She didn’t want Karen to think her disrespectful.

Stella left her hair up and put her dress back on. Her neck was still a little damp and her hair curled at her nape. Hank, back in his jeans and black t-shirt, crept up behind her and moved his hands over her hips. She hadn’t put her shoes back on yet so he towered over her.

“Stop thinking so much,” he said.

“I wasn’t thinking at all,” she answered.

“You’re always thinking.”

“Sorry if it offends you.”

Hank turned her around and held her shoulders as he bent low to kiss her cheek. He moved even lower, kissing her chest and her belly and her hip and her thigh, until he was kneeling and kissed the side of her knee.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Worshipping at the altar of Stella,” he answered, bending even further to kiss the top of her foot.

“Get up.”

He kissed his way back up her body from her shin to her groin to her breast to her neck. She sighed and butted her forehead against his chest.

“It’s important to me,” she said.

“I appreciate that, but it’s me that needs to worry here, not you. I’m the fuck up. It’s me that needs to make the impression, not you. Though, it helps my image immensely that you’re intelligent, kind, and reasonably sane.”

Stella lifted her head to look up at him.

“It means a lot to me that you’re here,” he said. “The only thing you need to do is be yourself.”

“And who will you be?”

“Ah.” He tossed his head back with his mouth open, but didn’t laugh. Instead, he took a deep breath and then rubbed her hips. “Finish getting ready. I smell like chlorine.”

A few minutes later, Hank was taking her hand and she breathed in his aftershave as she stepped close and linked her fingers in his. They crossed to the patio and Hank opened the door. The most surprising thing to Stella, when she saw Becca, was how tiny the girl was.

“Becca,” Hank said, letting go of Stella’s hand to wrap his arms around his daughter.

“Father,” she said, passively allowing him to kiss her head and squeeze her tightly. Karen sat on the arm of the couch on the other side of her, petting Becca’s hair. The young girl accepted the affection, but didn’t reciprocate it. Both arms were at her sides almost robotically.

“Daughter.” Hank inhaled deeply against Becca’s head with his eyes closed. He kissed her hair once more and then let her go.

“Hello,” Becca said, staring at Stella, her mouth a straight line of unreadable emotion.

“Becca, this is Stella,” Hank said. “Stella, may I present our darling daughter.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Stella said. She hesitated a moment, but put out her hand which Becca took mechanically.

Stella mentally assessed Becca’s demeanor with the eye of an investigator. A wave of empathy washed over her as she watched Hank and Karen fawn over the girl. She could tell by Becca’s posture and the flare of her nostrils that she was masking her discomfort and she did not trust these people. She wanted to, but she didn’t. And she did not like to be touched. Stella knew the feeling.

“Is Fish here?” Becca asked.

“He should be back soon,” Karen said.

“I have an announcement to make,” Becca said. “But, I don’t want to do it twice. I’m going to put my bag upstairs. Let me know when he gets here.”

“I already told you, if you’re a lesbian, you have my full support,” Hank called after her as she turned to leave.

Karen punched Hank in the shoulder.

“Ow!” he said.

“Becca isn’t a lesbian,” Karen said.

“Well, she should be. Men are horrible.”

“So are women,” Stella murmured. “You’ll never protect her from that kind of pain.”

“Thank you,” Karen said.

Hank rubbed his shoulder and pouted.

Karen poured more wine and Hank got himself another scotch. They stood around the kitchen island eating cheese and crackers. When Fish came in, Stella was surprised by his energy. Hank had previously described him as a ‘down to Earth trust fund baby.’ Boston born and bred with a silver spoon in his mouth, drafted into his father’s architecture firm after Harvard, retired at 40 and moved to Connecticut. He met Karen when she decorated his new house, which they now lived in together.

Fish looked more like he belonged in Berkeley than Boston. He had on a pair of cargo shorts and Birkenstocks. His t-shirt was well worn with a few holes in it. He was tall and stocky, with shaggy blonde hair and sunburned cheeks. He carried four guitars with him and still managed to wave at the group enthusiastically.

“Moody,” he called. “How the hell are ya?”

“Good, Fish. You?”

He set his guitars down against the back of the couch like he was laying down sleeping infants. “Kids were frickin’ wicked today. Karebear tell you about the concert comin’ up?”

“I didn’t,” Karen said.

“Teachin’ guitar down at the rec center to eight year olds. Gotta girl could be the next Joni Mitchell. They’re playin’ the summer festival next month.” He smiled proudly and slapped Hank on the shoulder. “Forgive my manners, we shouldda been introduced properly. You must be Stella.”

“I suppose you’d be Fish,” she said.

Fish clasped her hand warmly and then let her go and moved on to kiss Karen hello. “Becca not here?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” Karen answered. “She has some sort of announcement.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“I’ll go get her.” Karen slipped away and headed upstairs.

Fish clapped his hands once and then rubbed them together. “We got surf ‘n turf on the menu tonight,” he said. “Picked up the lobsters this mornin’ from a guy catches ‘em up in Mystic. Filet mignon marinating in the fridge. You don’t do the food with a face thing like The Becca, got lots of veggies to grill as well.”

“Always up for a good steak,” Stella said.

“Hank, she’s a keeper.” Fish clapped his hands again just as Karen came back downstairs with Becca. “Beckster,” he said. “Give us the news.”

“My book is being published,” she said without preamble.

Hank choked on his scotch and Karen gasped. Mother and father were on her in an instant, smothering her with congratulations as she held her head up like above their crushing embraces to breathe.

“And you don’t have to worry,” Becca said. “It’s not about my fucked up childhood or anything.”

“Your childhood wasn’t fucked up,” Hank answered. “Adolescence and teens, yes. But, not your childhood.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Karen said.

“Thanks,” Becca said.

“We need a toast,” Fish said, opening up the liquor cabinet.

Karen and Hank finally let Becca go and she stepped up next to Stella at the island while Fish refreshed glasses.

“Congratulations,” Stella said, quietly.

Becca glanced at her and the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “Thanks,” she answered.

“To Becca!” Fish said, raising his glass.

“To Becca,” they echoed.

Dinner was held on the patio later that evening. Fish was an impressive cook and kicked everyone out of the kitchen so as not to reveal his secrets. They could hear him singing to himself through the open door as he prepped and then later as he grilled behind them. He was also a confident leader of conversation, asking interesting, yet non-threatening questions of everyone to keep them all engaged. He also enjoyed riddles, and he quickly became determined to stump Stella from solving his complicated little problems.

“What belongs to you, but others use it more?” he asked.

“My name,” Stella answered, cutting into her steak.

“Damn,” Fish said. “What flies without wings?”

“Time.”

“Tuesday, Carol and Alice went out to eat. They paid the bill and left. Carol and Alice didn’t lay out any money. Who did?”

“Probably some asshole at the bar who thought they were cheap hookers,” Hank answered.

“Tuesday,” Stella said.

“I don’t usually tell this one in mixed company,” Fish said. “But, I feel so inclined. I go in hard, I come out soft. You can blow me if you want to.”

“Sounds like a personal attack, Fish,” Hank said.

“Hm, I take it the answer isn’t Hank.” Stella sliced her steak as she contemplated.

“Sure sounds accurate,” Karen added.

Hank smirked and tossed back a drink.

“Give up?” Fish asked.

Her mind worked the problem quickly, focusing on blowing. Things to blow. Kisses. Bubbles. Instruments. Hard. Soft. Wind? Could be a flute. In hard. Out soft. Blow. Blowing. What do you blow, what do you blow?

“Gum,” she finally said.

“God damn, you’re a right wicked pissa!” Fish exclaimed, slapping his hand on his leg. “How’d you end up with that chowderhead over there?”

Hank rubbed Stella’s knee and leaned over to nuzzle her neck. “Show off,” he whispered in her ear.

“Chowderhead,” she whispered back. He chuckled and touched his mouth to the back of her neck where it met her shoulder.

The sun dipped lower and lower as dinner went on until twilight set in and crickets and fireflies came out. It got cooler and Fish lit a fire in a pit down by the pool. Stella tried to help clear the dinner, but Karen shooed her away and made Hank take her down to the fire. He pulled her down into one of the deck chairs that surrounded the pit and she lay back between his legs and rested against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair.

“I think I’m still on London time,” she murmured, closing her eyes and rubbing her cheek against his arm.

“You want to go in to bed?” he asked.

“No. I’d like to stay right where I am.”

“Mmkay.”

Stella drifted into semi-consciousness, aware of the crack and hiss of the fire, but not much else. Her limbs grew heavy and her breathing grew deep. She had no concept of time, but she became aware of soft voices and felt something soft sliding over her body. A blanket.

“Thanks,” Hank said.

The chair beside them creaked.

“It’s good to see you so happy,” Karen said.

“I am.”

“I know. And you’re…less of a man-child. More like a real grown up.”

“I’m sure I could prove you wrong there.”

“I did say less of a man-child. I don’t think you’ll ever fully mature, if you haven’t by now.”

“Destined to forever be a sour grape?”

“You’re an acquired taste.”

Silence followed, broken on occasion by the pop of splitting wood.

“Have you read Becca’s book?” Hank asked.

“I didn’t even know she was writing a book,” Karen answered, her voice laced with sadness. “I mean, I knew she was working towards it, just didn’t know she had actually done it.”

“Do you think she’d let me read it if I asked.”

“Probably not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“You could ask anyway.”

“I love that girl so fucking much, Karen. So much it’s painful.”

“I know.”

Silence again, this time punctuated by the creaking of the deck chair as Hank shifted and ran his hand through Stella’s hair.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Karen said.

“Fuck-up is my middle name,” he answered.

“I know, but don’t fuck it up anyway.”

“Trying not to.”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.”

“Even if everything I touch turns to shit?”

“Don’t take things I said in the heat of an argument so seriously.”

“You were just being honest.”

“Hank…we have a daughter upstairs who is you all over again. The you before things fell apart. So don’t go thinking the worst of yourself because she’ll end up thinking the worst of herself. I don’t want that.”

It was quiet again for a few moments.

“I don’t want it either,” Hank said.

Karen sighed.

“Are you sure she can’t be a lesbian? I’d feel much better if she were.”

A soft chuckle from Karen and more silence after that. The firelight was growing dim. Stella could feel it getting darker.

“Are you going to marry The Trout?” Hank asked.

“Probably not,” Karen said after a long pause.

“Why not?”

“I never liked being a wife very much.”

“Ouch, Karen.”

“We were never married.”

“Not on paper.”

“I wasn’t referring to you anyway.”

“Still, I must be included there.”

“Some of the happiest years of my life were with you.”

“So happy you needed another man’s dick inside you. Makes sense.”

“You didn’t have to stick your dick in half the pussies of LA in retaliation.”

“Well that’s not fair, some of them were from out of town.”

“We were over long before…are we going to have this same argument for the next forty years?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t undo the past. Are you going to marry Stella?”

“I don’t know if she’d like being a wife any more than you did.”

“You’re not a total fuck up. It was my fault that…”

“No, you were right. We were over long before…I didn’t want to accept it.”

The fire crackled and the wood crumbled, stirring the ashes.

“Just a pair of fucks ups,” Karen said.

The chair creaked and the light dimmed. Stella felt Karen’s hand on her arm and her hair on her cheek. She heard the sound of a brief kiss and Hank’s hold on her changed. One arm stretched out. Karen’s bracelets jangled. Then Karen’s lips were on her cheek and it grew lighter again.

“Good night,” Karen said. “Stay out as long as you’d like. Fish’ll put the fire out later.”

Hank’s arms tightened around Stella and he sighed into her hair. The silence expanded around them until even the fire seemed subdued. And then she was asleep.

Stella returned to consciousness when her equilibrium changed. She felt her head too and then she was being lifted and the cool air sent gooseflesh up her arms.

“Shhh, just moving you to bed,” Hank said.

She opened her eyes slightly. The fire had burned down to smoldering embers. There was a damp chill in the air. She put her arms around Hank’s neck and closed her eyes again.

The sheets were cool when he laid her down and she murmured a soft ’thank you’ when he eased her shoes off her feet. He plucked open the sash of her dress and opened it up.

“Been wanting to do that all day,” he said.

She smiled when his lips touched her belly and then he put his hand under her back to lift her slightly and pull the dress off her arms. He unclasped her bra before laying her back down and she sighed in appreciation when he pulled his t-shirt off and put it on her. It was warm from his body and smelled like him. He knew she liked that.

Hank backed off the bed to shuck his jeans and then he was crawling in behind her. He pulled her into the curve of his hips, but she was already asleep.

The sun rose early the next morning, bathing the room in pale yellow light. Stella roused first, warm from Hank’s body and the summer heat that was already baking the small space. Hank grunted as she wiggled in his arms and rolled over to face him. He ducked his head out of the strip of light that slashed across his face when she moved and buried himself in her neck.

“Hank,” she whispered, sliding her fingers into his hair and tugging softly.

“Hmm?” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“I love you.”

He picked his head up and pried his eyes open to look down at her, squinting and blinking. She traced the contours of his cheek and jaw with her fingertips. He pursed his lips and his eyes darted over her face. She cocked her head and ran her hand through his hair again.

“Waiting for the but,” he said.

“There is no but.”

He relaxed and laid his head down on the pillow beside hers. She smoothed his brow with her thumb until he grabbed her hand and moved her palm down to his mouth to kiss it.

“Didn’t someone say something about testing out the guest house?” she asked.

He nodded at her with a serious expression. “Someone did say something about that.”

“Unless you’d rather go back to sleep.” She didn’t even finish speaking before he had her on her back, t-shirt pushed up past her hips and his mouth was already blazing a trail down her stomach and between her legs.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he mumbled around a mouthful of her flesh and panties. “You know I love the smell of pussy in the morning.”

“Less talk, more action.” She closed her eyes and stretched her back, extending her arms behind her. Her fingers caught the brass poles of the headboard and she used them to pull herself up just a little and slide one leg out from under Hank’s arm and drape it over his shoulder. He slipped her panties off and got to work.

If she didn’t already love him, he was worth keeping around simply for what he could do with his tongue. She never needed to guide him, he was so attuned to the clenching of her thighs or the roll of her hips it was like a second language for him. Fluent in cunnilingus. He could put it on the special skills section of his resume.

“Mm, like that,” she moaned when his fingers joined the game. Her grip tightened on the headboard.

Her neck arched and she pulled on the poles behind her as she came. She was still pulsing when he slid inside her and thrust into her so deeply the bed knocked the wall. She let go of the headboard and Hank took her hands in his, lacing their fingers together and pressing her arms wide above her and down into the bed. He paused when sweat dripped from his forehead onto her neck and released one of her hands to press her knee up towards her shoulder.

“I got it,” she breathed, holding her leg in place. “Just keep fucking me.”

“I don’t want to come without you.”

“Harder, then. Touch me.”

“Fuck, Stella.”

His muscles began to shake from exertion and his face grew dark with heat. He pulled his hips up as he thrust into her and she gasped.

“Right there,” she breathed. “Rightthererightthererightthere…”

Her thighs shook with pleasure and Hank gave a hoarse growl as he bent his chest over her and pumped his hips mercilessly. She lifted her head and licked the sweat off his chest as he held one thrust and then slowed to a stop. He rolled off of her and onto his back, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

“Guest house gets a five star rating from me,” he panted, turning his head to look at Stella. “What about you?”

“No criticism here.”

“I’ll be sure to fill out the comment card before we leave.”

At Hank’s insistence, they also tested out the shower, just to be sure everything was in working order, of course. When they finally dressed and emerged from the guest house, Karen was laying out a breakfast on the patio. Becca was hunched over the table with a bowl of cereal. Hank kissed her head and then took the plates Karen was moving through the door out of her hands.

“Looks great,” Hank said. There were eggs, sausage, fruit, toast and pitchers of juice laid out.

“Fish is finishing the mimosas,” Karen said.

“It smells wonderful,” Stella said.

“Sit,” Karen ordered. “Eat. I’ll be right back.”

Stella eased into a seat with her back to the pool, across from Becca. Hank sat next to her and put his hand on her back, stroking her neck where it met the collar of her dress.

“Becca,” Hank said. “I didn’t get a chance to ask, who’s your editor?”

“Her name is Michelle,” she answered.

“Did she give you many corrections? Do you want me to…”

“They’re finished. I get the proof next month to sign off on.”

Hank nodded and his hand fell from Stella’s back as he sat forward and took interest in the breakfast. Stella had rarely seen him eat anything more than a bagel or a doughnut in the morning. Often she had to remind him when she left in the mornings that he could not subsist on coffee alone. She reached over and rubbed his leg.

Karen came back outside with silverware and Fish followed with the mimosas. Breakfast was quieter than dinner, but Fish did volley a few more riddles at Stella, which she easily answered. After breakfast, they drove into the town to wander through the boutiques and galleries. Stella noticed that whatever Becca touched or looked at, either Hank or Karen would offer to purchase for her, but she shook her head, clearly undeterred by their attempts at bribery. Though, what they were trying to bribe her for, was unclear.

Time flew, and before they knew it, it was getting late in the afternoon and they needed to get to the house to pack their things to catch the train back to the city. Karen drove them to the station and seemed to Stella to have a bit of anxiety about letting them go. Becca would also be returning on the same train and once Karen had hugged her good-bye and reluctantly let her go, she nervously twisted the bracelets on her wrist.

“Thank you for having us,” Stella told her. “It was a lovely weekend.”

“Oh, of course.” Karen hugged her tightly, which Stella attempted to return by putting her hands on Karen’s back. “I hope you’ll come back. When you’re stateside.”

“Should you come to London, you’re welcome to stay with us.”

“You’re sweet.” Karen kissed Stella’s cheek and then backed away. “Call me so I know you got in,” she said, squeezing Stella’s arm, but looking at Becca who had wandered away from the group to wait near the stairs up to the platform. “Becca?”

Becca gave a wave of acknowledgment.

“We’ll call,” Stella said, quietly.

Hank gripped Karen at the hips and pulled her towards him to kiss her cheek. She leaned away with a laugh and shoved at his shoulders.

“I’m your favorite fuckup in the world,” he said. “Aren’t I?”

“Get away before you miss your train,” she answered.

“Say it.”

“I’m your favorite fuckup in the world,” she parroted.

“Very clever.”

The rumble of the train approaching made them both turn and Karen pushed away from Hank to walk backwards toward her car. “Call,” she said.

Hank grabbed their overnight bag from Stella and took her hand to move up to the platform. Becca had already gone up and the signal bells clanged in the distance. The train pulled in and they boarded. Hank found a pair of forward and rear facing seats so they could sit together. Becca flopped down by the window and Stella sat across from her. Hank leaned close to Stella and stretched his leg out on the seat next to Becca.

Hank tried to make conversation, which Becca answered with shrugs or one or two words. Stella could feel the frustration radiating off of him as he tried to break through the wall Becca had around herself. It was something Stella had dealt with quite a bit in her line of work; kids who didn’t know how to express their anger, so they just didn’t speak. Becca, she felt, was on the verge of exploding.

Stella rested her hand on Hank’s thigh and gave him a little squeeze. He looked at her and she glanced at Becca and gave him another squeeze. “I could use a drink,” she said, lifting her brow at him.

“Snack car is somewhere in the back,” he said.

“Would you mind?”

“Becca, you want anything?”

Becca shook her head. Hank kissed Stella’s neck and then pushed himself out of the seats and headed down the aisle. Stella waited until he changed cars and then she watched Becca stare out the window.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to get to know each other this weekend,” Stella said.

Becca shrugged.

“You must be very pleased about your book.”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

Becca shrugged again.

“My father passed away when I was fourteen. He was in oil.”

Becca turned her eyes away from the window and looked at Stella. “So?”

“We didn’t have very much in common. I probably would’ve entertained the idea of settling in his company, had he lived.”

“I’m not a writer just because my father is.”

“Of course not. It’s nice though, that you have something in common.”

“He admires authors like Bukowski and Thompson.”

“Who do you admire?”

“Virginia Woolf.”

“The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.”

Becca looked away and worried her bottom lip with two fingers, the same way Hank did when he was deep in thought. “Why are you a detective?” she asked.

“I was studying anthropology at university. A classmate of mine was attacked one night and no one did very much about it. It angered me. I wanted to find a way to be a voice for the voiceless.”

“Was your friend okay?”

“She actually wasn’t a friend of mine. I hardly knew her, in fact, just knew of her. She left university. I don’t know what became of her.”

“From that you were compelled?”

“Yes.”

Becca laid her head against the window and tapped her fingerprints onto it. “He writes because people paid him a lot to do it. I write because I see words and I want to put them into sentences that you can feel.”

“I look forward then to reading your book when it’s printed.”

Becca hesitated and then she pushed her hair back over her ears. She plucked at the snap on her satchel and then opened it. She pulled a manuscript out that was a few inches thick and bound with three silver fasteners.

“It’s a copy,” Becca said. “The final copy that I sent to my editor on Friday.”

“You’ll allow me to read it?”

“Yeah.”

“May I share it with your father?”

Becca shrugged.

“If you’d rather I didn’t,” Stella said. “I won’t.”

“You’d keep it from him?”

“It’s your manuscript.”

“You can let him read it. There won’t be any more changes. Unless something comes back in the proofs.”

Stella ran her hand over the top page. This is Not a Love Story by Rebecca Moody. She flipped to the inscription. To, Father. She closed it and slipped it inside the overnight bag on the far end of their seats.

“We’re not leaving the city until Tuesday,” Stella said. “I know your father would like it very much if you came to dinner with us, or lunch tomorrow. You could stay at the loft, if you’d like.”

“I’ve got stuff to do. But, maybe.”

“Becca, will you answer me honestly, if I ask something of you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you feel, in any way, that I’ve taken your father away from you?”

Becca actually laughed. She had a light, girlish giggle that sounded happier than it was. There were dimples in her cheeks. It made her look so very young.

“I’m sorry,” Becca said. “It’s just that, I haven’t had much of a father since I was twelve.”

Ah, Stella thought. Divorce, the root of all evil for some children. Father was a title to Becca, not a role, the same as Daughter. She assumed there was role reversal involved; the child forced by necessity to become the parent. It would explain why both Karen and Hank tried to desperately to win her attention and affection. And why Becca was so distrustful of them.

“One of the first things your father told me when we met was about how much he loved you. How he thought you were the best thing that happened to him. He also expressed a lot of regret about doing wrong by you. He’s afraid that you hate him. And I’m only supposing here, because I’ve only just met your mother, but I believe she may feel the same.”

“You sound like a therapist.”

“I’m not. I did study criminal psychology, however.” Stella glanced up as the door to the train car opened. “Your father’s on his way back. Our conversation will stay between us. If you’d like it to.”

Becca nodded and Stella nodded back. Hank slid back into the seat with two Cokes.

“The selection was shit back there,” Hank said. “Becca, catch.”

Becca looked up as Hank tossed her a small box of animal crackers. She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t had these since I was a kid,” she said.

“Yeah, but you used to love them.”

“Thanks.”

They pulled into Grand Central a little after six in the evening. The hall was lousy with tourists taking pictures of the staircases and ceiling. They stood in the middle of the concourse before needing to part ways. Becca needed to head west. Stella and Hank needed to exit east.

“Um,” Becca said. “Stella said you were free for dinner tomorrow.”

“Yeah, of course,” Hank answered. “We can go to that Korean Barbeque place you like.”

“Okay. I mean, I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

“It would be great.” He hugged Becca tightly and pressed his face to the top of her head.

Becca pulled away and hesitated, but hugged Stella as well. Stella put a hand on the back of her head for a moment. “You’re welcome to come to London at any time,” she whispered to her. “Any time at all.”

“Okay,” Becca said.

“Do you need money for the cab?” Hank asked.

“I’m good.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

Hank lifted his hand in a wave and Becca hoisted her bag up on her shoulder as she turned. “Love you,” Hank said, softly, to Becca’s back.

Stella put a hand on Hank’s sternum and rubbed his chest. “Come on,” she said. “I have something for you when we get home.”

“Is it you, naked?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is it you, half-naked?”

“Nudity will not be involved, and it’s better than that, anyhow.”

“What can be better than nudity?”

“You’ll see.”

Hank took her hand as they headed towards the east exit. “Was it a good weekend, Sherlock?”

“It was, Watson.”

The End

The Adventure of The Lady Detective and The Writer Welcome to LA Reconnect Portrait of a Lady Detective The Last Temptation of The Lady Detective Even the Nights are Better However Improbable Like Father, Like Daughter Just Another Day Stories Rules of the Pool Lady Detective in Red On Trial All In

#i wrote this #hank/stella #i still can't call it stank #californication #the fall #hank moody #stella gibson #becca moody #karen van der beek #original character #please tell me this satisfies your thirst you thirsty people

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molly-hooper-uk · 8 years

Text

A very random turn of events.

I know I’ve bothered this blog with a lot of posts today but things have taken an interesting turn and I’ve got to write about it for the sake of my memories! Right, so.. here we go! ♥

I was at home, finishing up the soup I was making for supper. I’d been texting with Sherlock off and on but our conversation had gone quiet as they tend to do (He has a lot on his mind, what with Moriarty and Eurus missing). I was texting with my mate from work, Bernard (I mentioned before that he’s the one with anxiety) and John, who was telling me about the spectacular mess Rosie had made at dinner. Then, I get this terribly bossy text from Sherlock!

(This gets long so I’ll put it behind a cut.)

Sherlock: Molly. I'm out of sugar. Me: How-- You had nearly a whole thing when I was there last. Sherlock: Yes well I threw it out. Come at once. A man's life may depend on it. Me: Come NOW? I've got the washing in, Sherlock! Sherlock: Or you can dally about and he may die. Entirely up to you. Me: Right, fine! Sherlock: Time is of the essence. Me: I'll bring you some sugar, but I'm not stopping at the store. You'll just have to settle for some of my own. Sherlock: Fine. A cup will do. Me: It can't wait until tomorrow? I'm going to be seeing about having Mrs. Hudson out for a lunch. Sherlock: No. Me: I'll be over by there anyway. Sherlock: I need you to come over now. Me: Alright! Piss on chips, Sherlock...

So I packed up my soup and went over there. And wouldn’t you know it? He already HAD sugar still in his TIN, just like I remembered! He was being flippant, working on something or other. He didn’t talk much to me but kept looking at me like something was on his mind. He does that, when he’s working a case or off in his head. So, I decided to busy myself with tidying his appalling kitchen while I waited for him to tell me what he needed. He didn’t tell me a thing! He just started texting me. I was very seriously in the kitchen fifteen feet away from him, and he was texting me from his table in the main room.

The events from here turned in a direction, I confess, I didn’t at all expect.

Sherlock: Stay the night Me: What? Here?

Very suddenly, I was glad we were just texting. I don’t know what noise would have come out my mouth had we been talking. Sherlock: Yes Me: Right, okay. Sherlock: You can have my bed. It's more comfortable than John's. Me: I didn't bring a change of clothes. And I'd rather you have your bed. You really ought to try and get some sleep. Sherlock: You can wear a shirt of mine. I'll sleep in bed too. Me: Reckon John has any old t-shirts-- Oh. Okay.

Of course, being me, I had to clarify because I have what some people would say is “no chill”. Me: Sorry, when you say “too”.. Do you mean me sleep in your bed with YOU? Or..? Sherlock: We will both be in the same bed. Me: Oh. Well! Alright. Sherlock: I'll get you a shirt. Me: Thank you. Sherlock: Do you shower before bed? Me: I had one when I got home this afternoon from work. Sherlock: Alright. Me: But if you want that I should, I can. I don't know how -- I just mean that some people are strange about people in their bed. So if.. You know. Sherlock: No, it was offered merely for your comfort. I don't mind you in my bed.

I was still at the kitchen counter, staring down at my phone, pretending to dry the same dish I’ve been trying to dry for the whole conversation. He passes behind me towards his hall.

“It’s dry, MUH-lee,” he says as he goes. I love how he says my name when he’s being rather.. proper? I don’t quite know how to explain it. It’s a front he puts on when he’s trying to express to me that nothing is a big deal and that I should probably relax.

“Right,” I reply in a hurried breath, practically throwing the cup into the cupboard. I didn’t know what to do with my hands from there, I kept twisting my phone around, chewing my lip. Just silliness! But then he text again, from his room this time.

Sherlock: Do you feel safe? Me: What?

I just wasn’t expecting that question. But it makes sense. His sister is loose and that’s deeply concerning to him. Sherlock: With me, here. Do you feel safe? Me: I do. ... Do you? Sherlock: I'm glad. I feel better with you here. Me: Are you the man who's life depended on my coming over tonight? Lol! Sherlock: Yes. Me: I see. Sherlock: I did need sugar for my tea. I just already had a tin of it. Me: Sherlock, just so you know... you need only ask. But if it's easier to just ask me for sugar, you can keep doing it that way. It's very you. Sherlock: It's easier to have an excuse. I can be more demanding that way. Me: I guess you're lucky that I don't mind when you're demanding. Sherlock: I've laid a shirt out for you. If you don't mind purple. Me: Actually, purple is my favourite colour. Sherlock: Is it? Makes sense. Me: Does it? It always looks so nice on you. Sherlock: You always have it on you in some manner. Socks or a belt or in your ugly jumpers Me: My ugly jumpers! Really, Sherlock.. Lol Sherlock: Well. They aren't fashionable. Not that I care. Me: I'll have you know, my jumpers are usually from Top Shop. That's fashionable, that! Well.. a bit of a cheaper fashion, but none the less!

I was leaning forward on his counter by now, on my elbows, holding my phone between my hands as I textually scolded him about my wardrobe. I could hear him coming out of his room then, his quick-paced steps approaching as I straightened and turned to face him as he emerged from the hall. He made a gesture with his hand, towards the bedroom.

“It’s on the bed when you need it,” he said casually of the shirt, before he went back to his table.

I watched his back for a moment as he picked a file folder up and looked at it, watched as his other hand raised and absently combed into his hair. His dark curls were just flipping out all over here and there from between his fingers as he scratched through them. They were lovely.

I opened my mouth to say something but instead, I thought better of it and decided to go to his room because I have absolutely zero self control. Once the door was shut I just stared at his shirt on his bed, like I were being faced with my arch nemesis.

I have seen him wear that shirt so many times. I know. For god’s sake, it’s just a purple shirt, Molly. But it isn’t just a purple shirt, is it? It’s his purple shirt and it has always brought out the disgustingly lovely blue and green of his eyes. And now here it was presenting itself to me to wear as a night shirt.

This is when I got another text continuing the conversation from before, so I engaged in it while I moved to change.

Sherlock: What's a top shop? A shop that sells tops? Me: It's the name of a store. Sherlock: The point is purple is often found on you. And orange which is it's near compliment. Me: Sherlock, this is a Dolce and Gabbana shirt. Are you sure you want me sleeping in it? Sherlock: Yes. Most of my shirts are in that range. Me: Alright, well, if I snag a button off, you'll have to help me find it so I can sew it back on. Sherlock: I doubt you will. It's well made.

I put it on. There I was, in Sherlock’s bedroom in just my pants and his shirt. I folded my clothes and set them aside, I looked around at his things as I braided my hair. His coat was on the back of his door and I touched it. He has three, you know. One on the back of his bedroom door, one by his front door and the other is with Mycroft. Not sure where from there. I only know because I asked him once. I asked him if Mycroft has one in case he needed a spare, but he just gave me THE LOOK. Which is the look he gives when you’ve asked him something he thinks is beyond his time. Lol. "Good thing you're tall and I'm not,” I called, coming out of his room to fetch my hand bag from his kitchen table (I keep my contacts holder in it). “You can't see my pants. It's just long enough!”

“I could see them if you were to bend over,” came his casual reply. My eyebrows probably leaped off my head and I looked over at him. He was sitting at his main room table, rifling through an old rolodex, not looking at me at all. I confess, it just seemed so absurd to even be having this exchange with him that I giggled. I giggled quite loudly, actually.

“Should I?” I asked in return. I’m sure he heard the jest in my voice but that didn’t stop his head from snapping up, his furrow-browed gaze fixing on me as he stared and stared at me.

Instant regret. “Just kidding, Sherlock! I'm sorry,” I chuckled, so awkwardly, convinced I’d scared the lights out of him.

"Are you?” he asked, a bit curt, still staring, still studying me, still furrow-browed. “I am!” I assured him. I giggled again in embarrassment and turned to disappear into the hall bathroom, where I planned to drown myself in the bath tub instead of endure the idea that I would have to see him again at some point in my life.

Then he text me again.

Sherlock: Don't be sorry. Do you need to eat or drink before bed?

It occurred to me at that moment that Sherlock knows me. He knows I have a penchant for terrible jokes. He knows I’m a terrible flirt (Not terrible in the sense that I flirt a lot, just that I am particularly terrible at flirting in general). I didn’t have to drown myself in his bath tub. He knows I’m just... Molly. So, I felt strangely better about it and text him back. Me: I usually have a bottle of water near but I don't need it. Sherlock: I've got that. I went shopping yesterday when the Watson’s were trying to help me with a shock of normalcy. Me: Lol, did it help? Sherlock: It helped John.

From there, I slipped into his room unseen from the door that leads in there from the bathroom and laid down. He wordlessly brought me a bottle of water, then left again. We spent some more time texting about the compromise of Sherrinford, Irene Adler’s involvement and Moriarty’s and Eurus’ whereabouts, then our conversation went quiet.

It’s late now and the room is dark, he hasn’t come to his bed yet and I don’t know if he ever will. I don’t anticipate him to. He’s thinking and thinking and trying to occupy himself with his paper work and the state of his dust. I don’t care where he sleeps as long as he does. I worked the early shirt and I’m tired but everything around me smells like him. His sheets are soft and his bed is warm. There’s a cat outside of his window, like it’s waiting and I find myself wondering if he ever lets it in, if he feeds it. It would explain the many tins of tuna he has sitting on his kitchen counter. I imagine that he pretends that the cat is hassling him and wasting his time as he pets it and the idea of it makes me smile.

I smile because I now know him better than that.

Goodnight. ♥♥

#sherlolly #mollock #molls.him #molls.rambles #molls.the science of he and i #molls.blog #221B.SL2

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