#i accidentally nicked the skin of my forearm at work

[unimportantweirdo]

post w a trigger warning for the tags

i got a size small tshirt when i wanted a size xl >:(

i just wanted to be vaguely comfy at work ugh

[spilledkauffie]

Dating Bruce Wayne HCs 🦇

xFemale!Reader // I just really love my batbaby, I wrote this for comfort at 3am. Sorry, it’s a little long!

Penthouse / The Mansion — when Bruce starts dating you he very quickly offers you a key to his penthouse and the mansion. While he means it out of trust and care for you, he also means it as a form of safety. Knowing that you can find a refuge in one of his safe houses makes him feel a little more at ease when things get seriously dangerous in the city. Once or twice he’s even sent you specifically to the mansion since it’s farther away from the inner city and he knows you’ll be safest there. || “you’re sure about this?” You question, amazed that Gotham’s richest Just handed over the keys to his house, “I mean I’m absolutely flattered, but I not allowed to just come over anytime-“ // “yes, you are,” Bruce assures you, “Wayne manor is as good as yours,” he shrugs with a half smile, seeing your face, “you know Alfred always likes company too.”

↳ he also explains that he really wouldn’t mind if you spent most of you time at his place. “Are you asking me to move in?” You smile, heart racing afraid he’d say no. “I don’t mean to impose, but here’s plenty of room, I’d love to have you there, after all the place could use a woman’s touch,” he blinks lovingly. “And so could you, Master Wayne,” Alfred comments walking by.

Driving the Lamborghini — you were shocked when he let you drive after you commented how much you loved his car. “Really?” You smiled, eyebrows raised, “but what if something happens- I- I won’t try to cause anything, but just what if-“ Bruce just smiles, looking over to you from the passenger seat, “if anything goes wrong, I’ll buy a new one, okay? Don’t worry, just have some fun.”

When You Found Out — Gotham isn’t a hard place to find yourself endangered in. Therefore when the Dark Knight showed up in the nick of time you found it curious that of all the crime situations he’d save you. It all made sense however when he dropped the gravely voice to quietly ask you, “are you okay?” // it took you a moment, looking over what you could see of his face, meeting his eyes you knew exactly who it was “Bruce?!” You say shocked, but he just repeats the question softly, “y-yeah, I’m okay, a little shook up, but-” // “I’m taking you back to stay with Alfred for the rest of the night. I promise I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

Falling asleep — since Bruce is usually up all night and still manages to make himself available for any Wayne company meetings, he is tired! More often than not he’ll fall asleep during the daytime hours. || frequently, you’ll be reading on the couch and he’ll come rest his head in your lap, hooking an arm under your knee and using your thighs as a pillow, before questioning what you’re reading. When you tell him he asks you to read aloud, naturally doing so, you stroke your free hand through his hair, gently fluffing it every now and then. Eventually, you hear him softly breathing, sound asleep. Typically you’ll stop reading aloud and just let him sleep in quiet.

↳ sometimes when you had plans for a day, you opt to cancel them based on how tired he is when he gets back. Finding him in his study, practically falling asleep at his desk, you let him know you’ll be staying home. Standing next to his chair, you tenderly reach your hand across his shoulders, rubbing them, when he stirs you tell him, “What? No, but you really wanted to go-“ he starts, sitting up a little more, looking up at you sweetly. “Bruce, I just want to spend time with you,” you almost laugh at how determined he is to wear himself out, “I don’t want to exhaust you, I really don’t mind staying home, as long as you’re home.” With that he pulls you into his lap; you reach your arms around his shoulders and he nuzzles against your chest, arms snug around your waist. You don’t mind one bit that he falls asleep, you just play with the tops of his hair stroking the back of his neck, hugging him a little closer, simply glad that he’s home & safe.

Hyper-protective — naturally, Bruce is extremely protective of you. Bruce has a really good understanding of independence, but he also knows the kind of guys in the elite society of Gotham (aka the people you’ll meet at parties he’s invited to). He’s always at your side, and loves to have you at his side at all times. Someone gets a little too friendly and Bruce is phenomenal at shutting them down. Typically they’ll only verbally address you, but should they ever try anything it’s a comfort knowing Bruce could, well, kick their ass if they laid so much as a finger on you.

Parties — Bruce can always tell when you’re feeling uncomfortable in the high-class society, you start leaning into him more and more, getting gradually more clingy as the night goes on. Bruce is a master as getting out of situations with easy excuses, so when he gives ones without you having to ask you fall in love just a little bit more.

Long Nights in the Batcave — after you found out, there are some nights you just can’t sleep knowing Bruce is out there getting into Heaven knows what kind of danger. Alfred often finds you sitting up in the Batcave with a hot cup of tea or sometimes coffee, so you can stay awake. Alfred’s become you buddy at staying up, most of the time, rarely he calls it a night, but when he does it’s usually because Bruce told him it was going to be an easy mission or it was just investigative. Alfred asks if you’re going to retire as well, “I know he would want me to just go to bed and not worry,” you admit, pulling your knees into yourself more, “but I just can’t help but worry about him.” Alfred watches you keeping a keen eye on the the tracking screen, “I know what you mean, I’m glad he’ll have someone much prettier to come back to now though.”

↳ when Bruce finds you sitting alone in the Batcave upon his return, he’s both relieved to see you and mildly frustrated that you didn’t get any sleep all thanks to him. “I thought you said you were going to try and get some sleep,” he calls to you, slipping off the mask as he makes his way over to you. “I was just worried,” you say in a small voice, sniffling, pressing the tea cup closer to your chest, in an attempt for some warmth in the cave. Sighing quietly, Bruce looked you over, “you should head upstairs, you’re freezing, I can tell.” Despite his efforts, you tell him you’ll wait until he’s ready too. So, Bruce wraps the heavy velvet cape around your shoulder in the meantime.

Aftercare — unlike some heroes, Bruce has the scars to prove it. He comes home bruised, bleeding, sometimes worse. You do everything you can to help with his injuries, even if that means just holding an icepack to the middle of his back. // Sitting on the edge of the bed, Bruce rests his forearms on his thighs, bending over slightly as you gently press the ice filled bag to his raspberry tinted shoulder. When he grumbles at the cold, you whisper "sorry" stroking up and down his bicep with your free hand as you pepper kisses across his back. Bruce takes your hand in his, turns to kiss your knuckles, and whispers against your skin, "thank you, somehow it feels better with you."

Aftermath — Bruce is usually a little more clingy after a serious fight with some injuries. He's thinking about what he could have lost, you, and if you'd lost him how guilty he would feel knowing he left you alone. Typically he also takes a night or two off, to recover, in which you can actually have some normalcy (save for him going down to the Batcave) in life. You stay with him in bed while he sleeps in, cuddling him until he wakes up and even then. You also help Alfred make him breakfast in bed, so he can take it easy for just a little while longer. // When it's really bad, you even take off work to stay with him. Combing his hair out of his face, you're the first thing Bruce wakes up to, "hey,. . .aren't you supposed to be downtown?" he asks, still groggy. "I took a few days off," you explain. "Did you tell him you were nursing Batman back to health?" He laughs. "No," you sigh, "I told him Bruce Wayne would buy out his business if he didn't give me two days off," you smile. "Oh, that makes things much easier then," Bruce kisses your wrist smiles up at you.

Batman voice — it has definitely happened once or twice, where Bruce will accidentally use the "Batman voice" on you, not even in arguments, but just in everyday things. Smiling widely after he address you with it, you turn with your hands on your hips, "did you just use your batman voice on me?" you nearly laugh, "what. . . no," he tries to cover up. "You totally did!" You laugh this time. "No-" but before he can finish his sentence you're already mimicking his batman voice standing in your most macho stance, walking towards him between giggles, "alright, alright," Bruce grabs you by the waist, pulling you close, "it just slipped out."

Daytime Sex — since he's preoccupied during the night (or at least most nights), Bruce usually manages to steal you away from whatever you're doing for awhile. He starts out fairly subtle, coming up behind you whilst you're working on your laptop, he moves your hair to one side and begins kissing the side of your neck softly. "Mmm, hi," you giggle, biting in your lower lip. "Hi," he noses your hair, "how busy are you?" You smile, looking over your shoulder as his hands slip down your sides, "how busy do you want me to be?" He pulls back, "with work? Not very. With me? Very." Naturally he sweeps you off your feet to the bedroom, or at least a bedroom when you're at the manor.

[mamabearcat]

Proposal fic + hair (braiding/brushing) InuKag

Ooh thanks Nonny 😘

Okay, I'm gonna revive an AU I've never actually written but it's been loitering around in the back of my head forever. I may even write it one day if I feel like doing a longer AU full of comedy fluff. The first bit was posted on Tumblr forever ago, but now it gets to be continued!

Inuyasha wasn’t quite sure how he fell into it; who would have thought you could make a career out of being a model for romance covers for fuck’s sake?! Apparently his half-demon heritage that had blessed him with his father's long thick white hair, amber eyes that glowed in the darkness and pointed dog ears gave him an edgy look, whatever that meant. His ability to retain a lean muscular build no matter what he ate didn't hurt either.

But, the money was very good, even if he had to fight off the occasional stalker, and hide from screaming female fans trying to stuff underwear in his pockets when he went out to buy milk.

His manager Miroku was a total letch, and Sango had been slacking on security - waking up to find a strange woman in his kitchen making coffee in nothing but an apron was more than a little surprising. He actually had more than a sneaking suspicion that something was going on between those two.

But the best part of being a model was Kagome. His photographer, his best friend. He'd known her for years now, and there was no one he trusted more.

Their first photo shoot three years ago had been memorable. He’d accidentally called her Kikyo, and she'd exploded at him. How was he to know? They looked kinda the same, and they were both photographers. It did kinda suck that her cousin Kikyo had possibly ruined her chances of having a serious career in photo journalism, but this gig she was doin’ paid the bills right?

Why did she have to be so serious anyway? He’d abandoned any thoughts of self respect long ago. When you knew what it was like at the very bottom, didn’t know where your next meal was coming from, you understood that self respect was a luxury.

Ah, but Kagome. He couldn't help but love her. Even though this wasn't what she wanted to be doing, she put her whole heart and soul into her work, wanting it to be the best. He knew all her little mannerisms by heart - the way she blew upwards into her fringe when she was feeling frustrated, the way she jiggled her legs under the table when she was feeling fidgety, the way her eyes lit up when she got a good idea for a shot.

He'd always said he'd do anything for her, would gladly take a bullet for her. He'd already blocked a knife attack for her, that had to count for something, right? He'd never been more terrified when she'd been threatened, and the thought of what might had happened if he'd left just a little earlier still broke him out in a cold sweat sometimes.

They'd been closer after her life was threatened, so much closer. He'd been hopeful, but pretty sure she still only saw him as a friend. I mean, how cliche was it for a model to fall for a photographer? He was pretty sure she'd think he was joking, and laugh right in his face. And then on the steps after the trial against that stalker she'd kissed him. And it had been like the heavens had opened and angels had sung.

Kagome had always wanted to be a photo journalist. She'd dreamed of it since high school, starting her career with the local paper, gaining notice when she won a world renowned travel photography competition. That was the chance that should have got her a job with a top magazine, the chance that should have made her career. But it had been stolen by her cousin Kikyo.

Kikyo, who had been her flatmate when they finished high school, so they could share their passion for photography and help support each other in their move to New York as they tried to achieve their dreams. Kikyo, who had taken the message about the year long internship she had been offered after they saw her winning photo. Kikyo, whose features were similar enough to her own that they were often mistaken for each other, if you didn't know both of them that well. Kikyo, who had turned up for that internship and somehow convinced them that she'd used a different name for the competition.

Her cousin had milked that experience for everything it was worth. And now she was the one working for a world renowned magazine, and Kagome was paying rent doing cover photos for romance novels. She may be the best one in her field, but it wasn't quite what she'd dreamed of. It's not like she'd wished upon a star when she was five and asked if she could be the one to discover the next Fabio.

The best thing about her work was spending time with Inuyasha. She'd been so angry at him the first day they'd met all those years ago. Fresh from a weekend at a family event where she'd had to hear once again that Kikyo couldn't make it because she was overseas, doing some big story, and they were all so proud of her. And he'd called her Kikyo, because he'd seen some article recently and mistakenly thought she was her cousin. After she'd calmed down, she couldn't really fault him. They had the same last name, same initial, even looked similar enough.

But he'd grown on her. And it wasn't just his good looks - he had those in abundance, but he didn't really seem to care about that. He was rough around the edges, a little rude, definitely obnoxious, but very funny, charming, brave, and also... kind of sweet?

That day she'd had that terrible cold but had still come to work because they'd had a deadline, he'd given her his jacket and then rushed out to the supermarket at lunch time so he could make her a sure fire cold remedy his mother had taught him. It had tasted absolutely feral, but surprisingly, she'd felt a lot better the next day.

Just a few weeks ago, they had finalised the court case with Inuyasha's stalker. For some reason, Jakotsu, one of Inuyasha's most ardent fans, had bizarrely seen Kagome as a threat, even though it was obvious they were only friends.

At first it was just strange letters delivered to her workplace, which she'd ignored totally. She'd only begun to be worried when weird notes appeared in her own letter box at her apartment. And then the late night phone calls had started.

She'd managed to keep it from Inuyasha until Jakotsu had slashed her tyres, and then he'd been furious. Angry at her for not telling him what was happening, and incandescent with rage at the stalker.

After that he'd been there for her whenever she'd been afraid, so protective and caring. When Jakotsu had snuck up on her late one night in the parking lot, he'd blocked the attack, stepping in front of her in the nick of time, taking a slash to his arm that was originally aimed at her face, then knocking out Jakotsu and holding him until the police arrived.

He'd been the one injured, with nearly 20 stitches in his forearm, but he'd been worried about her. Thank goodness for swift youkai healing. She'd been devastated that he'd been injured, but he'd just shrugged it off, telling her he was glad it was him and not her.

After that, she'd finally admitted to herself that her feelings for him were more than just friendly. Had been for such a long time now. He was gorgeous, but she wasn't the kind of girl that slept around. She needed to be friends first, be comfortable, and there was no one she was more comfortable around than Inuyasha. He was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. But wasn't that a little cliche, a photographer falling for a model? She'd thought he'd probably think she was joking and laugh in her face.

But that moment after the trial and they'd been standing out in the sunlight, she hadn't been able to help herself. She was just so happy, so grateful that he hadn't been injured worse. So she'd practically crash tackled him and kissed him. No tentative pecks. No warning. She couldn't bear to let another day pass without him knowing how she felt. And when he'd kissed her back, with Miroku and Sango cat calling in the background, yelling at them to get a room, it had felt like heaven.

"Where's Yura this morning?" asked Inuyasha, glancing around the make up room, as if she would suddenly appear out of nowhere with her ever present combs and scissors.

"She's called in sick, so you've got me on double duty today. Aren't you lucky?" Kagome teased, poking her tongue out at him.

"So, you gonna model with me too?" he grinned, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her close to rub his nose softly againt hers. "Who's gonna take the happy snaps?"

"You wish. It's a new model today, Tuva, we haven't met her before. This is for the viking one, so we needed someone with fair hair and pale skin. The photos in her online portfolio are gorgeous. And the agency recommended her, so she should be fine."

Kagome gave him a quick peck on the cheek, laughing at his pouting face, then patted the chair in front of the mirror. "Sit down already will you? I called her earlier to let her know what was going on and she offered to get her own hair and makeup done at the studio there, so now I've just got to do you."

Inuyasha couldn't help the flutter down low in his stomach at her statement, even though he knew she'd meant it innocently enough. She began by brushing his long hair and he closed his eyes, feeling the regular pull of the brush on his scalp, her fingers gently protecting his ears from the rough bristles.

Damn that felt good. If he were a cat he'd be purring, and it took every inch of self control to not let out a deep rumbling growl of pleasure when she ran her hands through his hair, pulling the top back and securing it in a rough pompadour with a ponytail behind his head.

Then her nimble fingers were making small cornrow braids near his temples, adding little leather thongs and silver charms. The gentle tugging of his scalp felt so good. He squirmed in his seat a little, keeping his eyes closed.

"Sorry, am I pulling too hard?"

"Nah, feels so damn good. You're a natural at this. Wanna change careers and become my hairdresser?"

She pretended to think a moment, then giggled.

"Maybe. You're hair is fun to play with. It's much prettier than mine."

He opened his eyes, watching her as her deft fingers twisted his hair together.

"Nope. Untrue. Have you ever seen your hair in the sunlight Kagome? The way it shimmers almost blue? It's beautiful."

Her cheeks pinked, and she glanced at the mirror, her eyes fluttering downwards again when he caught her eyes.

"Stop. You're the one that's the freaking model, Inuyasha. Let me concentrate on this or we'll be behind schedule."

"So Ms. Higurashi can take a compliment about her photography skills but not her person? That's kinda weird don't you think? Especially when you're so pretty."

"Inuuuu..."

"C'mere", he said, tugging on her arm to move her into his lap, ignoring her squawk of protest. "Why can't my pretty girl take a compliment from me, huh?"

"I can! But we're at work right now Inuyasha!"

"Alright, prove it. Look in the mirror and say what I say, and then I'll let you go." She squirmed but he tightened his arm around her waist, pinning him close to her. "Gotta do what I say Higurashi. Gotta keep the talent happy!" She smacked his arm, still trying to wriggle out of his hold, doing her best to hold in her smile, but failing miserably.

"So, how should I keep the talent happy Inuyasha?" she smirked. "You were pretty happy when I left your apartment last night."

He moved his head to rest on her shoulder, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"Ah, but that's where you're very wrong pretty girl." Kagome's face fell.

"You didn't enjoy last night?"

"Oh I did. Very much", he grinned, bucking his hips underneath her, then kissing a path down the arch of her neck onto her shoulder. "But then you left. And I was in that big empty bed all alone, with no one to keep me company."

"Oh, poor you. You know why I left Inuyasha. You needed to have a good night's sleep before the shoot today, and you know what would have happened if I'd stayed longer. There wouldn't have been much sleeping going on."

He nuzzled into her neck. "Maybe not, but this talent would have been much much happier. I don't want you to leave anymore." Kagome froze.

"You... you want me to move in with you?"

"I want you to move in", he said, his teasing face now serious. "I want you to be with me always. I know we've only been going out for a month Kagome, but I love you. I've loved you for years. And that's not going to change."

She turned on his lap so they were now facing each other, cradling his cheeks in her palms. "I love you too", she whispered. "So much."

"Would it be crazy if... if I said I wanted even more than that?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers. "Would it be crazy if I said I want to be more than just your boyfriend, that I want more than you moving in. That I want us to belong to each other? And tell the whole world about it?"

Kagome's eyes widened, and her heart began beating wildly in her chest.

"That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal Inuyasha."

"That's because, maybe it is. We wasted so much time Kagome. I don't wanna waste another second. Please say yes."

"How could I say no to those puppy dog eyes of yours?" she giggled wetly, her eyes filling with happy tears.

[matchasprouts]

Help

[ i just. i couldn't stop thinking about helping Michael shave so i wrote about it! first one-shot in a while, lets go ]

[ MICHAEL "SIMPS" STOP FUCKING TOUCHING THIS ]

“Look at it, it’s all matted up!” Normally, Scrap adored Michael’s beard. It was one of his favourite features that adorned his hulking boyfriend. However, ever since disappearing after his attempt to kill Laurie, Michael had let it grow out of control.

It had been months since they last saw each other, accidentally splitting up when Michael took off and left him behind. Only now that Halloween was approaching had they found each other again.

Scrap sighed as he attempted to run his fingers through the tangled mess, careful not to tug too hard and hurt his lover. “Michael….” he muttered, the disappointment clear in his voice.

The lack of self care didn’t surprise him. Even at Smiths Grove, Michael would only shower when Scrap forced him to. That didn’t make him any less upset about it though.

“Come on.” He took Michael’s hands and led him through the house to the bathroom, sitting him down on the toilet once inside. “You’re lucky I started HRT. If I didn’t start growing facial hair, I wouldn’t have a razer.”

He dug through the cabinet under the sink until he found it, letting out a soft sound of triumph when it was in his hands.

Michael was, of course, silent as he watched Scrap put everything together. He’d never been bothered by the beard, but he should have expected his worrywart of a boyfriend to not like it.

He had to admit that it was cute, watching Scrap worry about him. He’d missed that. He didn’t even mean to leave him behind when he ran, and now the regret was crashing down on him in the form of a tightening in his chest.

So when Scrap moved back over to him, he grabbed his arm, rolled up his sleeve, and tapped his inner forearm twice.

“You wanna say something?” he asked, returning the taps on the back of Michael’s hand, who was now nodding slowly. “Alright, go ahead.”

Michael began to trace the words on Scrap’s forearm, letter by letter, which Scrap vocalised once they were words.

“‘I’m…. sorry’? Are you apologizing?” Scrap asked, once again getting a slow nod from his boyfriend as his hand dropped. “It’s alright baby. I know why you had to leave, and I’m sure you haven’t shaved because you don’t want to nick yourself.”

Well. Scrap knew him better than he realized, apparently.

“Alright, I’m gonna put on the shave cream now,” Scrap told him, knowing that Michael needed to know exactly what was happening to be comfortable. He sprayed some of the shave cream in his hand and started putting it in Michael’s beard, starting at the top.

It was a quiet process as he lathered the cream into the beard, but it wasn’t long before he was softly humming. Once he was sure it was all covered, he rinsed off his hands and grabbed the razer.

He started at the top of the beard, holding his free hand on Michael’s jaw to keep him still.

They both stayed focused on the task at hand through the whole thing, Michael sitting as still as possible and Scrap keeping his hand from shaking.

About halfway through, they took a small break so Scrap could check the newly bare skin for any nicks or reactions, also taking the time to clean it up. “Look at that. A glimpse of my beautiful man,” he purred, pressing a kiss to the clean side of Michael’s face before he got back to work.

By the time Scrap was done, a few hours had passed, enough that both of them were ready to get something and go to bed. “I’ll make dinner, don’t worry about it,” Scrap said as he cleaned the other side of Michael’s face, finding a single nick and putting some neosporin on it.

Michael quickly shook his hand in reply, standing up so he towered over his boyfriend. He raised a big hand to point at himself, jabbing his own chest with his index finger.

“... Do you even know how to cook, Michael?”

No. But he nodded nonetheless. He’d learned how to read recipes at the very least, and he could probably figure something out.

“Fine. Shower first,” Scrap replied, turning around so he could leave, only to find himself pulled back into a large chest. He chuckled softly, having forgotten that Michael wouldn’t bathe unless he was there with him.

“Sorry, forgot,” he muttered, turning around once again to face Michael and pulling him into a kiss. “Let me turn the water on- you go ahead and strip,” he told him, being released a few seconds later.

Michael was satisfied with that, pulling off his coveralls as Scrap leaned into the shower and turned the water on.

He’d missed this. He’d missed Scrap. And now that he knew he could still miss something, he was never letting him go again.

[betweentheracks]

Updates//Recent Inactivity

Hello all! This is me finally taking some time to sit down and offer up a rundown on how life is currently going as a means of explaining my inactivity. This is a personal post that is guaranteed to be both rambling and emotional so if that is not your cup of tea, I understand and happily advise you just skip over this post as it is not relevant to the actual content this blog was intended for.

EDITED: After reading this back I now realize this is really just me spilling the tea on my own life and is laughably dishy in details which is extremely not my usual stance on my personal privacy. But idk, it was cathartic so I'm leaving it as is despite the urge to redact 70% of what I say.

I'll start with the good news that I am officially out of lockdown and have remained COVID-19 free since my return home from the hospital. This also means my son finally was allowed to come home to me which is dazzling and exciting and also a little terrible too. He's at a precocious age where tantrums are the cool way to communicate and having been gone for so long completely thrashing his established routine has caused friction. He came home and his parent was not the same as when he left; is much weaker and less energetic than before, paler and shaky - but also there's the addition of my best friend having moved in to assist and take care of me/him while we all do our best to muddle through.

The readjustment has been rough and a lot of this week has made me incredibly thankful to have practically zero memory of how I was as a child. There have been injuries: I have been whacked in the face with the metal cover for a floor vent while dozing on the sofa instead of paying rapt attention to whatever silliness he was showing off to me, there was his complete dismissal of me asking him to stay back and away from the hot oven as I pulled lunch from it's fiery jaws only to then be faced with a toddler quickly approaching with his hand raised to touch so I naturally made a move to block him and in the process I let go of the oven door which slammed upward and clamped my arm tightly between it and the inside cavern of the oven while it was set to a roasty 400 degrees Fahrenheit - earning me a mangled arm with burns of varying degrees, and then we also had that fit where it seemed like a much more grand idea to scale the babygate cordoning the stairs and I had to rush up them to stop him from tumbling face first down two flights and of course did the falling all on my own and did it backwards then slammed painfully into the wall of the landing. This all happened within a 48hr time frame and makes me wonder why I am so catastrophically inclined.

I have bruises that range the majority of my spine courtesy of the wall and stairs, two minor first degree burns on my forearm that are in the shape of an equals and quite large despite the lack of actual pain I feel from them, and the underside of my forearm was instantly blistered then popped then melted down into a horrid glob of skin mush and sticky red-orange and is a second degree burn that I have been assured is no real cause for concern as long as I tend it with care. In all, I managed to escape my momjuries relatively unscathed and with a child that was scared senseless at having hurt his momma and is quick to listen and never stops cuddling me in the time since. Here's hoping he isn't significantly traumatized from this since exactly none of this is especially his fault and is due to my clumsy, accident-prone status in life.

So yes, The Toddler has returned home to me and after some happenings we have settled and are happy. However, his blast from the past father has suddenly just decided to reemerge after more than a year of radio silence and static and has slapped me with a custody petition. Hooray. While I have no worries on this matter due to my mother working for one of the top custody lawyers in the state and snagging him as my representation, and the utter lack of competency on my estranged baby daddy's end clearly being displayed in literally anything and everything the idiot does/says, I do have to now go through the overhaul of a custody case and that is just so weak and exhaustive. Not to mention the basis of his claims that I am not fit to raise a child are founded in my health concerns and the crazy work schedule I keep; ironically, my health is making it so that I have much less insane hours and makes this fairly moot but to each their own I guess. Also worth noting on this matter is that he only did this now because he was recently placed under penalty for child support back pay and nothing in this world matters to him like his money and this is his special way of getting one over on me for tampering with his meager earnings. (He's a wannabe musician - the soundcloud rapper sort, just so we are all on the same page here). If I thought for even a second this was a genuine desire to be an active and stable parent I would be a lot less pressed to act in favor of making it legally binding that he can only see him under a supervisory condition and share time evenly, but it just is not believable in the slightest.

So the thing is - my health is actually quite dismal presently. I'm due in for open heart surgery on the 8th of April and until then I have been doing my utmost to mind all the nagging I get from doctors, PT specialists, the surgeons that will be slicing and dicing me, and my in-family medical practitioner that sometimes remembers he is also my brother and not just an MD. But like, you guys, this surgery is terrifying and technically is two surgeries rolled into one. They'll be cracking my chest open and then stopping my heart while they lift it from where it sits sweetly unhinged and lopsided in my body and very finely shave away some of the excess muscle that has built up around the wall of my heart as well as some unfriendly scar tissue that has lingered since my last surgery years ago. Granted there is no accidental slip that nicks my ugly gargantuan heart and renders me as good as dead, once this first part is finished the other surgeon will need to be deft and very quick to place this ventricular assisting piece in the valve that has all but given up on functioning altogether and do so in the time remaining before the time limit for my heart being essentially unplugged from by body is up, which would also feasibly mean my death. Lots of exciting and terrible sounding consequences, am I right?

Well let's bear it in mind that I am just below 30 in age and therefore not duly experienced in the realm of facing down my own mortality via making all necessary legal arrangements and managing my affairs and assets so that, in event of my untimely death, the custody case still doesn't stand a chance of snatching my son away to the sad misfortune of being raised by a man that has stated openly he only has interest in his kids so far as what they can do for him/get for him in terms of benefit and that he would be unwilling to be hypocritical and never deter his children from drugs and a lifestyle of extremely questionable moral integrity and hygiene alike. Eugh. But I also have had to make sure there is a DNR in place just in case things go wrong during the operation, my will has also been finalized and notarized, all my savings and financial/material assets have been squared away to come into my child's inheritance when he is of age and, most importantly, a document that states clear and direct instructions for him to be placed in care of my mother or, if she is unwilling or incapable, he will be under custodial order and guardianship of my best friend whom he has always viewed as a pseudo-dad anyway. Legally binding and even in light of the paternity petition this document supersedes parental right by way of the provided evidence I have submitted to prove a lack of parental credibility. That's right, I spent days lowkey stalking and sleuthing about to capture what I needed to show this man for what he actually is and I have precisely zero guilt or shame for doing it; this is my child on the line and that means momma doesn't have to play by the rules of snitches getting stitches or whatever other scary street rules he tosses at me as idle threats. (He's done this routinely for all the years I have known him, and it is somehow both pathetic and hilarious because he knows for a fact that, if I wanted, I could throttle him in less time than it would take for him to form a rational thought between his drug soaked braincells - I was also a person of less than savory character not too long ago and can handle myself very well. But I digress because I am losing my track of thought.

After the surgery I will have so damn much PT and rehab, all of which will be specific to varying parts of my body that will need to be reworked and strengthened. Weeks, months of it really. This surgery is major and hits heavy enough that I will be in the hospital for at least 10-14 days just recovering from it without taking into consideration any number of complications that could pop up. Hell, if they get in there and find a situation worse than they currently have an understanding of in the limited capacity of cardiology tech can provide of such a gnarled beastly heart and realize they can't really do anything with it after all, I'll be added to the transplant list. I think this is more daunting to consider than the surgery, honestly.

In that way that doctors have about them, I was "comforted" by being informed that this was an inevitability and I would have been faced with this in a matter of years - less than a handful actually - but the way COVID-19 chewed through me sped it up. I'm sure my years of substance issues were also very helpful in this endeavor, but either way I still am unsure whether I feel better knowing this or not? Mostly I think I feel conflicted and hopeful tempered with the caution of life being super shady in the ways it has often brought me to the doorsteps of dying in situations that seem like odd chance. I also am gifted with being so capable in jinxing myself that I brought myself to COVID-19 ("The way life is going I'll probably square up with Rona next week or some bullshit." Positive test flagged within the following week) and also into labor ("Watch me go into labor on Labor Day since that would be the sort of universal pun that would strike my bad penny having ass." Indeed hatched my youngling on Labor Day of that year) by saying some things within the scope of my bad humor that instantly manifested as reality so I'm not taking any risks here lol.

The gist is that life is really stirring up the winds over here and so I haven't been online and posting anything that would make my blog valid in a fat minute. I do apologize for this and also for the fact that this post took me nearly a week to type up, but when things calm a little I will be back in full. For the time being I will be sporadic and do what I can when I can!

Thanks to anyone that read this mess all the way here! And a big thank you to all of you still supporting me!

[rmtndew]

All I’ve Ever Known

Summary: Fiona’s life is a shattered fraction of what it used to be. She’s trying to navigate her new normal when she meets Detective Marshall, who gives her something more to look forward to.

Pairing: Marshall and OFC.

Rating: PG

Warnings: Mentions of death, cancer.

A/N - This was intended as a short drabble but it got out of hand and became a multi-chapter story instead. It’s my first Marshall fic and the first fan fic that I’ve written in over a decade. The title comes from the song ‘All I’ve Ever Known’ from Hadestown: ‘I was alone so long, I didn’t even know that I was lonely. Out in the cold so long, I didn’t even know that I was cold. Turned my collar to the wind, this is how it’s always been. All I’ve ever known is how to hold my own, but now I want to hold you, too.’

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

The first Wednesday in October was the first day that truly felt like fall had arrived. There was a chill in the air that morning and the fallen leaves had taken on a lovely earthy smell after the rain from the night before had blown them off the trees and pummeled them to the ground. I made a mental note to ask one of the neighbor boys to clean the leaves off the driveway and stone path through the yard so Mom didn’t accidentally slip on them. She’d been so cooped up that summer, I didn’t want anything to be in her way of finally getting to enjoy the weather.

The drive to work was quiet and lovely. The sun warmed my car and when I reached the catering shop where I worked, I sat there for a few minutes, drinking my coffee and soaking up the feeling on my skin. I always got to work early so that I could have those few peaceful moments before the chaos of the day started.

Once inside the shop, I started working with my boss Darcy on filling the boxes for the day's orders. We had two major deliveries that day - a work conference at a hotel, and a training seminar being held in the public library late that afternoon. Other than that, we had our standing order for the homicide unit of the police department. At the beginning of the year, a man had been murdered and according to the news that covered it, there was next to no evidence and the case was sure to go cold. But a couple of the detectives wouldn’t let go and against the odds, they found the murderer and got a full confession out of him. The victim’s wife had been so grateful that she decided to have an ongoing order every Wednesday to buy lunch for the detectives who’d solved the murder, as well as their colleagues. She had received quite a bit of money after her husband’s death and decided to use some of it to pay them back in a small way. That order was always mine. It was fairly small and I could carry it in my car. The detectives were always polite but never tried to make small talk, which I enjoyed. The chatty orders went to Darcy’s nephew Nick, who could hold a conversation with a brick wall and enjoy it. 

Once the boxes for the detectives were filled and loaded into my car, I drove down to the station. I took the dolly from my trunk and strapped down the two insulated containers that had the boxed lunches packed in them. The wind whipped around me as I worked, blowing my hair in my eyes. I pushed it away and held it back with my free hand as I wheeled the food behind me. When I got into the building, an officer went through the containers, as always, to make sure I wasn’t bringing in any weapons, or whatever. The first few times he checked them, I was nervous that he’d find something, knowing full well that there was absolutely nothing illegal in them. Then, once I got to know him a bit, I had considered bringing him a cookie from the shop since I saw him every week, but then the irrational fear that he would think I was trying to bribe him to overlook the non-existent illegal materials I wasn’t trying to smuggle in took over. So, like with everything else in my life, I pushed away any urge, no matter how small, to socially interact with anyone longer than absolutely necessary. That’s why, after delivering there for several weeks, I knew he was Officer Bates (he wore a badge) and I was just ‘Waverly’, as in Waverly Box Catering, my company's name. 

Once Officer Bates checked to make sure everything in my containers was safe, he walked me to the elevator and hit the button for me. Thankfully the elevator was empty so that I wasn’t forced to make small talk with the officers or detectives outside of the homicide unit that always questioned why none of the other units got free lunches. The first few times I’d been asked it was awkward, all the other times after those were both awkward and annoying. 

When I reached the homicide unit floor, I made my way to their break room, where some of the detectives were waiting for me. I started unpacking the boxed lunches, placing them on the table, making sure that the names were clearly visible. As I placed the empty insulated containers back on my dolly, my phone rang. Normally I didn’t take calls on the job, but it was from Mom’s doctor’s office. 

I left the break room and found a quiet hall to answer the phone. It was a nurse called Karen confirming Mom’s appointment the following week. We’d made sure to write it on the calendar to remember it, but I thanked her for the reminder anyway and told her that we’d see her next Wednesday. After hanging up, I went back to the break room to collect my equipment. I was surprised to find that every single box had been claimed but one. I glanced at the name: Detective Marshall. Normally I didn’t keep track of who ordered what after the boxes had been filled and labeled, but I knew Detective Marshall’s order by heart. While every other detective switched their orders up, trying different things on the menu, Detective Marshall’s had remained the same every week. A cuban sandwich - whole, plain chips, and a peanut butter cookie. There were times when I’d be doing mindless tasks - washing the dishes, brushing my teeth, filling Mom’s pill box - when their order would randomly play through my mind, like some strange mantra. It was an odd thing to find calming but it reminded me of one of the exercises my therapist had me do as a teenager when my anxiety attacks would get bad. She had me multiply numbers, or mentally list every detail of my bedroom that I could think of, or recite the alphabet backwards. It was simple, mundane, ground exercises and without ever knowing me, Detective Marshall had become my adult version. 

I was about to leave when a uniformed officer came in. He went to the coffee pot but kept eyeing the box. It was nothing to me, really, if he took it. Detective Marshall could probably handle themselves against a lunch thief, but my gut wouldn’t let me let it go. So instead of leaving, I decided to take the box and hand deliver it.

I left my dolly behind and made my way back down the hall where I’d taken my call earlier. I’d noticed several detectives had private offices there and assumed their office would be there, too. I was right. I found Lieutenant Detective Marshall’s name engraved in a gold name plate mounted on a closed door. I took a deep breath before giving a hard and loud but short knock. 

“Yeah,” a man’s voice called out. 

He didn’t say anything else but I took it as an invitation to open the door. When I did, I was met with my first sight of Detective Marshall: A tall man with a short beard and a head of messy brown curls. He was wearing a forest green sweater, the sleeves pushed up to show his forearms. A gun and badge were clipped to the side of his jeans that hugged his muscular thighs. He was holding a folder, looking at it intently. After a moment, he looked up at me. He must have expected it to be someone he worked with because his expression went from neutral to confused in less than a second. He tilted his head, a crease appearing between his eyes - his beautiful blue eyes - as his brow furrowed. 

“Can I help you?”  

“I, um…” I swallowed hard. “I’m from Waverly Catering. I brought you your lunch,” I said, frozen on the spot at the entrance to his office. 

He looked more confused. “Don’t you usually leave them in the break room?” he asked. He sounded like he had a British accent.  

“Yes. And I did. But you didn’t come to get it. I was about to leave and it was the only one left and an officer came in, eyeing it, I was afraid that they would take it.” I suddenly felt my face get hot as this handsome man stared at me while I mumbled out some weird explanation for why I was interrupting his work. “Sorry,” I said, holding out the box. “Here.”

The slightest hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he walked towards me. “Thank you.” He took the box from my outstretched hand, his fingers lightly brushing mine as he did. I was sure it was an accident and yet it instantly made my pulse race. “I appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome,” I said, then turned to get out of there before I could embarrass myself further. 

“Do you make the cookies?”

I stopped and looked back at him. “What?”

He held up his box. “Are you the one who makes the cookies in here or do you just deliver?” 

“Oh. Yeah, I make them most of the time.”

He gave me a short lived, closed lip smile. “They’re very good.” 

My brain reacted as if I’d never heard a more flattering compliment in my life and I had to physically restrain myself from giggling. “Thank you,” I managed to say without betraying my giggling brain. “Have a good day.”

I left his office feeling like a teenage girl who’d just said something embarrassing in front of her crush and I couldn’t figure out why. The feeling lasted until I was back in my car. 

“Come on, Fiona, you’re a grown woman,” I whispered to myself, massaging my temples. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

The last thing I needed on top of all of my responsibilities and already emotionally complicated current life situation was an unnecessary crush on a man just because he had pretty eyes and liked my cookies. But good heavens his eyes were pretty.

    _____________________________________

When I got home that afternoon, I found Mom in the living room. She was watching a cooking show. I went and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair was growing back just enough to feel like soft baby hair. I jokingly called it her duck feathers.

“How was your day, sweetie?” she asked.

I sat on the arm of the couch, facing her in the big recliner that swallowed her up. “It was good. Not too busy. I had my delivery to the police station again,” I said, letting myself grin. “I met one of the detectives, too. He was very handsome.” 

She looked at me, her cheeks a pretty pink color. It was such a wonderful sight after months of her being pale and gray. “Oh! What does he look like?” 

“He looks...manly,” I said. She laughed. “He was taller than me, which is always rare and attractive, and he has curly hair, and a beard, which I’m not usually attracted to but it really worked for him.” I sighed. “And his eyes. They were such a lovely blue.”

“Is he single?”

I shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know. I didn’t check for a ring. It wasn’t really that type of interaction,” I said. “I was just giving him his lunch and was surprised by how gorgeous he was.” I stood up. “Oh, and I think he’s English. He sounded like it anyway.”

“Honey, look for a ring next week!” 

“I won’t deliver next week, Nick will. You’ve got your appointment with Dr. Turner,” I reminded her. “I’m going to start dinner. Do you want anything special?”

She pointed at the TV. “They’re making chicken carbonara, it looks awfully tempting.”

I smiled. “I think I might be able to rustle some up for you. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Thank you, Fi.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[wickedshank]

Whichever faded first

Thominho Week 2021・Day 4・Scars

The scars on their bodies formed a map of the journey they’d traveled together, and Minho could remember how he got each one. Sometimes he wished he could forget.

Also on AO3. Enjoy!

・・・・・・

After two years of living in the Glade with its artificial sky and another two weeks spent crossing the burned earth of the Scorch, the Gladers weren’t very used to the feeling of cool rain on their skin. Even now, a year into their lives in the Safe Haven, when it rained, some of them would stand out in the open until water soaked their clothes and dripped from their hair.

Minho was usually among the first in and one of the last out.

(Except for lightning storms. No one went out in a lightning storm.)

“Minho.”

He turned. Thomas stood in the open doorway to their shared hut. They’d both been out in the rain until just now, not saying a thing, simply enjoying the cool evening. Minho followed him inside.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes,” Thomas warned.

Minho grinned. “If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’m just dying to see you shirtless.” As if to make a point, he tugged his own shirt over his head and hung it over the back of a chair. He went to pull a dry one from the drawer, but before he could put it on, two freezing hands gripped his shoulders.

“Minho!” he shrieked. Thomas tried to turn around but was held in place.

“What’s this?” Minho asked, his index finger moving gently over a tiny spot high on Thomas’s shoulder blade, like he’d been pricked with a needle. He found another one in his side, and one just beneath his ribcage.

“What?” Thomas tried to look over his shoulder. He could only turn far enough to see the one in his side as Minho pointed it out. “Oh, those. They’re from when I got Stung.”

Worst idea you’ve ever had, Minho thought. And that’s saying something. He let his fingers trace from one pinprick scar to the other. Thomas shivered a little under his touch, bringing a smile to Minho’s lips. He splayed his hand against Thomas’s back, thumb touching one of the marks. “It’s weird I’ve never noticed them before,” he said.

Thomas shrugged, his shoulder blade moving beneath Minho’s hand. “Maybe it’s because I’ve tanned a bit. Makes them stand out more.”

Minho hummed. He put his arms around Thomas’s neck to hug him from behind, pressed a kiss to Thomas’s shoulder, trailing up his neck. He didn’t want to remember those times in the Glade, those agonizing days Thomas had been going through the Changing. It was over. They were here now. They, at least, had made it out together.

Thomas’s fingers came up to curl around Minho’s forearm, running across the branching lines of his own scars there.

“Do you think we’ll ever,” Minho started to ask, when Thomas turned his head to kiss Minho’s arm, his bicep, whichever bit of skin he could reach.

“Yeah?” he prompted Minho to continue as he turned in his arms so they were face to face.

Minho’s eyes darted down to the nasty scar on Thomas’s shoulder, left by the rusty bullet that had almost killed him.

“Earth to Minho?”

He had to clear his throat. No point to dwell on the past. No way to make it undone, either. “You think we’ll ever forget how we got all these? Or any of these?”

Thomas cocked his head, not quite understanding.

Minho took his hand and walked back, leading them to sit on the edge of the bed. He breathed in deep as he got his thoughts in order. “Not the big ones, not the lightning strike or being attacked by Grievers, but…” He pulled up his leg to show the faintest scar on his kneecap. “Like, this one, I got tripping over a shuck root in the Glade. And this one”—he showed a line running across the palm of his left hand—“I cut myself helping out in the kitchens, the first month we were there. Frypan banned me after that. I—I’d expected them to disappear by now, but every time I look at these scars, I remember the Glade, the kitchens. All the different smells. Coming back from a long day of running the Maze and never finding an answer.”

It still weighed on him, sometimes, the years they spent running around like a bunch of lab rats, day in day out, with no end in sight.

He felt it in his body, too. The thrill of a feeling that he needed to be moving, that he couldn’t afford to sit still. Like the world might come crashing down if he wasn’t running.

They all had their own ghosts haunting them long after they’d escaped to their little piece of paradise. So sometimes he needed to rest, and have Thomas by his side to make sure that they both stayed put and took a break.

“I know what you mean,” Thomas said. He glanced at the scar on his shoulder before pressing his fingers to another one, a long line running down his lower arm. He didn’t explain where it’d come from. Instead, he pulled his legs up on the bed and turned toward Minho.

“How’d you get this one?” he asked, fingers featherlight against Minho’s collar bone.

“Angry Crank with a sharp knife, I think.”

“This one?” He tapped the back of Minho’s hand.

“Rope burn from the vines.”

Thomas touched a spot on the right side of his jaw. “This one?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Minho shoved his shoulder, but there was little force behind it. He sighed. “Falling out of a hammock when we first got here,” he admitted.

Thomas bit his cheek to keep from laughing. It didn’t work, a chuckle escaped him. “Why didn’t I know about that?” he asked.

There was no easy way to say why. Minho lifted his shoulders, avoiding. Then, eventually, “You weren’t really… here. Those first few days.” He could probably point to half a dozen scars on Thomas’s body that originated in the day of their final escape. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to remember them now.

“Oh,” was all Thomas said, and it was better left that way.

Some scars faded. Some would stay on their bodies long after they, somehow, managed to forget how they’d gotten them.

Some scars weren’t physical, either. Those, too, might fade with time and care. But not all.

Minho had come to accept that. All he could do was be there, and let Thomas link their fingers together. Let him press a kiss to Minho’s hand, to the scar on his collarbone.

Thomas gripped the hem of Minho’s shirt and pulled it over his head.

“I thought you didn’t care to see me shirtless,” Minho said as Thomas dropped it on the floor.

“I don’t particularly,” Thomas said. “But it feels unfair that I’m the only one without one on.” His eyes scanned the scars littering Minho’s torso.

Minho looked down and took inventory of his own. Cuts from where those Bulb Monsters had got him. Burns from when his clothes had been on fire in the lightning storm. But also a bruise, fresh and purple, on his ribs from where Thomas had accidentally elbowed him in the middle of the night. A plaster covered a nick on his thumb he’d gotten trying to help Gally saw some planks. Trying, because he was consequently banned from coming near any construction ever again.

(Minho had a terrible track record handling sharp tools.)

“I guess they’re not all bad memories,” he said.

Thomas had his eyes on the bruise. “I swear didn’t know I moved so much in my sleep.”

“Oh, I knew. Just always thought you were weaker.”

The soft punch to Minho’s shoulder did little to disprove that. “Keep talking like that, and you’re sleeping alone tonight.” Thomas stood to finally get a clean shirt.

“Oh no, how will I ever survive having a peaceful night’s sleep for once?”

Thomas not-so-accidentally threw said shirt in Minho’s face.

[ellewritesathing]

Infernal  -  II

Summary: In your sleepy little town of Greendale, nothing ever slept for long. And ever since October, everything felt like it was waking up. Everything except for you, that is. One teensy trip to Hell (and an infuriatingly cute guy) later and suddenly you felt wide awake.

Word-count: 2.5k+

Masterlist Prev. | Part 2 

A/N: thank you guys for all the support for Part 1!! i really appreciate it and i hope you enjoy this one 💕 (also this is my first time making a tag list, could please you let me know if it worked properly?)

Things went back to normal so quickly that your trip to Hell almost felt like a dream that you just couldn’t shake - the only visible sign that it ever happened being the carefully covered bruise on your forearm. That’s just the way life was now; spikes of supernatural intervention and then the lull of Baxter High. But then Sabrina burst into Harvey’s garage again, holding a gigantic book in her arms and calling for a Crisis Fright Club meeting. Another spike.

She explained how one of her new duties was dragging souls to Hell and that she needed your help to get the next guy. Jimmy Platt. Her plan was that once she took Jimmy’s soul, you guys could grab his newly-dead body and she could use it to house Lucifer and free Nick.

“So, it’s like Freaky Friday!” Harvey said. His enthusiasm made you laugh, which you quickly stifled when you noticed that your friends were still on edge about the whole ‘reaping the ice-cream man’s soul’ thing.

“It’s called a soul transference, but kind of,” Sabrina said. 

The four of you agreed to take the Spellman hearse and steal Jimmy’s body while Sabrina took his soul to Hell, but she grabbed your arm before you could follow the others to Harvey’s pickup truck. 

“What’s up, Brina?” you asked, trying to hide the hesitancy in your voice. She seemed unsure for the first time since you’d met her, and you doubted it was because of the body-snatching. “Do you need to talk about being Queen of Hell?” 

“No, it’s not that,” she answered. She bit the inside of her lip for a moment as she chose her next words. “Well, I mean, it kind of is. Do you remember Caliban, the guy from the beach who’s also trying to rule Hell?” 

A face like that was hard to forget, but you didn’t want to tell Sabrina that. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“I want you to stay away from him,” Sabrina said. The words tumbled out of her mouth and she worked quickly to explain what she meant to your arching eyebrows. “Not in like an ‘I forbid you from seeing him’ kinda thing, just be careful if he shows up. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s bad news and clearly has a thing for you.” 

“First of all, I don’t think demons have things for anyone,” you said, overcompensating for the rush you got when she said he was interested in you. “And second, this is the same guy that wants to enslave all of humanity, right? Not really my type.” 

“Yeah, I wasn’t really into the bad boy thing at first either-” Sabrina looked over at Harvey and Roz for a second when she spoke - not long enough to seem significant to anyone who didn’t know her, but long enough for someone like you. “But things change and I just want you to be careful if they do. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

“Trust me,” you said, using your other hand to move Sabrina’s off your arm and interlace it with yours. “The only way I’m going to get hurt is if the ice cream man tries to make a break for it.”

She gave you a not entirely convinced smile before the two of you piled into the back with Theo. You picked up the hearse, played musical chairs with the seating chart, and then waited for something to happen after Sabrina left to reap her first soul. 

Rather disappointingly, the only thing that did happen was Sabrina coming back empty-handed and confused. Undisappointingly, Jimmy had kidnapped a little girl in order to extend his contract, and if he died then she rotted away somewhere in Greendale. 

---

The last thing you felt like doing was going to the pep rally after Sabrina accidentally got locked in Jimmy’s murder-freezer and Lucy got returned to her mom, but there was nothing else you could do. They had a plan and you were just backup if it went south. The plan did not include you trying to kick Jimmy's teeth in. 

You didn’t want to third-wheel Theo and Robin or Harvey and Roz, so you picked a spot against the fence where you could still be a part of the pep rally but you had some distance from the over-eager teens. Leaning against the fence, you got lost in your thoughts until a voice woke you up.

“I thought it was tradition for all the pretty girls to dance up there in their little outfits, not for one to be left behind in the shadows.”  

You turned your head to see Caliban waiting for you to respond, so you rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. He was bad news, even if he was attractive bad news. Like a car crash that you just couldn’t keep your eyes off. Did car crashes usually have such phenomenal bone structure?

“And I thought it was tradition for all the demons to be in Hell, not hitting on unaccompanied minors,” you said, doing your best to seem unrattled. Ignoring the smirk on his face and turning your gaze back to the cheerleaders, you continued, “You do know that Sabrina will kick your ass if she finds you here, right?” 

“I think the Morningstar has other priorities at the moment,” he said. The sand crunched under his feet as he came closer. “But you can try to kick my ass, if you’d like.” 

Casting a glance at him before turning away, you reminded yourself not to get involved. A pretty trainwreck was still a trainwreck, no matter how much you wanted it not to be. The ground shifted again and Caliban was right next to you, lifting his hand slowly to move your hair off your neck. The places where his fingers brushed your skin lit up. 

“You truly have no idea what you are, do you?” He asked it like he was telling you a secret. Despite your attempts to seem unnerved, your jaw clenched. He moved in your peripheral vision and took something out of his pockets. Stepping in front of you, his hands lifted to drape a necklace over your head. “The shell is from the Shores of Sorrow. When you’re ready to find me, just break the shell. Use it wisely, love, because it only works once.”

Choosing to look at his face instead of the necklace, you noticed something in his eyes that made you think at least part of what he said was true. There was something else that made you feel like you didn’t want to find out which part it was. 

Determined not to be unnerved, you put on your best war face and straightened up. “And why should I believe anything you say?” 

“Why should I have any reason to lie to you?” he asked, seeming amused by your standoffishness. 

“Because you want to get the Throne, which means you have to go through Sabrina,” you said, taking the necklace off and wrapping the rope around the seashell as you spoke. The shell was white with specks of faint color creating patterns along the outside. A very pretty trainwreck indeed. You reached for his hand and lay the necklace in his palm. “And you’re trying to go through me to do that.” 

“Do you really think so low of me?” Caliban asked. 

You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely hurt behind that stormy expression of his or just trying to manipulate you. You looked down at your hand, still holding the back of his, and saw your sleeve had rolled up. Pulling away, you tugged your sleeve down to cover the ugly yellow- purple that had been sticking out. Looking back up to say that yes, you did think that low of him, you found Caliban staring at your forearm. 

“You didn’t get that in Hell.” 

He said it so matter of factly that it sent shivers up your spine. 

“How would you know?” 

Harvey called out to you, breaking your staring contest and signaling that it was done. When you looked back, Caliban was gone. The necklace lay in the sand where he had been. Telling yourself it was better if you had it than some unassuming girl, you picked it up and shoved it into your pocket. Then you rushed over to your friends like you hadn’t just consorted with the enemy. The very distracting enemy.

--- 

In an effort to prove that you were right to distrust him, Caliban challenged Sabrina’s right to rule with a challenge to find the Unholy Regalia. The first part was finding the Crown of Herod, so you spent the day at the Academy with Ambrose trying to figure out where it could be. Zelda was hardly enthused about your presence, but Hilda asked what the harm was of letting you poke around under Ambrose’s supervision. Besides, she said, they had bigger problems to worry about than you reading about witches. 

After scrambling to find the location of the crown, Ambrose left to find Sabrina, leaving you alone in the Academy’s library. Figuring this was the only opportunity you’d get, you started looking for books about … something. You didn’t know what Caliban meant when he asked about what you really were, and your dad had told you countless times that Delilah was based on you. If she wasn’t human, that had to mean that you weren’t human either, right? 

Or that your dad was crazy. Either option seemed equally possible, if you were being honest with yourself.

One of the books you pulled was about changelings; fairies or demons that replaced human babies and terrorized their host families. But you knew it wasn’t right. It just didn’t click with you, and you doubted that they’d just dump a fairy with humans without an evil instruction manual or a card with the time and place of Evil Babies Anonymous. If you were a demon or a fairy, you felt like you’d know about it. 

Sighing, you checked your phone. Multiple texts asking where you were, if you were coming to the carnival, and did you need a ride. You sent off a few texts that all essentially said the said thing: you’d meet them there as soon as you could.

You made your way back home and dumped all your school things and research on your chair in the corner of your room. You grabbed a jacket and pulled your hair up into a ponytail before heading out the door so none of your friends put out a missing person’s report on you. 

“Bye, Dad! Don’t wait up!” you called. 

Just before opening the door, you heard your dad say something that you didn’t quite catch. Hand hovering over the doorknob, you had to decide between heading out or see what was responsible for the nagging feeling in your stomach. The nagging won. 

“I thought you were going to the carnival with your friends,” your dad said with an easy smile when you leaned in his doorway. 

“Yeah, I am but I thought you said something,” you said. 

He seemed to be doing better today at least. The good days used to be the norm, the bad days were a foggy nightmare that you woke up from with a stack of your dad’s homemade pancakes, and then you turned sixteen. Now you could count the number of good days on one hand. 

“Oh.” He straightened up in his chair. “I just said to be careful. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all that. Have fun.” 

“Wait, what did you just say?” you asked, muscles tensing slightly. He couldn’t know about Herod’s crown. 

“To be careful,” your dad blinked. 

“After that.”

“Have fun?” 

“Right,” you said. He’d forgotten what he said. Another lapse in memory, did this still go in the good day pile? “Will do.” 

The Carnival was way more unsettling than you expected. You couldn’t find your friends anywhere, all the sounds were too loud, and the lights got brighter and brighter as the sun set. Your dad’s words ringing in your head didn’t do much to ease the anxiety either. 

You jumped as one of the games rang out next to you and a hand reached out to steady you. You pulled your arm away and caught the hand with your own, twisting it at an angle and waiting for the wrist to snap. 

“Easy,” Caliban warned, leaning into the movement to protect his wrist. “You could hurt someone like that.” 

“That’s kind of the point,” you said, dropping his hand and crossing your arms over your chest again. Even though you acted like it didn’t, this place felt a little bit safer with him next to you.

“Oh, I know,” he said with a devilish smile. He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped closer to you. “I see you kept the necklace.” 

He couldn’t have - you were very careful to hide it under your clothes - but you knew he expected you to check. That would give him an answer as to if you kept it. You didn’t move or say anything, but you did jump when another game celebrated a victory with loud chiming. 

“A little on edge tonight, are we?” 

“Only because there’s this guy that keeps popping up whenever I’m alone,” you said, turning and starting to walk again. “People are telling me to get a restraining order, but I’m not sure it’ll do anything to stop him. I think something more dangerous and less orderly might be what I need.”

“Perhaps I could be of some help,” Caliban said, making it clear that he understood what you were implying but refusing to acknowledge it. “I happen to have an affinity for doing dangerous things.” 

“Oh, I bet you think you do,” you said, stopping and turning back to look at him again. 

A dangerous thing with an affinity for doing dangerous things looked back at you. Maybe it was your anxiety clouding your judgment or maybe it was the way the Ferris wheel lights caught in his eye, but all you wanted in that moment was to forget Sabrina’s warning and kiss him. After all, one dangerous thing never hurt anyone; it was always the harmless things that got people damned. Like apples. And Caliban was hardly an apple. Though if you thought about it hard enough, maybe that meant he was the snake.

Realizing that it had been almost a minute since either of you had said anything and a smile was slowly etching its way across Caliban’s face, you shifted your weight and asked, “Don’t you have places to be, people to torture?” 

“Now that you mention it, I do have somewhere I need to be.” He ducked his head slightly as he spoke and took a step back, readying his hands for whatever spell he was about to cast. Looking back at you with a smile that managed to be both conniving and grim, he added, “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all that.” 

“Wait, what did you-” 

But he was already gone, a few burn marks on the ground the only evidence that he’d been there at all.

Taglist:  @peachesandknives  @caliban-is-my-girl  @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e @music-movies @miss--moose

Part 3

[simpforfictionalboys]

You have got to be joking- part 2

Part 1

Spidey: Hey, so now that I know where you live I was wondering if I could pick you up. 

I mean like take you to school.

You know since we go to the same school, and I thought it might be fun.

If you don’t want to that is okay but I was just wondering.

You smiled as you looked at the text messages that Peter left for you, he left probably sometime around 12 after doing team bonding that he didn’t know that he was missing out on. 

You were almost 100 percent sure that he ran home to tell Ned how he spent the whole night with the Avengers. 

A small part of you was worried that he was going to tell Ned about who you truly were but you trusted him.

You: You do know that you are an official Avenger now and that you are expected to be here in about- 15 minutes for training?

You could almost sense the panic that went through him as you knew he read the text probably scrambling to get his school stuff before heading to the tower to train. 

What you didn’t tell him was that training mostly consisted of Steve making you run until you pass out on the ground. 

“Hey, Kiddo. Your mom told me to remind you that you have training. Is Underroos on his way yet? Steve is getting excited to get to train with another person as strong as him other than Bucky.”

Dad peeked his head through the door looking over to where you stood still in your PJ’s sitting cross legged on your bed. 

“Oh yeah. I just told him right now he is probably half-way across town already. Wanda and I are waiting until 6 to train. We are mainly just going to blow stuff up in the back of the tower.” 

Your father rolled his eyes before urging you to get ready. Throwing on a pair of high wasted jean shorts and a t-shirt you threw your hair up heading down the elevator to Wanda’s floor.

“Wanda! Are you ready?” You asked looking around the corner to see your friend sitting in regular sweats and a baggy t-shirt. “We seriously aren’t going to do this right?” You begged your friend hoping she would be nice for the day.

“No. Our training today is making pancakes.” You thanked the gods (Well except for Loki and Thor) and ran after her to the kitchen.

***

“Why does it smell like fire in here?” You had no idea. It certainly wasn’t the batter of the 20 different consistency of pancakes that you tried to heat with your powers (Electricity) while Wanda attempted to do the same thing.

You both had probably 15 pancakes that were edible out of the 50 that you made.

“Shut up, Sam.” You snarled back to the soldier behind you who swiped one of the good pancakes that Wanda had actually cooked using a pan. “No one asked for your opinion.” 

“I’m sure they aren’t that bad.” You picked up one of them that you had made immediately spitting it out. It wasn’t cooked what so ever.

“Thor, I made some just for you!” You yelled out hoping that he wasn’t in the room when you spit it out

“I’m good, Lady Stark.” He ducked under your gaze as he sat down at the table next to Bucky swiping another one of the pan cooked ones.

“Miss Stark, Happy is waiting for you.” You cursed forgetting about school for a moment before ushering your way down to the training room knowing that Steve would be there still working with Peter.

What you didn’t expect to see was a shirtless Peter sparring with Captain America. Sure the sparring part you were used to the but the shirtless part- you took your gaze off of him no matter how hard it was.

“Steve, I’m going to have to take Peter from you. Some of us are still in High School.” You told him as you saw Peter spring up from the spot he was at mutter something to Steve and then rush over to you.

It was hard to keep your gaze up as he came over closer to you before throwing back on his shirt and then picking up his school bag.

Handing him the plate of Wanda’s pancakes you pointed over to the men’s locker room and he wordlessly went in.

Coming out a couple of minutes later it looked like he ran in the shower- you tried not to think to much about it as you showed him the way up to Happy’s car.

“You do that every morning?” He looked at you shocked as you laughed.

“No. I workout with Nat after school 3 days a week- usually sparring. I mostly just work on my powers with Wanda in the mornings and blow stuff up.” 

He looked over jealous to you as you gave him a sly smile before sliding into the car parked in front of the tower- Happy waiting eagerly.

“Y/n, we are la- Peter? Why are you here?” Happy looked over to the man sitting next to me questionably.

“He had his first day of training today. You didn’t tell me that Spider-man went to the same school as me, Hap.” You nicked at your godfather who gave you a look of- too bad.

The car ride consisted of Peter freaking out occasionally as well as you playing around with Happy.

As soon as we got to school you had to yank him out of the car as he was ogling all of the things that the car had inside of it including a portable version of FRIDAY.

“Bye, Happy!” You yelled into the car before lugging Peter out of the car and into the school.

“Hey, Y/n. Lookin’ good today.” Less than a couple of minutes later after Flash winked at me he looked over to Peter. “Sup’ Dick-wad.” The groan that came from Peter made you give him a weird look.

“How do you not punch him into the wall every time he does that.” You mutter under your breath before putting an arm around his forearm bringing him closer to you.

He seemed a little shocked by the touch but soon became more comfortable as a smile appeared on his face. 

“Because I would rather stay here at school.” 

“Too nice, remember when he called you Penis Parker a couple of months ago and he accidentally got a textbook to the face?” The look that crossed Peter’s face was something that you didn’t forget.

“You amaze me.” You laughed before walking into the school smiling and greeting people around you. You were kind of popular in school but you chose to hang out with Peter. 

He was kind.

You cursed at the temperature change as you tried to get warmth into your skin at the drop in temperature.

Before you knew it one of your school sweatshirts was dropped into your arms from Peter who was smiling down at you. And you thought for one second that he may like you back.

Tag list- Message me to be added!

[peterthepark]

Forget Me Nots

Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: You’ve loved him for so long, enduring endless days of pining and whirlwinds of pain in your heart. It’s tearing you apart how he doesn’t recognize that you’ve been there for him this whole time. Maybe you should stick to loving from afar.

Warnings: so much angst, fluff, cursing, sadness???

There are an abundance of flowers that symbolize something - red roses often represented romance and passion, while lilies were of devotion and innocence, and sunflowers symbolized adoration and loyalty.

Behind every flower is a story. Forget Me Nots were your favorite.

There’s an abyss that spirals within your heart as you think of him. His smile. His laugh. For years, you used to feel giddy about him, the perfect guy who happened to be your best friend. But now, you simply feel a resigned longing for Steve Harrington. Yet, one thing never changed from all those passing years - loving him from afar.

Without a doubt, your feelings and emotions for Steve have multiplied with time. They’d come to halt dangerously whenever he had a new girlfriend or a crush. At some point, you convinced yourself that you were going to tell him about how you felt. And as expected, it never occurred. Unfortunately.

You’re watering the plants at the florist shop owned by your parents. It’s a small, quaint corner store with a constant flow of customers and passerby’s. There’s been days where you hated working there - for example, Valentine’s Day was approaching. There would be copious amounts of people, flocking to you for help as they would try to find flowers and bouquets for their significant other. Only for them to break up a month later.

The miniature bell by the door rings as someone steps inside. You hands work hastily as you trim the leaves of a few house plants, your mind occupied on other things. But when you feel familiar arms squeeze around your waist, you jump, causing you to nick your finger with the gardening shears.

“Steve!” You yelp, cursing as you hold onto your wound. 

“Woah! Woah! Dude, you’re bleeding. Did I do that?” Steve scrambles to your side, inspecting the cut with instant worry. You sigh at him, heading to the backroom to take care of the injury. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Shit. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Steve lingers by the doorframe, hands delved deep in his front pockets as he watches you run your finger underneath the tap. His head hangs low with guilt. 

“It’s fine, you dork.” You meet his eyes, smile faltering for a second. He searches around for the first aid kit, shushing your protests before you groan at him.

The way your finger bled could not compare to the pain of how Steve made your heart bleed everyday. Nothing was new for you, except that he was taking responsibility for this one.

“Let me do it. Band-aids are hard.” He remarks, holding your hand tenderly in his. You screw your eyes shut as you feel that familiar pulse in your body as his skin touches yours. He’s warm and soft. Your hands are cold. 

“Thanks.” You chuckle forcibly, looking over the crooked placing of the band-aid and finally noticing Steve’s dorky sailor uniform. “Anyways, what are you doing all the way out here?” You question, resting your hands on your hips. “Uh, I thought your shift at StarCourt doesn’t end till later?”

“No, yeah. I’m actually on break. I wanted to stop by and see if you were interested in grabbing some lunch with me?” He bounces on the heels of his shoes before running his hand through his messy hair. His eyes hold a glint of concern, his lip pulled between his teeth as he raises a brow at you.

“Of course, Steve. I’ll join in a few, just - just gotta wrap up shop.” You take off your apron, hanging the cheap material on the doorknob as you and Steve make your way towards the main room of the shop. 

Part of you had wanted to deny his offer. But you could never find it in yourself to say no to him, especially if there was food involved. You flip over the sign on the shop’s front door, clocking out as you head outside.

-

You hiss as coffee burns at your tongue, prickling your tastebuds with an awful burning sensation. Steve starts to laugh at you, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he tries to keep all his food in. The quiet and cozy ambience of the café is interrupted when you and Steve are sent into a humorous coughing fit, doubling over onto the sticky table as you animatedly laugh at each other.

The interaction sends a floodgate of memories through your mind, hitting you with unwanted nostalgia. The emptiness in your heart returns instantaneously, and the grin on your face dwindles to a stoical line.

“So, what are your plans for Valentine’s Day?” He breathes out, letting a soft chuckle escape from his lips as he pushes his empty plate aside. He drums his fingers against his forearms. 

“Hm... nothing. No plans,” You shrug, swirling the spoon that sits in your coffee. You found yourself feeling sad that Steve would even think of asking that question. He knew your love life wasn’t exactly active as his, so what was the point? You clear your throat, glancing up at him with hope. “You?”

“Uh, I may have - I may have scored a date with Jennifer Jones.” He smirks, gesturing happily with his hands.

And your heart drops. Suddenly, the room is cold and you can no longer feel the warmth radiating from your coffee. Jennifer Jones? Who was that? You had no idea who she was. Steve usually - and to your dismay - shared the details about his romantic experiences. How did you not know who Jennifer was?

“Y/N?” Steve studies your reaction, but all he sees is a face void of emotion. 

Wake up. He doesn’t feel the same. Not in that way.

“Oh! That’s - that’s good.” You let the spoon clink against the mug before running your bandaged finger against the outline of your lips. You exhale, “Jennifer... I’ve never heard of her.”

“Yeah, I, uh, wanted to be sure that I actually liked her before telling you about it. I hear your advice in the back of my head every time I find someone remotely interesting.” He gazes out the window of the emptying café. His foot accidentally brushes against yours under the table, and you mirror Steve to gaze outside. “She works at Orange Julius. Really nice girl.”

“I’m sure of it. She must be pretty.” Steve agrees with a nod, taking a sip from his milkshake. Strawberry. His favorite. “And the date...” You turn back to him, trying not to alarm him with your sudden silence. “What are you planning on doing with her?”

Steve rambles about taking her to a drive-in by the city. But that was your drive-in. Only you and Steve went there. You knew you had no right to be jealous, but you couldn’t help but feel... neglected. It was valid to feel like this, right? But then, Steve mentions something else that tugs and snaps at your heartstrings. 

“Do you think you’d be able to save me a bunch of Forget-Me-Nots? I know it’s your favorite flower, but I love the story behind it. I think it’d be perfect. I really wanna make that night special for Jen. Roses just seem outdated.” You can only nod, promising him with your pinky finger that you’d keep some in the back room for him. Steve then takes note of how you play with the hair tie around your wrist, and how you’ve been looking at the table instead of him. He reaches his hand across the table subtly, grazing it against your palm. “Hey, are you okay?”

The phrase is enough to send you falling into your heart’s abyss.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Your head is pounding as you hold everything back, pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to stop yourself. 

“M’fine. I’m just tired. My parents have been on my ass lately about school and the - the business.” You’re wishing that Steve can’t see the pain and tears in your eyes, but by his expression, you know that he knows something is wrong. 

“We can talk, okay? Let me help you.”

Steve takes you back to his house, ushering you into his bedroom. Your chest feels tight and your airway is constricted. He hasn’t seen you like this much, but it sends him into a immediate effort to help you. As he locks the bedroom door, you bury yourself under his covers.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Steve asks. The other half of bed dips as he sits beside you. You’re still hidden in the covers, finding comfort in the darkness and the rustling of the cotton sheets that smelled too much like him. 

“Can I ask you a question instead?” You murmur, voice muffled from being underneath layers of blankets. Steve hums, crossing his ankles over each other as he waits for you. “Have you ever felt like - like nothing is right? Like everything that could go wrong for you has gone absolutely wrong in your life?” You poke your head out, furrowing your brows.

He nods slowly, processing your question, “Yeah, sometimes.” 

“Okay, well. I feel like that a lot.”

Steve is quiet. And you would have thought that he left the room if your head  wasn’t beneath the covers anymore. But he’s silent - it scares you a little.

“Actually, yeah...” He starts, catching sight of the band-aid on your finger. “I’ve experienced that. Sucks real ass. Is there anything else?” Steve grunts as he lays down, parallel to your body as his head rests by the foot of the bed. 

Yeah, I’m fucking in love with you. 

“Not really, it’s all family and business shit and well, you already know everything about that.” You chuckle sadly, glancing back at him with an unsure expression.

“Well, see, I can tell you one thing. One right thing in your life that I know of. Actually two things. You’re very lucky, Y/N.” Steve admires the picture of you and him across the room, a framed film photo that was taken on a road trip. He lifts his head from the bed, locking eyes with you. “Okay, so. One, you have me as a friend. That’s some good fucking luck right there. I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No,” You shake your head with a delighted smile. “I am so lucky for you, Steve Harrington.”

“Right? I agree. And two, you don’t need to wear a stupid sailor uniform for work. I mean, c’mon. This shit is inhumane.” He makes a face of disgust as he pulls at the collar of his shirt. “You shouldn’t have to feel that way, yeah? And if you do feel like that ever again, call me. I’ll remind you of all the right things, not the wrong.” His tone is calm with a hint of sharpness.

Steve does care about you - a lot.

But not in the way you wished he would.

He extends his arms out, grinning as you crawled into his grasp.

It feels safe. It feels familiar.

You rest your cheek against his chest as he puts his chin on top of your head, his big hands splayed out over your back. Your hair falls like a veil against his neck, tickling him so he has to brush it away.

If only you could stay like this forever.

-

It’s the dreaded day. The day with never-ending color palettes of red, pink, and white. The day with too many hearts and too many teddy bears and too many damn customers buying flowers.

Valentine’s Day.

Fuck you.

You survey the shop, making note of how many flowers have been sold in the first couple hours from opening.

You look up as the door opens, smiling as Robin slips into the shop.

“Hey, dude.” She says raspily, hands in the pockets of her jeans as she makes her way to the counter. You recognize the pitiful smile in her features: the way her eyes are downturned, crows feet peeking from the corners.

“Hey, you.” You reply with a nod, fixing things by the register.

“Did Steve tell you?” Robin questions, head slightly tilting as she steps behind the counter to stand with you.

“Who the hell is Jennifer Jones?”

And so you and Robin sit down in the armchairs by the corner of the shop - you, occasionally getting up to help out a customer. She tells you all about this Jennifer Jones girl with narrowed eyes and wide hand gestures. You can only reply in short phrases as Robin goes onto rambling.

“She’s definitely not as pretty as you, Y/N. Like not even close. I don’t even know where Steve met her.”

“Yeah, me either. Barely tells me anything anymore.” You scoff, eyes blinking at the ceiling as you slide down into the chair. “He drives me crazy, Robin. I don’t know if it’s healthy.”

“As long as you don’t lose yourself along the way.”

Maybe you have. You’re unsure. But you don’t tell Robin that, because you feel some semblance of yourself in your body. Despite the numbness in your brain, and the potholes in your heart, you’re somewhere in there.

Just lost. Not yet found. Not gone. But lost.

“I guess maybe - maybe I should move on. You know? I’m tired of - of waiting for something to happen.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, leaning forward in your chair. “I can’t even tell him how I feel. What’s the point? And he’s my best friend, so like - how can I live with him rejecting me?”

“But how will you ever know if he does feel the same way? Y/N...” She pauses. You wait as she fishes something from the back pocket of her jeans. And your heart swells as she places it on the coffee table in front of you. It’s the bracelet that Steve had gifted you on your seventeenth birthday: a thin, silver chain, with your initials engraved into a small charm. You had been looking for it for weeks, afraid that it would be forever missing. You take it into your palms with a featherweight touch, fearful that it would break despite how strong the material was. “You left it at my house.”

Robin studies the smile on your face. She notices the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the child-like and innocent glistening in your eyes as you lock the bracelet into place. “I think you should tell him, Y/N.” You open your mouth, interrupted as Robin continues quickly. “If he does reject you, so what? At least you tried! He’s an absolute dingus if he does, by the way. But I have this - this thought that he feels the same. It’s like he hasn’t realized it yet, but it’s there.” She places her hand over her heart, words sincere and sweet.

Maybe Steve was lost, too. Not yet found. Not gone. Just lost.

The abyss in your heart doesn’t feel as deep and dark anymore. So, you look up at Robin, eyes brimming with fulfilled tears.

“Thank you.” You stand up to wrap your arms around her, pulling her close. She pats your wrist, eyelashes fluttering against her freckled cheeks.

“And if anything, you could always date me.” She jokes, playfully pushing your hand away as you go to help another customer.

Her advice did give you some peace of mind.

But honestly? The fear and the doubts, and the overwhelming emotions hadn’t really downsized at all.

Your heart still aches for Steve Harrington.

You feel it most at night, laying in your bed. When you’re wide awake, mind buzzing with thoughts: thinking of him.

You feel it more when you wake up from a dream. But the dream is one of those kinds, where everything feels realistic and authentic. Nothing could feel better than that.

Yet you feel it even more when you realize that dream, was simply just a dream - nothing more - and Steve never loved you like that in reality.

Nothing felt lonelier than the profound hole that dwelled in your chest.

Your own imagination can kill you, sometimes.

“Harrington!” Robin hoots as your charming friend walks into the shop. You blush when you recognize that he’s wearing the windbreaker you had given him for Christmas - red and white and all ‘Valentinesy.’

“Buckley! Y/L/N!” He grins, fist-bumping Robin before he makes his way over to you. You rest your forearms on the counter, leaning over the register to meet his gaze. That’s when you notice he has something behind his back, and he whips it out quickly when he realizes you’ve seen it. “For you, pretty girl.”

Roses.

But weren’t roses outdated?

Despite the lingering memory of Steve mentioning something about no longer liking roses, you take the small bouquet with a cheerful smile, thanking Steve as you place them in the empty vase behind you. “They’re gorgeous. So sweet, Steve Harrington.”

Maybe he wasn’t going on that date tonight.

“Yeah, I wanted to get you a little something before I stopped by.” He glances around, over your shoulder and into the back room. He lowers his voice, brows raised. “Did you save me the flowers?”

Oh. That’s what he wanted.

That’s why he came.

Not for you.

But for Jennifer.

“Uh, yeah.” You lock eyes with Robin, who waves goodbye to you supportively. “They’re in the back. C’mon, lemme show you.” Steve follows you, grinning widely like a child on Christmas. He’s humming a song under his breath, and you’re glad that he’s happy. But at your expense. “You better be glad that I was able to save these for you.” You pass him the handmade bouquet, filled with the vibrant, gorgeous blue of Forget-Me-Nots. “They’re not in season anymore.”

He pulls you into a side-hug, one hand clutching the root of the bouquet while the other touched your back. “Thank you. Thank you.” You step away, crossing your arms against your chest as you shush him. “I’m serious. I’m happy you did this for me. And I know that it must’ve been a hassle for you, so let me make it up to you. Tomorrow? I’ll take you to that cool garden tourist place thingy that just opened up.”

“For sure. I can’t wait.”

Is that all your friendship was anymore?

A returning of favors? Oweing one another? Paying what was due? Bullshit.

“Anyways,” You start, rubbing your palms together. “Are you excited?”

“For the date? Hell, yeah.” He bobs his head, leaning against one of the metal racks with shoes crossed. “Like c’mon, how long has it been since I’ve been on one of those? Hope I can keep her interested long enough.”

You wouldn’t need to talk and I’d still be interested in you.

“You’ll be fine, Steve.” You reach over his shoulder, fixing one of the potted plants. “You’re a charmer. I’m sure you’ve already got her wrapped around your finger.” You wink teasingly, placing your hands lightly on the sides of his neck.

You’ve got me wrapped around your finger.

Steve kisses the side of your head, a gesture that you had always been accustomed to throughout your friendship. “Thanks for being there. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I’ll always be there for you, Harrington.

“Yeah! Call me! I wanna know how the date goes,” You chuckle, a hint of sadness lingers in your eyes, but Steve doesn’t notice. He bids you farewell with another embrace, squeezing you tightly.

Maybe he could hear finally your heart crying out to him.

Briefly, you shift forward to go after Steve, hand barely raising from resting on your thigh. But you don’t go after him. It wouldn’t be right.

How do you kill a feeling?

Steve was just your best friend. That’s all that it was. It must be better this way.

Once the day ends, you drive home.

The gloom loitering around the sky and greying clouds adds onto your sadness. You feel lonely. You are lonely. What do you call that numbing pain in your chest when you’re in too deep for someone? Was there even a word to describe that?

Your parents’ house is quiet - left home alone from being on a business trip.

Hell, maybe even your own parents were forgetting about you.

You’re sitting in the living room, surfing through channels aimlessly on the television. Valentine’s Day has never felt any worse. You’re cozied up on your couch, blankets wrapped around your body as the fireplace crackles softly in the background. You snack on a tub of ice cream, smacking your lips at the taste of chocolate.

It still tasted bitter.

You’re watching one of those old romance movies from the 60s, eyes blinking widely as you bite onto your spoon.

You feel tears well up in your vision as the two actors on screen kiss, lips pushing together passionately as their hands roam each other’s bodies. You sniffle, pulling the spoon out of your mouth, dumping it into the empty container in your lap.

You’re a sobbing mess by the time the movie ends; your head hurts and your body feels overwhelmed with unforeseen exhaustion.

You close your eyes.

Darkness.

-

You jump from the couch when you hear a loud, persistent knock at the front door. Rain pours heavily outside as it nears midnight. You groan, shutting off all the lights to go sleep upstairs.

But the knocking at the door doesn’t stop. The windows shake with fear as wind begins to pick up strength. You carefully step down the staircase, cautious as you unlock the front door.

“Steve?” You breathe out.

It’s like the oxygen has left your lungs as soon as you look over the state of your best friend.

His jacket is drenched, thick hair sticking to his face as he squints through the night. Shivering from the frigid weather, his lips turn to a disconcerting shade of blue. 

He’s crying.

You can clearly see shades of red blooming around his eyes through the pouring rain. He struggles to stay upright, and you usher him inside immediately. He can barely get any words out, breathing heavily.

“Steve, what... oh, my gosh.” You wrap yourself around him, pulling him under your arm as you take him to sit by the fireplace. You’re peeling his jacket off of his arms, flinging the wet material aside before you re-light the fire. No words are exchanged between the two of you, mostly a few gasps and concerned gazes from your end. You’re tugging Steve’s shirt off of his body, throwing it into the pile of his other ruined clothes. You take the blanket from the couch, dabbing at his cold skin and wrapping it around him. You pull him into your lap when you sit down, unsure of where to start. “What happened?” You run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as you let your other hand rub at his forearm. “Steve? Are you okay?”

He lets out a strangled sob, bringing a hand up to hide his face. Steve trembles against your body, burying his nose onto your warm thigh.

The rain patters harshly against the house - and now you know why.

The angels were crying with him.

“Shh... it’s okay. I’m here.” You soothe him, fingers dancing across his spine. You lean down to plant a kiss onto the freckle on his bare shoulder, closing your eyes. “Let it out, Steve. Let it all go.”

You feel for him.

A teardrop rolls down your cheek, melting into Steve’s skin. He’s clawing at your shirt as he moves to sit up higher, trying to bring himself as close to you as possible. You don’t say anything as he embraces you with a bone-crushing touch, tightening around your ribs.

“She didn’t like me.” He cries through a small, hoarse voice.

“Oh, Steve.”

His hair is dripping wet, drops dampening your shirt. It’s messy. You’ve never seen anything like this - not from Steve, anyways. 

Snot pools around his nose, sticking to the ends of your hair along with his saliva. His nails dig deeply into your sides, holding onto you for dear life. Your lips lightly press against his forehead, lingering there as you wait patiently for him to continue. 

You start to feel his body warm up from the heat of the fireplace. He no longer trembles as much, but his hands still remain clenched tightly around the fabric of your shirt. You can feel the soreness in your legs from how heavy he is, but you push through - enduring it for Steve.

“She, uh,” Steve looks at you. His cheeks are stained with tears. A sight that breaks your heart. “She called me stupid. And - and she said I wasn’t funny, and I wasn’t even that cute to begin with.” You push the hair away from his eyes. “She said that she went to high school with us... and that this - that whole date was just a way for her to get back at me. I don’t remember what I did, Y/N. How can I not remember what I did?”

Steve sobs again, hyperventilating into your chest. “Breathe. It’s alright.” You coo, resting your forehead against his. “Steve, that was high school. We all were - were different people back then. Whatever happened with Jennifer during that time should’ve been forgiven.”

“I was an asshole, Y/N.”

“Yeah, then.” You huff, still embracing him. You raise your brows, the fire illuminates your face as you continue to speak. “At some point, we have to let go of the past, I guess. People can be unforgiving, Steve. And if Jennifer is one of those people, then forget about her, you know? There’s always room to change or make mistakes.” You try your best to console him. “You’re different now, Steve. She shouldn’t be messing with you like that. No one should.”

He stares blankly at your lips, before his brown eyes flicker up to meet yours. 

“What if nobody really likes me?”

The question strikes a dark place in your heart. And you have to glance away to keep tears in.

“Y/N, what if - what if I’m destined to be alone and nobody will ever love me as much as I love them?” Silent tears roll down his face as he loosens his grip on you. “What if you don’t even like me?”

“Don’t you dare say that.”

“Y/N, why the fuck do you still like me? I’m - I’m horrible.”

If only he knew.

“Steve, you’re my favorite, favorite thing.” You shake your head at him, bewildered that he would think like that. “You make me feel so safe. And complete. You’re my best friend. I couldn’t live in a universe without you.”

He starts with a scoff, and you’re terrified of what he says next. “But I want - I need someone who will love me, eventually. Someone who can give as much as I do.”

Ouch.

You remain quiet. How can you help Steve when you feel the same? Only, the feelings were directed towards him?

Steve wipes his nose, pulling away from you. He chuckles. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You chuckle too, but sadly. “I like the idea. I believe there’s someone for everyone. Someone who’ll love you despite anything.”

It’s me. I’m that someone.

“Do you think we all have soulmates? A person for each of us?”

“I do. I really do.” You turn your head away from him, staring into the crackling fire.

“Maybe some of us don’t get a soulmate. Kinda like - like natural selection.” He shrugs, fingers picking at the thread of your carpet. “Maybe some of us don’t get to - to, I don’t know, experience being loved.”

“But sometimes it’s not about being loved by someone else.”

A soft, barely visible smile lingers on Steve’s face.

“Hey, I’ve never asked you this. Not in a while, at least.” You hum in reply. “Do you like anyone?”

“Right now?” He nods. You let out a small exhale through your nostrils, scoffing. “Yeah. I like this - this guy a lot.” 

“Does he like you back?”

Steve doesn’t ask who it is. 

Maybe he knew. 

“I don’t think he does, Steve.” You caress your own jaw, finding comfort within yourself. You feel Steve’s eyes on you, and you suddenly feel extremely vulnerable as you decide to look back at him. “I’ve never asked him if he does. I don’t - I don’t wanna ruin what I have with him. I think that... I’d rather suffer myself than... than lose him, you know?”

“You should tell him.” You close your eyes, turning away from him with a sad frown. “Listen. Anyone would be lucky to have you, Y/N.”

“Steve...” Your eyes are pleading, scouring his face in hopes that he’d realize. “Steve.” His eyes begin to widen when he hears the shattering crack in your voice. You don’t fail to notice how he moves his hand slightly away from you.

He knows that look anywhere. It’s the look that Robin gave him when she admitted her feelings for Tammy Thompson. It’s the look you give someone when you say something a little too scary and painful.

“No...” He laughs. You start to cry, clutching your hands to your chest as you scoot further away from him. His face falls when he watches your drops of tears plummet to the ground. “Me?”

His voice is almost condescending.

“I-I... Steve, I-“

“Y/N. We’re - I can’t do this.” He stands, nearly losing his balance. You don’t follow him, leaning against the couch as you bring your knees to your chest.

“This is what I was afraid of. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You ram your fists to the sides of your head. Your cries are distressed, echoing throughout the house.

The abyss in your heart has enveloped you. You feel sucked in, screaming for help as you’re dragged into the darkness.

Heartbreak.

Was it too late to un-love someone?

Steve paces around the living room, hands on his hips as his red eyes dart around the room.

“I get it, if you don’t feel the same way. We’re supposed to be best friends.”

“Y/N, I don’t - I don’t-“

“I know.” You whisper huskily, leaning into the couch. You don’t look at him.

“I think I should go.” He says shakily. He pinches at the skin in between his eyebrows, stuttering over his words as he puts on his shirt and jacket, still soaked from the rain. “Thank you. For the, uh... for the help.” You don’t reply. Steve sees the broken shell of his best friend. And yet, he’s too shocked and selfish to fix her. “I’m... I’ll see you around, Y/L/N.”

“Okay.”

And he leaves. Not once looking back at you or to ask if you would be alright. You lay there, head resting on the couch cushions as the fire hums a heart-wrenching ballad. You can’t breathe.

You walk with wobbly legs up the stairs, taking deep, uneven breaths as you open your bedroom door.

Your room feels wrong. And your bones shift in your skin as you throw the covers off of your bed, angrily stripping them away from your mattress and letting them parachute onto the floor.

You are the abyss.

It no longer resides in your heart.

But inside and around you, floating through your veins.

-

Your eyes are grey with color as the answering machine beeps with another useless message.

‘Hey, Y/N. It’s Robin. I haven’t seen you in like a month, how are you? Uhm, I wanted to call and see if you were doing okay. Yeah. So, if - when you aren’t busy, call me back. Please? Thanks. Love you.’

Beep.

‘Y/N! This is Dustin. Dustin Henderson. Steve’s friend. Yeah, okay, hi. Ow!’ You hear a rustle on the other end of the line. ‘Anyways, we - I was wondering if you wanted to come to the movies sometime with me and Robin... and uh, Steve. Hope to hear from you. Kay. Bye. Dude, you need-‘

Beep.

‘Y/N. Hey, it’s Steve Harrington. It’s Steve. Yeah, uh... call me? I-I... just call me back when you’re free. Right. Take care. Miss you.’

The answering machine no longer blinks red. 

You feel exhausted. Moreover, you look exhausted. Your face is pale, aching to see sunlight. Your nose is runny from a cold, throat starched for water. You haven’t been to your job in weeks, halting the business temporarily until your parents were to come home.

It worries Steve when he tries to drop by the florist shop, finding it empty and pitch black inside. He can see the roses that he gave you on Valentine’s Day, wilting in its porcelain vase. He tugs against the glass door, sighing when he finds it locked. Obviously, he could hear you say. He reads the handwritten note on the window:

‘Closed. Flowers are not available for sale. Come back another time.’

Steve knew you had to be at home - hurt and healing

He runs into Robin as he walks hastily to your house, and he sees the angry stare that his friend sends him from the end of the sidewalk.

“What the hell are you doing here, dingus?” She snaps, pressing her finger into his sternum.

“I fucked up, Robin. Big time.” He glances at your bedroom window, hoping that you were in there somewhere. “I wanted to apologize to her.”

“Not right now. Go away.” She brushes past him, hitting his shoulder with her own.

He really has fucked up. 

Robin sighs in pity when she glances back at her friend, relaxing when she sees the genuine defeat on Steve’s face. “You can’t just waltz in there and apologize. She’s hurting, Steve.”

“I know. I feel horrible.”

“She’s in love with you.” Robin admits. She feels a bit bad for saying it to him, when you should really be saying it - but she’d do anything to save you from feeling any more pain. “I’ve seen her through her best... her worst days - and yet it all comes down to you. Oh, Steve did this for me. Steve did that.” She mocks, tilting her head from side to side as her lips twitch upwards. “She’s your best friend. And she loves you more than anything. What more could you possibly want than that?”

Steve chews on his bottom lip anxiously, hands feeling around in the pockets of his jacket.

“She isn’t expecting you to love her back, Harrington. If that’s what scares you.” Robin places a friendly hand on his shoulder. “She just needs to know that you’ll stay. No matter what. And if you do have feelings for her...” She dips her head down, meeting eyes with him. “Then don’t be afraid to tell her. It’s only Y/N.” She turns on her heels, stepping up onto the porch to ring the doorbell. “You should probably go. Figure yourself out first before trying to help her right now.”

He knows she’s right. With slumped shoulders, he drags his feet off of your lawn. He glances back instantly when he hears the quiet hymn of your voice, and sees your face before you shut the door behind Robin. He tries to wave weakly.

But you don’t look at him.

Not this time.

Another two weeks pass by before Steve catches sight of the fluorescent lights in your shop. And he sees a familiar figure working the register.

Without hesitation, Steve swerves onto the emergency lane, tires screeching as he pulls to an illegal stop. He nearly gets run over by a speeding car, but the adrenaline is too much for him to care about anything else right now. He sprints past the road, bumping into a few strangers as he swings open the shop’s door.

“Y/N.” He pants out. His hair is wind-swept, brown curls falling against his face. “Hi.”

You look up from the register, knocking over a cup of pens when you recognize the handsome face. “Steve.”

He rushes over to help you, attempting to pick up the fallen supplies. But you’re quick with your movements, scooping all the pens back into their designated cup by the counter before Steve can help you. He then sees the dirty handprints on your unwashed green apron, realizing that you had only just gotten back from your break. 

“Hi, again. It’s, uh, it’s me.” He scratches the back of his neck nervously, adjusting the collar of his shirt when he feels it fit too tightly around his neck. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he crosses his arms against his chest, trying to seem as casual as possible. You’re giving him a weird look, but he can just make out the anxiousness in your pupils. “I wanted to... say sorry. I panicked that night. When-when...”

“When I told you how I felt.” You finish, running your hands up and down your jeans. 

You both are lumps of awkwardness, unsure of where to look and what to do with your bodies. You mimic Steve, holding your arms against your ribs as you lean onto a table.

Steve’s just glad you’re actually talking to him after all those weeks. It seems like he’s just met you again: the awkward fidgeting, the ramblings, the way his hands shook after speaking to you - it felt exactly like the day you met.

He remembers it all too vividly.

“Is that all?” You ask, putting your hair up and away from your view. Steve doesn’t hear forgiveness in your tone. He should’ve known it wouldn’t have been that easy, that fast.

“No,” He says. He taps at his bottom lip, before wagging a finger at you. “You don’t happen to have more Forget-Me-Nots, do you?”

Steve visibly cringes when he hears the dramatic scoff you give him. “Yeah. I do. They’re in the back. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Did Jennifer make amends with you?” You question uneasily, stepping into the other room to grab the flowers for him.

“No, not her. They’re for something else.” He shrugs as a matter-of-factly. “Here. I’ll pay for them?”

“Take them. It’s fine. I don’t have a use for them anymore, anyways.”

But they‘re your favorites.

Unless they aren’t anymore?

“Of course. Uh, I’ll - I’ll catch up with you soon.” He looks down at the precious potted flowers, holding them delicately with his two hands.

He makes a beeline for the exit, before he hears you call out to him reluctantly.

“And Steve?” He turns, eyes blinking with interest in what you have to say. “Take care.” He grins. “Of the flowers.”

Okay, damn. So much for forgiveness.

“I always do.” He shrugs with one shoulder, flashing a lopsided smile. He hesitates to open the door for a second, but he does, running across the busy road with the pot of Forget-Me-Nots.

He’s going to make it up to you.

-

March.

It’s a cold morning in March when Steve finally gets himself together. He sits on the ledge of his bedroom window, eyes trained on the well-cared for pot of Forget-Me-Nots placed in front of him. They bloom gorgeously; seemingly, they are the only pop of color that remains in Steve’s messy room. He smiles, eyes crinkling with peaceful nostalgia when he glances down at the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands. He reads over the words, whispering them to himself as he tries to get them right.

It’s the longest he’s ever gone without seeing you. His feelings, as usual, are a jumbled mess of emotions. But he knows, that with due time, if he were to love you - more than a best friend - then it surely would be destined to happen. 

He looks back into his room and away from the window. The wall across his bed is plastered with pictures, the majority of them are of you and him together. From the beginning of middle school, to freshman year in high school, to junior prom, to graduation - you’ve been there for him through everything. Every milestone, every heartbreak, every achievement and every breaking point. 

Steve can’t help but ask himself if he’s been there for you through thick and thin as well. He wonders: has he been looking down all the wrong roads this entire time? Was he not giving as much as he took from you?

Holding onto the worn piece of paper, he folds and stuffs it in the back pocket of his jeans before he takes the pot of flowers carefully into his grasp. 

Steve drives in his car, beating every stoplight and doing almost every illegal thing a driver could do. He sighs in relief when he sees that your curtains are drawn, along with your open bedroom window. 

Classic move. 

He parks his car recklessly on your lawn, definitely ruining the freshly watered grass with his muddy tires. Memorized like the palm of his hand, he climbs up your roof, being cautious not to step on the loose tiles that led to your window whilst balancing the Forget-Me-Nots under his arm. He’s out of breath when he finally gets up. He sees you through your window, nose buried in a book - unaware of his abrupt arrival. Steve crouches, tapping on the glass with his fist. 

Your head snaps up. Glancing around your room, you sigh as you stand up. Steve helps you raise the window lift, grinning boyishly when it stays upright. There’s a glow in his eyes that you can’t place. Steve knows that you won’t let him in, so he takes a seat on the flat surface of your roof, placing the pot of Forget-Me-Nots on the window stool that separates the two of you.

“What are you doing here?” You ask. Steve recognizes the bump in your voice - the genuine curiosity, free of malicious intent. “You can’t be here, Steve. My parents... they-”

“I won’t waste your time. But I do need you to hear me out. You can’t say anything, alright?”

“Steve, what-” You shake your head in confusion, but Steve shushes you, motioning you to sit down as well. And you do. The flowers block part of Steve’s face, but you don’t care to move it - wanting to hear what he has to say.

“I’m gonna read you something that I found in my room.” You lean forward, placing your chin in the palm of your hand with sincere regard. “It’s a note. From you to me. In eight grade.”

A year after we first met. 

Your face softens. Because you know exactly what this note contains. Steve clears his throat as he takes out the note from his pocket, smoothing down the rips and the wrinkles. The ink is smudged, messy and hurried but there is something genuine laced within those words. 

‘Dear Steve, 

You are truly one of the dumbest people I’ve met. So dumb, that you can’t realize that I literally have the biggest crush on you in the world. I like you. More than I like chocolate ice cream and more than I like move night. I could spend forever with you - that is until you make me just as insane as you. I’d donate my own braincells for you. I think I might love you. What even is love? You are too cool to be my friend. Too cool to be my partner in crime. And definitely too cool to be my Anyways, I’m writing this because I have too many feelings right now. Maybe it’s just hormones. Maybe it’s one of those things. But just know, that I’ll be here for you - no matter what - despite the teasing, or the dorky jokes, or the number of bad movies you always make me watch. I’m here. And I love you.

(Like a friend, of course)

Your best friend, Y/N.

By the time Steve has finished reading, his eyes are watery. He chuckles at himself, glancing at the paper one last time before he folds it neatly back into place. “I found it in my backpack.” He briefly waves it in the air. “I... you must’ve mixed my backpack up with yours because-”

“Because we had matching backpacks.” You smile sentimentally. “And everyone thought we were - were complete nerds for matching.” 

“Yeah, they did.” He passes the letter to you, but his hands envelop yours when you attempt to take it. His fingers draw shapes on your skin, and he pulls your hands closer to him. “Letters are meant to be read, Y/N. And not only that, letters are meant to be answered.” He pauses, “And years later, I finally have an answer to that letter.”

“If this is you feeling - feeling pitiful towards me, for what I said...”

“It’s not. This is how I really feel. I’m doing this because... because I’m not lost. Not anymore.” He tightens his hold. “Y/N. You are truly one of the most unique, smartest and loving people I’ve met.” He chuckles, feeling his throat tighten at his words. “I never - I was selfish for never realizing how much you care for me. Not just as a best friend, but more. And yeah, it took me forever to - to realize that, but I was scared. Part of me has always had a crush on you. And what you told me on Valentine’s just - it shocked me. Because I was never looking for love in the right places. Love was in front of me, all along. She was sitting in the passenger seat of my car, watching terrible movies at the drive-ins, and wearing matching backpacks with me. I didn’t see it because I was too busy trying to see you as my best friend, rather than - rather than a soulmate. I’ve always loved you, Y/N. We grew up together. And you helped make me who I am.”

You can only look at Steve with doting yet astonished eyes.

The abyss in your heart...

It was finally releasing you.

“Steve, you-”

He holds a hand up, clicking his tongue. “I’m not done.” You nod for him to continue you, placing your other hand over his. “I remember the story behind Forget-Me-Nots. How it’s always had a special place in your heart.” He lets go of your hands, reaching for the flowers instead. He examines it, before he looks up to you with a grin. “A man saw beautiful blue flowers growing on this - this weird plant. And so, he jumped into water to get the blue flowers for his love. Although the current was strong, the man crossed the river safely and got the flowers. But on his way back, he was taken away in the water. Yet before he disappeared, he threw the bouquet of forget-me-nots to his love. She wore these flowers on her hair until the day she died and never forgot about him.” He takes a deep breath, before handing the flowers to you. “Every time I looked at these flowers, I-I thought of you. And I kept them alive. Isn’t that crazy? They’re still alive.”

Your lips pull into a shy smile as you duck your head to smell the flowers. “You’re unforgettable, Y/N.” He reaches over, caressing your cheek. You sigh into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut against your skin. “I want you to remember that I’ve always loved you. It just took me a little while because well... I’m an idiot.”

“You are!” You laugh, giggling into his hand. He leans into your room, pressing an innocent kiss to the top of your head. His lips stay there, and he smiles into your hair. “Steve?”

“Y/N?”

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” He rests his forehead against yours. “Let’s stay like this forever. I wanna remember this. I want you to remember this.”

“I would never forget it, Steve.”

Unforgettable.

[hqwkeyes]

I Love You

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2,281

Warning(s): angst, fluff, language, severe injury, mention of blood, talk of death

Summary: When a mission goes very wrong, one of their own gets hurt. What happens if they can’t pull through?

A/N: Oh boy, it’s been a long time since I last posted anything. It’s been even longer since I got this request. This is the oldest request that I have, and I just want to apologize to the sweet anon who sent it to me for taking so long to write it. I hope you’re still out there! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this! I loved writing it.

Masterlist // Buy me a coffee!

Steve had called in a half hour prior saying that the mission had gone south and to prep the med bay, although he didn’t say who was injured. Clint flew the quinjet back in record timing, which meant it was serious. I paced back and forth the entire half hour, wringing my hands together and trying to mentally prepare myself for the possibility that it could be her.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened, though.

“Fuck!” I shouted, slamming my fists against the wall when they rushed her in on the gurney.

Blood dripped onto the floor as they wheeled her down to the med bay, which Steve nearly slipped on as he tailed the stretcher. The swift trip to the med bay felt like an eternity with her life on the line.

Steve, Clint, and Bucky helped transfer the stretcher onto the table with the doctors, and then we were all forced behind the glass doors so they could get to work.

There was a deep gash in her cheek, as well as several on her abdomen, indicated by her torn up stealth suit. It was unlikely that they would be serious injuries, though.

What had me worried was the number of bullet wounds that ravaged her body. Two had hit her in the left thigh, both going through and through. Another was lodged in her shoulder, and another thankfully only nicked her arm. Then, there were the shrapnel wounds. Fragments had torn up a good portion of the lower left side of her abdomen. I could hear the doctors saying that there was internal bleeding because of it. Within minutes they had taken x-rays and were rushing her to the operating room.

I attempted to follow, but they told me to stay back with the rest of the team. Of course, I tried to follow again anyway, but Sam and Tony held me back. We waited for four hours for some kind of news. You would think that will all the extremely advanced technology Tony provides the medical wing with, they would have finished earlier, but no.

In the meantime, everyone who was out on the mission explained what had happened from their perspective. In summary, while facing off against the remaining HYDRA members at the base, another group showed up. The team said they didn’t know who they were, but they definitely weren’t HYDRA. They had attacked them all, but it seemed they specifically targeted her. They snuck up behind them, too. “The ultimate sneak attack,” Clint had called it—even he didn’t see it coming from his position in the trees.

I had been desperately clinging to Bucky on one of the couches for a while when someone finally came in with some news.

“She’s out of surgery, but resting for now. You can see her, but only for a few minutes, and only two or three people are allowed in the room at a time,” the doctor explained, and I was dashing toward her room before they finished speaking. Clint and Steve were close behind, silently joining me in the room. The tears began to spill again as soon as I saw her, and I heard the two men step out of the room to give me a moment with her.

“Nat,” I quietly choked out.

Her red tresses were caked with dry blood, turning them dark and stringy. I pulled one of the chairs closer to her bed and gently held her hand, pressing a soft kiss to a bruise blossoming on her skin.

“I need you to come back to me,” I whispered against her hand.

After sitting alone and talking to Natasha for a while, Clint and Steve came back, and I stepped outside for them. The others came in pairs throughout the day—even Thor, who had been in Asgard for a while.

I sat with her throughout the night, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she rested. It was impossible to sleep, though, with all of the machines beeping and blinking around her.

At dawn, Bruce came in and told me to go get some rest. Of course I refused, I didn’t want to leave her side, not even for a second. Somehow, though, he managed to convince me to go shower and grab something to eat.

“Just take twenty minutes. I’ll stay right here with her the whole time,” he told me.

After ten minutes of taking a much-needed shower, I got out, dried myself off, dressed myself, and headed to the kitchen for a snack and some coffee. When I arrived at the kitchen, the whole team was on their feet.

“What happened?” I asked frantically, but no one answered.

I was hot on Steve’s heels, heading toward Nat’s room in the medical wing.

“What happened?” I repeated as Sam came up beside me, tears already dripping down my cheeks.

When I heard the high pitched ringing from down the hall, something inside me snapped. I stopped moving, causing Bucky, who was following close behind, to collide with me, sending me to the floor. I panted heavily, my palms pressed to the cold marble, and let out a blood-curdling scream. I felt a pair of arms lift me up, which I would later find out belonged to Bucky. He carried me the remainder of the way and held me close to him, even when I was kicking and screaming, trying to get into the room where the doctors were attempting to resuscitate the love of my life.

I watched on, screaming my lungs out, as her body jolted upward from the electricity of the defibrillator, but to no avail. Four times. Four times they shocked her, and none of them worked.

When they called her time of death, I accidentally cracked the glass wall with my fist before sliding to the floor in a series of wretched sobs. Wanda crouched down and wiped the tears dripping from my face. An hour later, Thor came back and wordlessly carried me to the living area. He set me down on the couch, where I remained for three days.

I hated Bucky for those three days, for keeping me away from her, but in the end, I understood that I only would’ve gotten in the way.

I spent three months after that still living with the Avengers before it began to be too much.

Natasha had asked me on our one year anniversary to move in with her and the rest of the Avengers. It had become harder to see each other with all of the missions she was going on, so I happily agreed. The team treated me like family, and Tony even gave me a job, although I was basically an extremely overpaid intern.

After her death, all I could see was her. Everywhere in the compound were the memories that we made together. I visited her grave every day, and that was somehow the least painful part of it.

She was buried beside Nick Fury. Ironic, wasn’t it? He was still alive, hiding in the shadows somewhere, while my beautiful Natasha lies in the ground beside his empty casket.

After those three months, I packed up and moved to an apartment in Brooklyn, cutting off most contact with the Avengers. I didn’t hate them. Honestly, I still loved them, but seeing them killed me because it reminded me of every moment I shared with them that included her. Thankfully, they understood. I only maintained contact with Steve and Clint, although only through the sometimes shared visits to her gravesite. We would sit and reminisce, usually cry. I preferred to go alone, though, so I could tell her everything going on inside my head, everything that happened throughout my day.

Today is seven months since she passed, and I still visit her nearly every day. I carry with me a bouquet of assorted red flowers and something to eat.

When I arrive at the cemetery, I gently set the flowers down against the stone, then run my fingers over it before sitting down on the freshly grown grass. Slowly, I eat, talking to her in between bites.

“I know it’s already been seven months,” I say, beginning to cry, “but I feel like it was yesterday and also an eternity.”

I don’t let the tears fall. Instead, I wipe them on the back of my wrist and continue talking, telling her about my day, my job, my memories of her.

I wrap up the remnants of my lunch as I speak, having lost my appetite, “I know it’s cliché or something—you were never a fan of clichés—but I don’t think I’ll ever love someone again, at least not in the way I’ll always love you.

“It’s probably unhealthy to say that, but I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully let you go. I don’t think anyone from the team will either, especially Clint and Steve. I’m not sure if they’ve told you, but they feel responsible for what happened. I’m sure you know that they did all they could. You’d probably smack them off the back of the head for saying something like that—or maybe you would understand. You’ve told me things before that make me feel like you would.”

I glance at my watch and realize how quickly the time has passed. It always flew by when I was with her—even now it still does. I tell her this as I stand up to leave.

“Anyway, I should go.” The tears begin to fall again as I step forward and press my lips to the tips of my fingers, then to her headstone.

“I love you,” I whisper before slowly turning away, and suddenly I scream.

My own hand flies over my mouth as stare in shock and awe, wondering if I’ve passed out and this is some elaborate dream.

“You don’t have to come here anymore,” she says, and I nearly fall to my knees. She steps closer and grips me by my forearms to steady me, then steps back again.

I launch myself into her arms, squeezing her against me so hard that I hear her wince. She closes her arms around me too, though, and I relax against her.

“How are you here?” I murmur against the skin of her neck before pulling away to gaze at her again. Her hair is a natural blonde and much longer than I’ve seen it before.

She nods behind me, “After the attack, I decided to borrow someone else’s trick.”

I look behind me at Nick Fury’s headstone, and laugh, shaking my head. Within a moment, though, the laugh turns to some kind of angry sadness.

“Why-” I start.

“I did it to protect you and the others. I needed to figure out who it was who tried to kill me,” she says before explaining all of the details under the shade of a tree that would definitely conceal her identity from a distance. Luckily, the cemetery was mostly empty, with only a few people scattered a good distance away.

After she finishes, she picks up the bouquet I left on her grave and takes my hand in hers.

“How about we head back to your apartment? There are a few people there waiting for you,” she says with that smile I never thought I’d see again.

Unable to form any words without crying, I nod.

After walking for a moment, I stop and realize, “Wait, how do you know about my apartment?”

“After I discovered who had attacked us that day, I slowly exterminated them. I finished with that about two months ago, but I needed to wait to make contact with you just to be sure that they were all gone for good.

“I found out that you moved out of the compound and found your new address. This is a lot to take in, I know. I’m so sorry. It’s just- I was scared of how you’d react. I tried to knock on your door three times in the past few weeks, but I was so afraid that you would be angry.”

I wipe the tears from her face with my thumb before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

As we walk toward my apartment I ask, “And who is waiting at my apartment?”

“The team,” she says quietly. “Please don’t be upset. I contacted them through you and told them to meet you there. They should arrive a few minutes after us.”

I laugh and nod before telling her that it’s alright. Hard to process all at once, but alright. I’d rather rip off the bandaid quickly anyway.

We arrive at my apartment before the team does, just as Natasha had planned. A few minutes later, they knock on the door, and I crack it open a bit.

“I have someone here who wants to see you,” I say to the group of Avengers crowding the hallway outside my door before opening it wider.

Clint nearly knocks me on my ass as he pushes through and hugs Natasha. The rest follow in suit, although allowing me to step out of the way first. I close the door behind them and listen again as Natasha explains everything. At first they’re angry with her for not enlisting their help, but overall they understand why she did what she did.

Sam and I end up cooking some food for everyone to eat, and we all sit down and talk, sharing stories from our time away from one another, grateful that everything is right once again.

Natasha leans in and kisses my cheek before whispering something in my ear.

“I love you too.”

Masterlist // Buy me a coffee!

Original Request:

Note: If you would like to be added to my permanent tag list or my Natasha x Reader tag list, feel free to ask!

I’ll tag a few people who I think might be interested: @romqnofff @sargentjbbarnes @5aftermidnight​ @agentnatasharomanov​ @romanovobsessed​ @natalia-alianovna-bw​ @nat-blossom​ @lesbian-x-blackwidow​ @blackluthxr​ @blackmist111​ @seasonsofnat​

[cozycryptidcorner]

Chapter Five

???? After Arrival

Your mouth is dry.

It hurts to swallow, but doing so is a habit that your body cannot break. So you go through the motions even with the pain, the tongue pressing up against the roof of your mouth, the muscles in your cheeks trying to push the thick, almost nonexistent saliva down into your raw throat. The stone of the floor is cool against your feverish skin, trying to ignore the way little rocks and grit dig into your cheek. Every breath you take is ragged and weak, the hunger penetrating through your muscles and into your very bones. If you had the emotional energy, you might try to cough up a few tears to cry, but you feel nothing other than a grim determination to succeed.

If he wanted you dead, he would have killed you right where you had stood, braced to run, even when you knew it was futile. He could have plucked out your heart and watched you with those soulless black eyes as you bled out on the floor, crying for a deity who couldn’t be bothered to answer your tearful prayers.

A panel on the door opens, and you hear the quiet tsk tsk of a disapproving servant as she reaches in and retrieves your untouched meal tray.

“You must keep your strength up, kore,” she says, but you don’t answer.

Now

There’s buzzing flare in the top of your skull, right on the edge of your brain. It reminds you kind of those headaches you would get if you forgot to drink through an entire day, a dull, throbbing thing that threatens to grow even stronger if there isn’t a quick solution. Your lips are getting cracked from having to breath out of your mouth, your nose stuffed up from a variety of different things. Dust, probably, for one, but maybe also the fact that you’re trying not to cry, though your eyes are still tearing up, and since they aren’t escaping normally, they’re just slipping back into your body running out your nose.

“Should I call for a doctor?”

You almost start at his voice, though it’s not like you just forgot the prince’s presence, especially not with the way that he gently plays with your hair. The idea of having to see someone else who is just as unfamiliar right now as everything else feels just as unwanted as the aching in your joints. “I’d rather not, no.”

“Would you rather go to bed?”

You mull the idea over, squinting at the light despite its dimness. Yes, you want to go to bed, you decide, but then immediately wonder if the prince was going to follow you to your room. While casual murder might be his mode of operation, he doesn’t seem to be the type to do that, so you don’t think you have to worry about being alone with him in an enclosed space. Even though you are pretty confident that there isn’t any incriminated evidence that’s currently out, to have him in there, potentially poking around, you aren’t so sold on that idea.

On the other hand, though, isn’t the welcome dinner that you obviously aren’t even thinking about going to happening tonight? The one where you aren’t planning to spy on the goings-on just to get a taste of the political strife happening all around the underground palace? Maybe if you go to bed, he’ll get out of your way quickly so you can do some internal investigating. Or perhaps he’ll stick around for a little longer than anticipated, running the risk of something slipping, either out of you or out of your personal belongings.

Hell, you’re not one to back away from risk. “Yes.”

He helps you up, doing most of the muscle work since your knees don’t want to do their job. You almost stumble into him, grabbing onto one of his smooth, thin legs for support. Instead of seeming uncomfortable or put off in the slightest, he asks, “are you alright to walk?”

You grit your teeth because you aren’t going to fold this quickly into being dependant on someone for something, even as small as letting him carry you to the bedroom. Goddamnit, you’re going to make this walk yourself or die trying. “I’m good, I just-

Your vision spots out.

The light glares down at your eyes, far harsher than you are ready for when you open them. The bed you lay on is thin, barely wide enough to keep your limbs from flopping off as long as they stay perfectly straight and unbent. Unfortunately, your clothes are gone, replaced by a dull brown dress, long and straight, and judging by the coolness running along your spine, loosely tied, if not all the way open, at the back. Talking, there’s talking happening somewhere to the side, tense, worried words shooting back and forth between two… maybe three people.

“She should have been checked in when she first arrived.”

“I sent her the notifs based on her contact info, and even went so far as to try to get her assistant involved, but the damn machine stopped all responses yesterday-”

“You should have told me.”

“Of- of course, keias, a thousand apologies, you’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t, you are very correct.”

You sit up, terrified that this might end in bloodshed if you listlessly eavesdrop even more than you already have. Big mistake, you discover, as a sharp punch drills through your skull, your fingers shooting up to press against your temples, and then you whimper. You don’t mean to do that, in fact, the moment the sound resonated through your body, you make it stop, your lungs shaking with the effort, but the damage is already done. As much as you like capitalizing on those who underestimate you, outwardly showing weakness? Not your style, not at all, so you take in a gulping breath and hold it.

“Do something!” The prince is at your side, how did he end up there so fast? “She is in pain, fix it.”

“Of course, sire, one moment, and I’ll get out-”

“I don’t care to hear the specifics.” His hands fold over yours, adding a smidgen of pressure that actually eases the pain somewhat. “Get it done.”

A sharp, small pinch nicks the side of your neck, a crisp, palming feeling quickly running through your veins, overwhelming the pain like a tidal wave. It doesn’t go away, though, merely… sinks to the back, while whatever settles in your blood overshadows it significantly. Slowly, you open your eyes, your breath calming, your muscles relaxing, finding the prince barely a few inches away, the closest he has been physically, ever. The lights dull slightly, did the doctor turn those down for you? Everything looks like there’s some sort of halo of energy around everything, and the prince seems to fizzle with it. You need to touch it, actually, so you reach out and place your fingers against his forehead.

“Hey there,” you say, your head feeling wayyyyyyyyyyyyy lighter than usual.

“What was that?” The prince says in his grumpy shlumpy voice, looking over at a tall, thin figure that you can’t quite make out.

“A numbing agent, keias,” the other person says, “fast-acting but not without its side effects. She will be back to normal within a few hours, which is plenty of time to find a better long term solution.”

“Side effects?” The prince says as you pet the side of his ridiculously smooth face.

“Well,” the doctor gestures in your general direction, “it doesn’t just dull the pain receptors in the brain; unfortunately, it also dulls everything else. Her hand-eye coordination is off, her balance is warped, and her ability to sense dangerous situations is significantly lower than what it normally is. Relatively speaking, sire, she’s drunk.”

You snort, turning over in the direction the blobby spot in your vision is speaking. “Excuse you, but a milliliter of whatever isn’t going to do anything to me, bud, I once drank an entire bottle of Moseranian aged wine, and I may not remember that night, but I survived, so,” you shrug, waving your hands, “I’d like to see you do that and come out with your liver intact.”

“Like I said, keias, she’s not in a normal state of mind at the moment,” the doctor says, and then adds, almost dubiously, “she might also be more likely to answer any questions truthfully.”

“Leave.” The prince doesn’t turn around to give the order; rather, he seems far more focused on you than he has been in a long while. “Find something to help that’s more than whatever this is.”

“Of course, sire.” A door opens and closes with the doctor’s exit, leaving the two of you alone.

You pat his head. “I’ve always wanted to touch your hair, it always seemed so nice and silky, like-” you giggle, “no offense, but like a spider’s web.”

“A spider’s web,” the prince repeats, his eyes squinting, his head tilting to the side. “Spiders are common creatures where you are from?”

“Yeah, even more than rats or other pests. Mining stations are great for them because I guess space lice is a good source of food, and they don’t need to breathe too much air, so if they get accidentally locked in a no-air zone, they’re more likely to survive. The little guys were a real problem where I came from.” You giggle, switching over your wrist so he could see a bite mark on the underside of your forearm. “I got bit by a blue recluse once.”

He reaches out, taking your arm into his hands so he can take a more intimate look at it. “And the... blue recluse, are they poisonous?”

“Oh, yeah, horrifically so.” You wave your other hand, laughing it off. “I almost died, but whatever.”

A puff of breath escapes from him, you can’t tell if he’s laughing with you or exasperated. He lifts your hand up to his mouth and kisses the heel of your wrist. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

You don’t answer.

“I suppose, then, what I really wish to know is how you handle the drider species as a whole,” he says, “I understand the similarities between spiders and us are rather, er, distastefully similar.”

“I mean, the eight legs. Yeah.”

“Do you find me hideous?”

You balk, sure that you heard him wrong. “I- do I what?”

“Do you find my appearance unnerving?” He asks. “I understand that spiders tend are disconcerting to your kind, though with good evolutionary reason.”

“Weeeeeeeelllll I wouldn’t say hideous. Or disconcerting. And I don’t think it’s because of the spider legs, maybe it’s because of how….” you forget the word, trying to mime it with your hand. “Um, seismic isn’t what I mean, uh… big? Kind of. You take up space, and that makes me nervous.”

“I see.”

You can’t tell if he’s disappointed in you, and no, don’t want that, so you try to clear up what you mean. “Most other people I know have been threats,” you say, “on the mining colony and, um, as a pilot, but I’ve always been able to somehow rise above the game and walk out scotch free. But I don’t know you, ok? I like knowing things because then I’d find ways to get out of a situation if stuff blows up, and I don’t really know you, except that you could kill me far easier than I could kill you. I don’t like that.”

The prince hums, a bit thoughtfully, reaching over and brushing some stray hair strands that had fallen in your face without you noticing. The brightness in the lighting suddenly changes, the electricity humming in your ears like a solar mite. “That is understandable.”

“It’s all unfamiliar.” You squint at the fluctuating lighting in the room. “And the expectations of everyone is worse than…” you trail off, tightening your mouth in the realization that you might have let out more than you should have.

“The expectations of what.” The prince’s body stiffens considerably, his hands no longer holding onto your kindly. They’re holding onto you like he is about to see how much pressure you can withstand before your bones start cracking.

“The- the-” lie, lie, lie, a voice in your head hisses urgently. Clear everything out. Mislead, but don’t speak anything false you can’t remember. “You don’t think the match of the supposed insane heir of Lolth, the biggest player in the opposing force in a war, isn’t going to turn many heads? The Matchmakers aren’t even the ones to sit me down to go over everything like their protocol demands. Someone leaked the information to the press. I woke up one day to everyone, the military, the civic government, and all news companies within the quadrant trying to break their way into my ship.”

Everything melts again, his expression softening, his fingers resuming to tracing the scars from various mishaps on your bare arms. “The Matchmakers weren’t even able to reveal anything to you?”

“You didn’t know?” You fold your arms around yourself. “Headline news every single day from when the info leaked to when we entered the censor barrier, but I don’t doubt it’s still circulating even now.”

“I did not.” He sounds far away, deep in thought. “No one- no one dared to hurt you, did they?”

You think of the sparring sessions where Clementine tended to go really hard without any reason other than the thrill of the fight, and then the representative that favored pain as an effective method of teaching. “Torture? No, there wasn’t any torturing. It’s not like I would magically know anything more than the average person just because I was matched with you. There were...”

“There were what?”

“Ummmm, like deals. Offers. Big corporations that wanted a foothold in this territory. I didn’t get much more than a few contract messages before Starward Matchmakers cut off all contact from the outside so I could, um, ‘focus on integrating into Lolth’s society’,” you use air quotes there, rolling your eyes. “I just think they’re worried they might not be the only intermedial and supposedly neutral presence in both sides- your eyes, by the way? Are really, very pretty. Like kaleidoscope colors, but without the kaleidoscope.” You reach out, then stop, remembering it’s probably not a good idea to poke one of his eyeballs.

He doesn’t shy away from the aggressive hand gestures, only creeps slightly closer. “Surely the presence of the representative helps you now? With acclimating?”

“Uh,” is this like… a test? Does he want you to tell him what’s happened? You start playing with the end of your hospital dress, tugging at the threads along the hem, trying to come up with the words to play this in your favor. “She’s been infected with a virus.”

“I didn’t think people of her caliber got sick.”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “No, no, an electric virus, like someone from the outside has managed to hack into her internal functions? People do it for corporate espionage, like, all the damn time.” When he appears to be absorbing the information as though it’s brand spanking new, you add, almost hesitantly, “didn’t you know about this?”

“No,” he says, calm, “I did not. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday she came back, all loopy and stuff. Had to shut her down for a full reboot, but this morning her diagnostics found a foreign programming, like a bug or something.” You yawn, placing your fingers in front of her mouth. “I thought you had something to do with it, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought-” he pauses, trying to come up with the words, “that I had something to do with that? Why?”

You shrug weakly, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

“Do I seem to be the person who-” his voice trails off, his mouth closing sharply. “Have I done anything that made you seem unsafe?”

“No.” Maybe you should stop petting his hair while you talk about how untrustworthy you’ve found him in the last couple of days, but it’s so silky? And shiny? The black almost shimmers in the now-green light, it’s actually kind of fun to play with. “You’ve been way nicer than I’d thought you’d be.”

The prince is silent for a moment more. “How so?”

“Everyone told me that you’d be all rawrrrrrr,” you use your fingers for makeshift mandibles on either side of your mouth, “I’m gonna eat you, little girl, and toast to Satan with your blood, and make cute belts and stuff from your skin and wear your face like a hat! But it turns out you don’t eat orc babies because you believe they will give you strength.”

He stares you dead in the eye. “How do you know that I didn’t feed you orc infants during our first dinner?”

You stare, dumbly, and then you think if you open your eyes any wider, they might fall out of your skull. “Y-y-you did not-”

He laughs, laughs, the sound as relieving and good, you feel the same kind of serene flow as when you first heard real, planet-made rain, a sudden shock at what it is, and then a warm feeling spreading out from your chest and down to your fingertips.

“You were joking? You were joking,” you say, and then you start giggling too because damn, that was kind of funny, despite your initial terror at the thought of infanticide. Your vision sharpens, the shapes and angles of the prince becoming far more vibrant.

The door slides open, and your eyes fall onto the Bloody Doctor of the Kazzanine Run, a tall, thin, and rather gaunt elf holding up a medical tablet, those blackened eyes falling over onto you. On instinct, you grab for the closest thing you might be able to use as a weapon, in this case, the prince’s arm. “Ah,” they say, their voice familiar to you as the other person in the room earlier, “our lovely patient seems lucid enough to participate.”

You swallow thickly, your grip tightening around the prince’s arm as though it’s your only anchor to survival in this situation. “I thought you were dead.”

Indeed, the side of their face that has been hit by the laser blast of a rather resourceful sniper is marred with burn scars and discolored flesh, the corner of their mouth drooping down slightly despite the wickedly curved smile they wear like a painted mask. “Well, well, well, it looks like our favorite human girl has been keeping up with her government’s propaganda. No, I’m afraid that rumors of my demise have been grossly exaggerated.”

“Don’t leave me alone with them,” you whisper, low enough that only the prince will hear, and then slap on a halfhearted, “please.”

“Now, now, young lady,” they say, almost, condescendingly, “I’m here only to keep you alive, as my expertise in your species’ anatomy is not nearly as lacking as friends on Lolth.”

“From fucking experimenting on unwilling test subjects!”

They flick a little vial of liquid with their yellow-tinged finger. “I won’t expect someone like you to agree. with my methods, despite their necessity.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

“One day you’ll understand, I’m sure.” They come closer, holding the glass vial out to the prince instead of daring to step into your kicking radius. “Lolth has a way of leaching out your spirit.”

You see, unable to come up with anything that wouldn’t make you seem unseemly, but you are this close to ripping off one of the prince’s golden claws to stab that monster in the throat.

“I apologize a thousand times, sire, but I have yet to find a muscle strengthener dosage, so have her take a drop or two of the inhibitor before bed, this will only help her sleep through the night, staving off any migraine and muscle pain.”

“I didn’t ask for a temporary solution, Nisesh, I asked for something permanent.”

“I understand, keias, but I must respectfully remind you that the tiniest, most minuscule detail could potentially kill her,” they look directly at you, eyes narrow, “so I must request that I take the time that I need in order to make sure everything is properly concocted.”

The prince places a hand on your head, almost in reassurance. “I suggest that you hurry.”

They bow as low as any dog looking for a modicum of approval from its master will bow. “Of course, keias. If I may get started?”

“Do what you have to.”

As that monster leaves, you look at the vial in the prince’s hands, already deciding that you are not going to be taking it under any circumstances, not willing, anyway. Your stomach heats up as the room begins to tilt to the side, you recognize the urge to vomit the second your throat begins to tighten. “I need a bowl.”

“A bowl?”

“Or something, I’m about to throw up.”

You’ve never seen the prince scramble, but he does so now, his legs skittering against the hard metal floor as he flies to the counter on the other side of the room, finding something with enough volume to hold your stomach contents, and returns just in time for you to seize it with both arms. You tilt your head forward as whatever was in your stomach flies out, coughing, spluttering, the bile burning the back of your throat as it shoves its way up. It takes a few moments for you to even manage to pull in a gasping, choking breath before another round ensues. The prince hovers over you, hands out but not touching, unsure if there is anything he can do to help.

“I’m done,” you cough, “and I’m ready to go to bed now.”

“Of- of course,” he says, looking somewhat frazzled for the first time since you’ve met him.

The vomit stays where you hope that elfish abomination will be the one to have to deal with it, but you know there is probably an army of custodians that take care of that sort of thing. You have to change, though, and the prince respectfully steps out of the room while you do so, managing to finagle your arms to pull just enough of the buttons loose enough for the clinic dress’ removal. To be in your clothes again is a relief, the hospital gown made you feel kind of exposed, especially in the face of a war criminal you didn’t think you would ever manage to cross paths with. Your fingers start shaking as you tab the pad on the side of the door, opening it, and try to remain calm as you exit the room.

The prince waits for you to the side, hugging the wall to make himself smaller in case of passing workers. “Do you feel better?”

Your head is still light and fuzzy, but at least you’re able to comprehend that you’re high. Maybe the self-awareness will keep you from doing anything stupid. “A bit, but not fabulous.”

“Perhaps the substance was… unwarranted. Doctor Nisesh tends to be, how would you say it, ‘trigger happy’ when it comes to medications. I should have told them not to do it.”

“Don’t let them do anything to me.”

There is a pause. “You know I wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt you.”

” Do not let them do anything to me.”

The prince gives you a nod. “If you insist, then I shall see if there is another doctor versed in human anatomy available.”

“Good.” Your response is terse, but you don’t have it in you to be polite anymore.

He takes you to a waiting area, one with chairs facing towards two tunnels on opposite sides. On one end, a small, private tramcar waits, apparently for you, because he leads you to the open doors. The inside is plush, cushioned, and just the sort of disgustingly comfortable method of transit that you’d expect the royal family to have. And, since you’re a new addition, you suppose, you’re going to enjoy it, so you bounce onto one of the longer seats and lay your head down on the pillow.

“How long until we get back?”

“A few minutes,” the prince says, “it’s probably better if you rest, though, so if you wish to, then please do.”

“Right,” you say, laying your head down on the pillow, suddenly waking back up in your room.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Do you know any fics that contain highly emotional love making scenes? (where they're really overwhelmed or one of them cries?). Preferably bottomlock? Thank you!(:

Hi Nonny!

OHHHH this is an old one; I started a list WAY back when you sent me this ask, and then I just… kept adding to it. So, I decided because I needed a new fic list, I’m going to finally post it… I’m so sorry that all of these are a mix between top-, switch-, and bottomlock

EMOTIONAL LOVE MAKING

Under The Covers by berlynn_wohl (E, 1,221 w. || Est. Rel., Shy Sherlock, Anal, Fluff) – John would have liked to have the lights on and seen everything, but Sherlock was shy, so they did it this way, always.

Husband by jinglebell (E, 2,003 w. || Est. Rel., PWP, Anal, Multiple Orgasms, Fluff) – Sherlock orgasms when John refers to him as ‘husband’.

What He’s Like by magikspell (E, 2,919 w. || Love Confessions, Fluff, First Time, Inexperienced Sherlock) – Realistic first time. They love each other so much.

Pillow Talk by 221b_hound (E, 2,925 w. || Post-HLV, Est. Rel., Preening Sherlock, Limpet Sherlock, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Sex on Furniture, Scent Kink, Masturbation, Fluff, Soft Sherlock) – John gets home late from work and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John walks through the flat, distracted by memories of all the excellent sex they’ve been having, and finally finds Sherlock asleep in the upstairs room - apparently having fallen asleep mid-wank while inhaling the scent of John’s pillow. Well, you should always finish what you start, John thinks… Part 3 of Lock and Key

Affirmation by jamlockk (E, 3,096 w. || First Time, Dev. Rel., PWP, Love Declarations, Emotional Sherlock, Comforting John, Gross Fluff) – “Sunlight dappled John’s skin, casting a glow across his spreadeagled form as he dozed among the rumpled sheets. Sherlock knew the expression on his face was hopelessly soft but for once did not care about showing his true feelings so openly. He simply stood there, in the doorway, gazing at the impossibly beautiful man currently snuffling softly in his slumber.” Part 8 of All the ways we love

And as the seasons change, I love you more by Teatrolley (NR, 3,219 w. || Fluff and Angst, Est. Rel., Marriage / Proposal) – A year in the lives of John and Sherlock, essentially.

Untouched by KittieHill (E, 3,239 w. || Kissing, Frottage, Virgin Sherlock, Body Worship, Sherlock’s Scars Mentioned, Masturbation, PWP, Rimming) – Sherlock leaked a lot. John had never needed lubricant. John loved watching it, had once spent an entire afternoon edging Sherlock so he could watch as the thick precome drip, drip, dripped onto Sherlock’s belly.

Apodyopsis by QuinnAnderson (E, 3,347 w. || PWP, Rough Sex, Table Sex, Anal, Sexual Tension) – Apodyopsis: (æpəʊdaɪˈɒpsɪs) noun. the act of mentally undressing someone. Part 2 of Undressed

In Nomine by Atiki (E, 3,517 w. || Est. Rel., PWP, Anal, Domesticity, Love Confessions, Sherlock Loves John, Overwhelmed Sherlock) – “Alright?” John asks gently, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s left collar bone, smoothing a hand down his chest and belly until it rests in the soft trail of hair below his belly button. John’s smile is all soft and warm. His hand feels tender and solid and real. A soldier’s hand. A surgeon’s hand. A lover’s hand. Oh. “John”, Sherlock gasps. And that’s where it begins. Written for a prompt on the Kink Meme: The only word Sherlock says during sex is “John”.

Stay by msdisdain (M, 3,561 w. || First Kiss / Time, Angst / H/C, Bed Sharing, Nightmares, Blow Jobs, Anal) – John’s nightmares are nothing new. Sherlock’s inability to ignore them, however, is.

Morning Sunlight by slashscribe (E, 3,565 w || PWP, Morning Sex, Fluff, PWP) – A thin band of soft morning light peeks between the curtains and stretches across John’s torso, laying dormant across his forearm, dipping into the space between his arm and his chest, illuminating his right nipple but just brushing the edge of his left, disappearing into his armpit, and reappearing again right over Sherlock’s eyes where his head rests, nestled against John’s shoulder. Sherlock is not annoyed by the light’s intrusion on his sleep, not when it rests so soft and tantalizing on John’s skin, a work of unintentionally erotic art. A PWP with so much emotion.

Rumpled by WhimsicalEthnographies (E, 3,601 w. || Est. Rel., Insecure Sherlock, Fluff, PWP, Proposal, Bottomlock) – Then, halfway through a documentary on river otters that neither of them was paying attention to–how could John, with a gangly, limp consulting detective practically purring in his lap?–Sherlock suddenly bolted upright, looked at John with a perplexed expression and a crinkle above his nose, and blurted, “Marry me.” Part 4 of Longitudinal Cohort

Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3,772 w. || Est. Rel., Vulnerable Sherlock, Wedding Anniversary, Anal, Texting, Lingerie) – John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.

Love and Hair Dye by WhimsicalEthnographies (E, 3,920 w. || Est. Rel., Body Worship, Self Conscious John, Voyeurism, Idiots in Love, Smutty Smut) – Self conscious John decides to cover the greys on his head, and the colour isn’t what he thought it would be. Now he’s more self-conscious than ever.

Someone Else’s Heart by thisprettywren (E, 4,188 w. || First Time, H/C, POV Sherlock, Caretaking John, Pining Idiots) – A crime scene, a rainstorm, and something they both should have known all along.

Private Rituals by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic) (E, 4,377 w. || Mastrubation, Anal, Light BDSM, Military Kink) – Sherlock has a very specific masturbation ritual, but what would John think of it?

a violent flash of purple by hudders-and-hiddles (E, 4,749 w. || Sex Toys, Friends to Lovers, PWP, Love Confessions, Porn With Feelings) – When Sherlock accidentally drops his towel, he ends up revealing a whole lot more than he’d intended.

One Day Like This by nondeducible (E, 4,872 w. || First Time, Bed-Sharing, Romance, Fluff, Virgin Sherlock) – When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, the sight before him nearly took his breath away. The only light in the room was the small lamp on the bedside table. John’s skin shone like gold, his hair like the purest silver. He was on his side, facing the empty part of the bed, his outstretched hands ready to embrace whoever climbed in next to him. Sherlock could imagine, just for a second, that this was their shared bed and he was coming back to settle into John’s arms.

See Recipe for Details by pandoras_chaos (E, 4,981 w. || Oral / Anal Sex, Food, PWP, Fingerfucking) – John knows Sherlock’s mouth will never water over the sweet smells of baking chocolate biscuits or a lovely roast chicken, but he’s watched Sherlock nick mince pies out of Mrs. Hudson’s fridge often enough to deduce that the man does have taste, albeit confusing and obscure. So John makes a list: Things Sherlock Likes

Sleeping next to you by Salambo06 (E, 5,018 w. || ASiB Fic, Bed Sharing, Frottage, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, Anal, First Kiss/Time) – Based on an Anonymous Prompt: “So, that scene from ASiB when Mrs H has been attacked by the american CIA guy & John, Sherlock & she are in Mrs H’s kitchen when John says “She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her.” to which Sherlock replies with “no”. John of course suggested that because he cares about her safety, but maybe he also did it cause he /wanted/ that to happen. What if they finally agreed on letting her have John’s or Sherlock’s bed & J&S sleep in the same one?“ Part 12 of Tumblr Collection

Every Little Thing by the_beekeeper_of_sussex (E, 5,066 w. || First Time / Kiss, Fluff, Frottage, Come as Lube, Embarassed Sherlock, Porn With Feelings) – When Sherlock walks in on John making tea wearing nothing but a tight pair of boxer-briefs things get a little heated…physically and emotionally.

all things warm and tender by darcylindbergh (E, 5,177 w. || PWP, Romantic Fluff, Rimming/Anal/BJ’s, Body Worship) – Grinning and giggling, John slides back down under the sheet and pulls it over his head. He finds Sherlock waiting for him, eyes bright and hair wild, the firelight bleeding through the thin fabric, colouring everything in soft peach and topaz, and in that moment he is so suddenly, unexpectedly, ethereally beautiful that John forgets how to breathe.

Strings by EstherShapiro (E, 5,267 w. || Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Massage, Friends to Lovers, Fingering, Anal, PWP) – Sherlock wakes his doctor up. Was this weird? John was sitting on his bed, late at night, rubbing his hands over another man’s body? That was supposed to be weird, right? Then again, this wasn’t just some man, it was Sherlock. They were so used to each other that John didn’t even think to question it. It wasn’t weird.

a very soft epilogue (my love) by darcylindbergh (E, 5,395 w. || Retirement, Domestic Fluff, Dancing, Dogs, Grumpy Old Men) – Across the pillows, Sherlock shifts and hums, the creases of his face deepening and then smoothing before settling. John watches him wake up, his chest swelling with affection and fondness, and thinks he’ll never get tired of Sherlock in the mornings, sleepy and soft. It’s been some forty-odd years, and John hasn’t gotten tired of it yet. Part 5 of things fairy tales are made of

Midnight Plowboy by weeesi (E, 5,399 w. || Est. Rel., Fake Vintage Gay Erotica, Anal, PWP, Roleplay) – “Does it feel like I’m sure?” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock swallows again.

Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6,090 w. || First Time, Clueless Sherlock, Texting) – Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John’s lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to recieve pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.

All the Flavours, Cherry and More by cwb (E, 6,274 w. || Est. Rel., Lip Gloss, Lingerie, Birthday Presents, Insecure Sherlock) – Sherlock feels a blush rising to touch his cheeks, more sensual than uncomfortable now that he knows John isn’t disgusted by him. No, John is responding exactly the way he had hoped.

The Effect of Memory by testosterone_tea (E, 6,430 || Praise Kink, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Confused Sherlock) – John has temporary amnesia coming off of anaesthesia after an operation and not only does he not recognize Sherlock, he starts flirting with him! After John recovers, he doesn’t remember the incident at all. But Sherlock does. Confusion ensues.

Beg for Mercy (Twice) by Solitary_Endeavor (E, 7,060 w. || Est. Rel., Bottomlock, Bearded John, Edging, Rough Sex, Idiots in Love, Canon Compliant) – Sherlock hasn’t left the flat in four days, the itch of impatience beneath his skin too great to allow him to suffer interaction with any human being who isn’t John. This is probably a mercy that goes both ways, as he’s driving even himself mad. Sherlock supposes there is a lesson to be learned here about having himself to blame, but of course he blames Mycroft.

Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn’t Like His Doctors Clean Shaven by allonsys_girl (E, 7,313 w. || Est. Rel., PWP / Porn With Feelings, John’s Beard / Beard Kink, Roleplay, Love Declarations, Banter, Rimming, Anal, Domestic Fluff / Bliss, Idiots in Love, Emotional Lovemaking, Pet Names, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock) – John grows a beard. Sherlock really likes it. Part 1 of Consulting Husbands

Coda by SilentAuror (E, 7,448 w. || PWP, POV John, Porn with Feels, Switch, Fluff) – Coda to A Satisfactory Arrangement. “This is all I want to do for the rest of my life,” Sherlock tells him. “Screw the work. Let’s just stay in bed forever.” Part 2 of A Satisfactory Arrangement

High and Tight, Soft and Loose by cwb (E, 7,429 w. || Jealous John, Miscommunications / Misunderstandings, First Kiss / Time, BAMF John, Insecure Sherlock, Clueless Sherlock, Junk Size, UST / RST) – John pressed the knuckle of his index finger against his mouth and sighed. “So, you’re coiled like a spring and ready to be … sprung?” “If you want to be pedestrian about it, yes.” “Like I said, you should do something about that.” “And like I said, pedestrian. What would you have me do? Take up jogging? Yoga? Oh! Unless you mean –” “I don’t mean anything. Let’s drop it.”

I can’t pretend by Salambo06 (E, 7,692 w. || Fake Relationship, Victor Trevor, Jealous John, Miscommunications, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Anal, BJs) – They had arrived more than a hour ago, and the moment they had walked inside the hotel reception, John had understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come. Two men, posh suits and expensive watches on their wrists, had come to greet them with sharp remarks and badly hidden mockery, and John had seen red. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, mostly ignoring the two men entirely, and without thinking twice about it, John had slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and introduced himself as his husband.

The Very Unlikely Existence of a Flightless Bird in a Tuxedo by cwb (E, 8,829 w. || Poetry, Penguins / Animals / Zoos, First Kiss / Time, Blow / Hand Jobs, Sleepy Cuddles, Endearments, Friendship / Love, Adorable / Sleepy Sherlock, Case Fic, Sherlock Can’t Say Penguin) – A case at the zoo reveals something John finds cute about Sherlock. A conversation ensues, and so does happy endings.

A Lifetime Together by LondonGypsy (M, 8,886 w. || Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Falling in Love, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Pining Idiots, Alternating POVs) – John and Sherlock falling in love.

Unwasted by patternofdefiance (E, 8,966 w. || Post-S3 / S3 Fix-It, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Angelo’s, Fluff, First Time, Anal, Cum Play, Flashbacks to ASiB, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Bottomlock, Cuddles, Multiple Orgasms, BJ’s, Bed Sharing) – John finds it three months after he’s moved back. He’s on the hunt for something to make for dinner, is scrounging through the cupboards, when he happens upon the graveyard of pasta boxes Sherlock still seems to create when left to his own devices. Behind seven boxes of pasta, all almost completely empty, is a dark-glassed bottle, with a paler coat of dust.It’s unopened. John’s face falls slack when he sees it, instantly recognises it, and for a long moment he just stands and looks at it.

With This Ring by Quesarasara (E, 9,121 w. || Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Embarrassing Hospital Visits) – Sometimes even the best of plans go wrong. And sometimes wrong turns out to be exactly right.

The Painted Man by jinglebell (E, 9,894 w. || Tattoos, Scent / Tattoo Kink, Rough & Tender Sex, Fluff and Smut, Obsessive / Jealous Sherlock, Touch Starvation) – Here stood John Watson – middle name, Hamish, ex-RAMC captain and field medic, favourite brand of jam: Duerr’s, preferred toothpaste: Mentadent. Loyal, steadfast, interesting John had just done the most unpredictable thing merely by being.John’s body was covered, neck-to-waistband, shoulder-to-elbow, in tattoos.

Of Course I Forgive You by allonsys_girl (E, 10,735 w. || Love Confessions, Canon Divergence, First Time, Frottage, Wall Sex, Infidelity) – What if things had gone differently on that train car?

The Thin Line by Odamaki (M, 10,809 w. || Virgin Sherlock, Awkwardness, Confessions, First Times, Anal) – John swallows. Keeps his eyes on Sherlock. Begs him not to ruin him.Sherlock leans forward over the witness box ever-so slightly, “I was distracted,” he informs the court, “by my partner, John Watson.”

Praise Me by testosterone_tea (E, 11,813 w. || Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Dev. Rel., Virgin Sherlock, First Kiss / TimeBJ’s, Anal, Praise Kink) – In which Sherlock has an interesting physical reaction to compliments and John discovers it.

the first day of forever by darcylindbergh (E, 11,850 w. || Est. Relationship, Domestics, Light Angst, Insecurity, Emotional H/C) – “I’m going to marry you,” John murmurs with against Sherlock’s smile, and they both giggle in the joy of it. “We’re getting married.”“Yes,” Sherlock says, just to hear himself say it out loud. “We are.” A June wedding. Part 4 of things fairy tales are made of

Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w. | Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock’s perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.

The Slow Burn by CaitlinFairchild (E, 12,097 w. | Romance, Emotional Infidelity, Friends to Lovers) – John smiles, something small and private and for him alone, and Sherlock just…he knows. With a heart-stopping certainty, Sherlock suddenly knows.It feels like falling off the edge of a cliff. It feels like falling off the edge of the world. It feels like flying.

I Need You To See Me by Mssmithlove (E, 12,625 w. || Angst, Amnesia, Soldier!John) – After going back to war, John is yet again invalided home, this time with a broken ankle and a chunk of his memory missing, unable to recall the last five years he’s spent being Sherlock Holmes’ partner and husband. Part 9 of Happiness Awaits

And if you say the word, I could stay with you by CaitlinFairchild (E, 12,842 w. || Domestic Fluff, BottomJohn / Topping from the Bottom, Fluff and Romance, Dirty Talk, Proposals) – What Sherlock thinks is, On the day I die, be it in a dirty alley at forty or in my bed at eighty, the last thing I will remember is tonight, the way you looked at at me on the snowy pavement, cheeks pink with the cold, breath puffing in frosty white clouds, your heart in your eyes and snowflakes in your hair. I will remember that single perfect moment in my life, that moment I knew I had everything I ever wanted, and whatever happens next, I will die content. What he says is simply, "Marry me.”

Back to the Start by slashscribe (M, 14,088 w. || Sherlock’s Violin, Pining Idiots, Fluff, Domestics) – Sherlock hasn’t played the violin since John’s wedding (which is long since over), and when John returns to 221B, Sherlock relearns the violin as he and John relearn each other. Post S3 fic with an obscene amount of pining, idiocy, and attempts to pawn off tea duties.

Your Eyes in Darkness Glowing by tamed_untranslatable (E, 14,686 w. || Est. Rel., Case Fic, Hotel Sex, Bottomlock, Anal, BJ’s, Porn With Feelings, Homophobia) – Sherlock gets roped into a case in Moscow on his brother’s insistence, but finds that he can’t do it without John.

Pattern Behaviour by SilentAuror (E, 14,835 w. || POV First Person Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Introspection, Stroppy Sherlock, Light Humour, Friendship, John Takes Care of Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Wall Kisses, Fluffy Angst, Happy Ending) – Sherlock doesn’t even know why he resents John’s dates so much. Until the day he does know. Slight angst, unrequited feelings (but don’t let that scare you off!)

In A Changing Age by allonsys_girl (E, 15,590 w. || Victorian AU, Virgin / Demi Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Mild H/C) – Sherlock wakes up in the 19th century, with no idea how he got there.

A Hundred Thousand Ways to Say the Name John by Jberry (E, 16,825 w. || Fake Relationship, Fake Marriage, POV John, Pining John, Cruise Ship, Angst & Fluff) –  John Watson and Sherlock Holmes must solve a case on a cruise ship. To get close to the crew and passengers, they must get married for the case on the Baetica. However, their relationship hits rocky seas both due to the case and internal conflicts. Part 1 of Baetica [[FAVE!!! MUST READ!!]]

Best of Three by SilentAuror (E, 17,473 w. || POV John, 3G Moment, Porn with Feels, Post HLV, Rimming, Denial, Anal) – “You want to have sex with me,” Sherlock announces one evening about a year after John’s divorce. John’s vigorous denial sparks a three-day wager wherein Sherlock is determined to prove his point, and John is determined to hold onto his heterosexuality. Set well after HLV. (Canon-compliant). PORN. With feels.

Anytime by SilentAuror (E, 17,995 w. || UST, Porn With Feels, POV Sherlock, Romance, UST/URT, Happy Ending, Drunken Endeavors) – Sherlock blinks and attempts to focus. There is a little too much vodka in his veins at the moment and it’s having an unfortunate effect on his brain and retinas both. There are two Johns sitting across from him, and both of them are frowning at him.“You’re drunk,” the Johns tell him. Sherlock blinks some more. “Says the man with Mrs Hudson’s doily on his head.”

Between Friends by SilentAuror (E, 18,036 w. || Post S3, Alternating POV, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Abduction, Awkward Situations / Miscommunications, Porn With Feels, Blowjobs, Pining, Unrequited, Angst With Happy Ending) – Sherlock gets abducted. As John discovers him tied up naked in an empty storage facility and comes to rescue him, Sherlock’s body has an unfortunate reaction which triggers a series of events. John is convinced that everything will be fine as long as they never discuss it. Sherlock isn’t as sure…

For you, there’s only me by shock_blanket (E, 19,557 w. || Jealous Idiots, Virgin Sherlock, UST/RST, Pining, Miscommunication, First Kiss / Time, Insecure Sherlock, Masturbation) – Sherlock realizes he has fallen in love with John, but believes he is unlovable. Cue lots of pining and jealousy on Sherlock’s part, followed by our favorite cuddly marksman making it all better. Because for Sherlock, there’s only John.

At the Heart of it All by SilentAuror (E, 19,812 w. || Virgin Sherlock, Post S3, POV John, Domestics, First Time, Kissing, Romance) – John has been back at Baker Street for four months now and thinks it’s about time they had the Talk to see whether or not they could be more than friends. Sherlock has a lot of uncertainty about this concept for multiple reasons. Unabashed romance.

A Life Well-Lived by Kate_Lear (E, 20,121 w. || Original Male Character, Sherlock Woos John, Jealous Sherlock, Reluctant Bi-John, Past Abuse, Insecure John, Reassuring / Caring Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Understanding Sherlock) – John got scared off men by an abusive past relationship. Sherlock has to try and woo him while not scaring him off with protective possessive rage.

whiskies neat by Ellipsical (E, 20,660 w. || Alternate First Meeting, POV Second Person Sherlock, Slow Burn, One Night Stand, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Anal, Soldier John, Crying, Emotional Lovemaking, Switchlock) – Home and hearth and whiskies neat, or, alternatively, Sherlock Holmes falls in love.

When to Let Go by KendylGirl (M, 22,109 w. || Friends to Lovers, Reverse Reichenbach, Sacrifice, Forgiveness, Angst, Love, Implied Drug Use) – What if it were John who had to die to thwart Moriarty’s plans? John’s supposed death shatters Sherlock, and when he returns, it will challenge the pair to forge a path of forgiveness, to peace, and to find a way back to each other. Part 1 of When to Let Go

Sonatina in G Minor by SilentAuror (E, 22,574 w. || Case Fic, POV Sherlock, Angst, UST, Sherlock’s Violin, Post-S3, Romance) – John has come back to Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn’t understand the strange tension between them, even after he begins teaching John to play the violin at John’s request.

Maintaining A Personal Life by Gingerhermit (E, 24,284 w. || Alternating POV’s, Bisexuality, BAMF!John, Romance / Drama, Sort-of Case Fic, Peril & Angst, Love Confessions, Toplock, Soft Idiots in Love, Post S3) – Sherlock and John discover some interesting revelations about each other’s sexuality, which lead them both to question the assumptions they’ve made about one another for years. In the midst of their mutual discoveries, a dangerous psychopath looms on the side-lines who threatens to destroy their new beginning.

Tomorrow’s Song by agirlsname (M, 24,645 w. || Post-TRF, POV Sherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Virgin / Repressed Sherlock, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Pining) – How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces. (I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)

State of Flux by Atiki (E, 24,655 w. || Sherlock POV, Slow Burn, First Kiss/Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Cuddles and Snuggles, Awkwardness, Insecure/Virgin Sherlock, Romance) – John’s marriage is over and he is finally back home (i.e. at Baker Street, where he belongs). Sherlock is awfully insecure and John is awfully hesitant, and they’re both awkward idiots, of course, but they figure it out. Many First Times happen.

Among the Secret Things by Kate_Lear for coloredink (E, 26,073 w. || Angst, Drama, Amnesia) – Sherlock would be the last person to describe himself as given to flights of fancy, but at the look on Lestrade’s face he could swear that something inside him curls up and dies. Part 1 of Among the Secret Things

Don’t Leave Anything Out by lookupkate (E, 27,422 w. || Epistolary, Falling in Love, Misunderstandings, Alternate First Meeting) – The first letter John writes home from Afghanistan is meant to go to a woman he went on only one date with. How it ends up in Sherlock’s hands is completely innocent. What happens next is not. What do you do when you find out the person you’re in love with has been lying about something as monumental as who they are? What do you do when you’re the one who lied? How on earth do you put the pieces back together?

a good old-fashioned happy ending by darcylindbergh (E, 32,731 w. || Christmas, Frottage, Comfort, Est. Rel., Fluff, Insecure Sherlock) – For Christmas this year, Sherlock wants to get John something special: something every fairytale deserves. Part 2 of things fairy tales are made of

The Wrong Wagon by DancingGrimm (E, 35,663 w. || Alternating POV, MollyxJohn [Molly pines for John], Public Sex, Casual Sex, Obliviousness, BAMF!John, Awkwardness, Angst & Humour, First Time, Virgin Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock) – Molly sees John in a new light and realises that she may have hitched her horse to the wrong wagon…or something like that. John pines for Sherlock and worries what he will think if he ever finds out. And Sherlock doesn’t know what Molly’s up to…but he knows he doesn’t like it.

Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (E, 36,833 w. || Post-TRF, First Time, Reunion, Jealous John, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending, Sherlock Has a Boyfriend) – When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.

The Unfinished Letters by SilentAuror (E, 37,391 w. || Post S3 / S3 / HLV Fix it, Angst with Happy Ending, Romance, Infidelity, Depression, Case Fic, POV Third Person Sherlock, Love Confessions, Pining Sherlock, Letters) – A fire at Baker Street leads John to read something he was never intended to see: a notebook of half-written, unfinished letters Sherlock wrote during his time away…

Set in Stone by SilentAuror (E, 39,309 w. || Romance, Wedding, Therapy, Fluff and Angst) – Sherlock and John are back from Ravine Valley and planning their wedding. However, as they move past the trial of the human traffickers, Sherlock can’t help but wonder if he’s imagining that John is becoming a little distant. Surely he isn’t getting cold feet about the wedding… Part 2 of The Ravine Valley series

The Semantics of Crop Circle Formation: a case study by Sherlock Holmes [unpublished] bycanolacrush (M, 41,710 w. || Sherlock POV, Aliens, Wordplay, Casefic) – “Look at these photographs,” I said, gesturing to the wall of crop circles. “What do you observe?”“Crop circles,” John replied.“Obvious. What else?”“Are…are those intestines surrounding them?”“Yes. The majority are bovine and ovine in origin. The farmers who have acquired these crop circles in their fields have also had a tenth of their livestock murdered and arranged thus.”“Why?” John said, presumably in a rhetorical fashion. I detest rhetorical questions. “That is what I must find out, John.”

In the Still of the Night by SilentAuror (E, 42,234 w. || S4 Fix It / Post-S4, Sherlock POV, Angst, Drama, Romance, Virgin Sherlock, Awkwardness, Misunderstandings / Miscommunications, Case Fic, Travelling, Pining) – As locals on the Northeastern coast begin to report UFO sightings, life at Baker Street becomes significantly awkward as John brings up his desire for more than friendship and Sherlock refuses him. They embark on the investigation from the confines of the tiny cottage Mycroft has rented for them, attempting to navigate both the clues of the case as well as their own inability to communicate…

Bloody But Unbowed by BeautifulFiction (E, 43,211 w. || Abduction, John Whump, Mild Torture, Background Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Post-TRF / S3 Rewrite, Hurt/Comfort) – When a familiar argument threatens to destroy the last remnants of John and Sherlock’s failing friendship, both men are left questioning their worth to one another. Before either of them has the chance to make amends, circumstance intervenes. John is left at the mercy of his abductors, and this time, he’s not sure Sherlock will bother coming to his rescue.

Bedroom Tales by Junejuly15 (M, 49,950 w. || Friends to Lovers, Through the Years, H/C, Military Kink, First Kiss / Time, Romance, Insecure Sherlock, Voyeurism, Post-TRF, Ficlets, Fluff and Angst, Fix-It Fics) – Bedroom Tales is a collection of John and Sherlock ficletsThey are set at various stages of their relationship and are in no particular order. Some are fluffy, some sexy, some angsty, there is hurt and comfort, romance and love. What unites them is that they all play in a bedroom, but not necessarily the one in 221B.

Triage by scullyseviltwin (E, 51,612 w. || Character Injury, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Falling in Love, Slow Burn, Sherlock POV) – Sherlock’s mind goes exceedingly, devastatingly quiet and gray-blank. When he speaks it’s through a thick haze, it’s through molasses, he’s so disconnected from the words that it may as well be the unconscious shooter speaking.

John Watson’s Twelve Days of Christmas by earlgreytea68 (M, 53,464 w. || Christmas, Holmes Family, Fake Relationship, Alternate First Meeting, Falling in Love, Fluff and Angst, Hardcore Pining) – It’s the holiday season. John Watson needs money. Sherlock Holmes needs something else.

Albion and the Woodsman by Glenmore (E, 54,437 w. || Post S3 || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst, Family, Drug Use, Depression, Sherlock POV) – Sherlock and John are devastated after Mary Morstan makes her final moves. Sherlock relapses at the crack house, John walks around the world … and a lot happens in between. Parentlock, in the good way.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because…new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride… prepare for blast off. Part 1 of the SpaceBois go to Space series

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock’s first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

Bridging the Ravine by SilentAuror (E, 58,883 w. || Post S4, Couple For a Case, Bed-Sharing, First Times, Confessions, Awkwardness, Sex Trafficking) – Sherlock and John go undercover at Ravine Valley, a therapy centre for same-sex male couples in an investigation into a possible human trafficking ring. As they pose as a couple and fake their way through the therapy sessions for the sake of the case, it quickly becomes difficult to avoid discussing their very real issues. Set roughly six nine months after series 4.

The Book of Silence by SilentAuror (E, 60,056 w. || S4 Fix It / Post S4, Virgin Sherlock, Rosie / Parentlock, Domesticity, Fluff, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, First Person POV) – As spring blooms in London, John and Sherlock begin to take new cases and cautiously negotiate this new phase of life with John living at Baker Street again. Despite how well it’s all going, John struggles to forgive himself for the way he treated Sherlock following Mary’s death as well as trying to figure out how to finally put his long-time feelings for Sherlock into words. Part 1 of The Book of Silence/Rosa Felicia

Scars by SilentAuror (E, 60,493 w. || Rape / Non-Con / Abuse, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Dub Con Elements, Homophobia, Angst With Happy Ending, Mary is Not Nice) – S3 rewrite, showing Mary’s manipulation of John as he realizes his love for Sherlock. Mary is not having it.

The Moonlight and the Frost by CaitlinFairchild (E, 77,289 w. || Case Fic, Post-HLV, Self Harm, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Oral/Anal/Rimming, Romance, Angst, Mary is Not Nice) – John has to somehow rebuild his life in the wake of Mary’s betrayal and Sherlock’s deceptions.

Secrets and Revelations by Hisstah (E, 85,535 w. || Sentinel / Guides AU, Omegaverse, Aventure, Violence, Anal / Oral, Omega!John / Alpha!Sherlock, Case Fic, Politics, Mild DubCon) – Dr John Watson has some major secrets that he’s kept from his flatmate, Alpha Sentinel Sherlock Holmes. Now the Sentinel Tower is after him. Can John stay out of their hands until he can reveal his secrets to Sherlock? Part 1 of Secrets and Revelations

Bleed Me Out by antietamfalls (E, 87,987 w. || Vampire AU || Bonding, Vampire Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, H/C, John Whump, Magical Realism) – John isn’t exactly surprised to discover that Sherlock isn’t human. His vampirism doesn’t pose a problem, even when their relationship gradually grows into something more. That is, until a deadly revelation about John’s blood sends their lives spinning dangerously out of control.

31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017 Series by distantstarlight (E, 96,540 w. across 31 stories || Prompt Ficlets, Assorted Kinks, PWP) – A collection in response to the 31 Days of Porn Challenge issued by AtlinMerrik! Thanks for doing that because this has been buttload of fun (that joke never gets old). All stories will be brief stand-alone one-shots.

The Baker Street Nativity by SwissMiss (E, 99,662 w. || Nativity! AU || Teacher Sherlock / TA John, Pining, Sherlock POV, UST, Angst, Christmas, Music/Song Fic, Anal / BJ’s, First Kiss / Time) – Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school’s Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Part 1 of The Baker Street Nativity Verse

The Cost of a Wish by slashscribe (E, 102,493 w. || xxxHolic Fusion || Spirits / Ghosts and Magic, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Soul Mates / Fated Lovers, Adventure, Immortal Sherlock, Powerful John, POV John, Frottage, Wish Granting, Angst with Happy Ending, Nightmares) – John has been plagued by a secret his entire life that has made him feel hopeless until he meets a mysterious, seemingly omniscient man named Sherlock Holmes who owns a wish-granting shop. Their meeting sets off a series of inevitable events that will change the course of both of their lives forever.

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w. || Alternate Future AU || , Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex, Case Fic, Emotional Love Making, Bath Time Fun) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It’s 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn’t need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In) by MojoFlower (E, 109,683 w. || Genie/Djinn AU || Magical Realism, H/C, Kidnapping, Genie Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Case Fic, H/C, Angst, Clubs, John Whump, Mild DubCon) – Fairy tales are for those who remember how to dream; not John Watson, broken and hiding from his bleak future in a beige bedsit. But then he discovers a lamp and finds himself in the dangerous riptide of an enigmatic man whose very existence is unbelievable, murder charges against his sister, and the growing pains of feeling alive once more.

To Light Another’s Path by BeautifulFiction (E, 128,654 w. || Post-TGG, Sick Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction / Recreational Drug Use, First Time / Kiss, Case Fic) – Teaching John to observe seems to be a losing battle, but when Sherlock falls ill and submits himself to John’s care, will he realise that there is more to life than the science of deduction? Meanwhile, there is a murder to solve, and John must try and convince Sherlock not to sacrifice his own health for the sake of the case.

A Fold in the Universe by darkest_bird (E, 152,869 w. || Omegaverse / Prime Universe Crossover || OmegaJohn / AlphaSherlock, First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Angst, H/C, Dub Con, Humour) – Alpha Sherlock and Omega John are in a relationship. Prime Sherlock and Prime John are not. So what happens when a freak fold in the universe switches one John for the other?

The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (E, 157,369 w. || Post-TRF, John First POV, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Present Tense, Imaginary Sherlock) – “Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?”

Gimme Shelter by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (E, 159,368 w. || 70′s Surfer AU || Period Typical Homophobia, Hawaii, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Professional Surfers, Gay John / Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, John was a Sailor, Misunderstandings) – All John Watson wants is the feeling of a freshly waxed surfboard under his feet and the hot California sun baking down onto his back. To finally go pro in the newly formed world of professional surfing and leave the dark memories of his past behind him as he rips across the face of a towering blue barrel. To lounge beside the beach bonfire every evening with an ice cold beer tucked into the cool sand beside him and listen to Pink Floyd and the Doors while the saltwater dries in his sun bleached hair. That’s all he wants, that is, until the hot young phenom taking Oahu and the Hawaiian shores by storm steps up next to him in the sand in the second round of the 1976 International Surf Competition.

MARKED FOR LATER

Eggs and Toast and Love Confessions by allonsys_girl (E, 10,386 w. || Post S3, Love Declarations, Friendship, Oral / Anal Sex, Fingering, Top John / Bottomlock, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love) – These two really are such idiots, but they figure it out in the end.

Figuring It Out Together by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (E, 18,329 w. || Virgin Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Frottage, Shower Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Fingering / Sex, Fluff, Light Plot) – “So, being emotionally intimate makes you want to be physically intimate?” “Yes.” “Okay. And, uh, how far are you interested in going with that?“ (A story in which there is a first time for everything…)

[banshee1013]

Suptober Day 25 - Tattoos

Link to ficlet on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203021

Day late again but this one took me a while. My first attempt at arms and hands - damn they’re hard!

Accompanying ficlet is an excerpt from my upcoming Harry Dresden/Mists Of Avalon/Supernatural crossover fic.

Rating (for this excerpt): Teen

Warnings: Nothing you wouldn’t see on an episode of Supernatural.

Background: Kat, the Lady of Avalon and wielder of Amoracchius, one of the Swords of the Cross and originally a piece of the Holy Regalia of Avalon, has just returned from a visit with the Lady of the Summer Fae. Time travels differently in Faery, so while she believes she's only been gone for several hours, she has been gone for over a week  "real time". Sam, Dean, and Cas become alarmed at her absence, so they track her to Chicago and Harry's house to confront him just as she returns from Faery, and sporting some new ink.

=====================================

"Wait…a… a WEEK?" Kat stammered, then turned to Harry. "A WEEK?"

 Harry ran a hand through his hair absently. "Uh, yeah… time passes a little differently in Faery, I forgot to mention it." He grinned apologetically. "Sorry?" 

"Yeah, that wouda been NICE TO KNOW, HARRY!" she growled, shoving him in the chest. 

"You're right, I should have warned you." Harry acquiesced. "But it doesn't excuse your attack dogs busting into my home and pointing guns at me!"

Kat glances over her shoulder to observe Sam, Dean, and Cas picking themselves up off the floor where Harry's spell had cast them. 

"Didn't seem to be a problem for you," she remarked, turning back to him. "They were worried! This would have been prevented if I would have known…"

Harry held up his hands in surrender. Butters headed over to where the boys were recovering to check on any injuries, but Dean waved him off angrily. 

Kat crossed her arms and surveyed each of them. "Fine. Is everyone going to behave now, so I can tell you what I learned?" 

Cas tilted his head, observing what appeared to be a familiar pattern on Kat's arms. "Is that… an angel banishing sigil?" he inquired, gesturing at the tattoos on her crossed arms, still fresh and slightly red from the needle.

Sam and Dean followed Cas' gesture and raised questioning eyes.

"Yeah, that's part of the story," she said, motioning in the direction of Harry’s living room before walking toward the kitchen cabinet where she knew Harry stashed his whiskey. Grabbing the bottle and five glasses, she met them back in the living room, setting them down on the coffee table there, then returned to the kitchen.

Dean grabbed the bottle. Unstopping it, he poured himself a hefty portion before plopping wearily down on the couch. Sam picked up the bottle and followed suit, handing it to Harry, who poured a glass, setting the bottle down when Butters waved off the proffered portion, and took a seat in an armchair.

Kat returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and handed it to Cas with a smile and a quick brush of his cheek.  She took his hand and led him to the living room where he joined Sam and Dean on the couch. Sam sat up quickly to pour a sizeable portion of the whiskey into a glass and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks and took a seat on the arm of the couch to face the group.

Dean broke the silence. "So… spill. What's with the new ink?"

Kat downed the whiskey in its entirety, waved for the bottle which Sam reached to grab and pass to her. She poured herself another large portion, setting the bottle down at her feet.

"When I left the Bunker, I said I was going to Avalon, right?" she addressed the boys, who nodded their assent. "Well, I did, and when I got there, what I learned made me realize that I'm gonna need some protection."

She stood and turned her back to them, gathering her hair and pulling it over the front of her shoulder, exposing the new anti-possession tattoo inked between her shoulder blades. "First, this. Placed where no one expects it and where I'd have to be killed to remove it." 

"Not necessarily," Cas commented. "It could simply be burned off."

Kat smiled grimly. "Not this one. Not only is it a tattoo, but it's scarred as well. Can burn off the ink but the design is there as long as my skin is."

She turned back to face them. "Then there's this, which you already recognized." She held up her arms, displaying the new tattoos on her forearms. 

"Yeah, the angel banishing sigil…," Dean noted,  "but you have half of the sigil on each forearm? What good is that going to do?" 

Kat pressed her forearms together, and as she did, the halves joined to form the full sigil. Cas flinched as she did so, then relaxed when nothing happened. 

"How very 'Constantine'," he quipped. 

Sam and Dean's heads snapped toward him in surprise. Kat barked a laugh. "Exactly! That's where I got the idea!"

Sam's brows knit in confusion. "But… it didn't work," he said, pointing to the obviously unbanished Cas. 

Kat nodded. "Right… I wanted the sigil close and easy to access, but require a bit of work to activate so as to not set it off accidentally." She approached them to show them the tattoo more closely, rusty red in color. "The ink was mixed with a healthy dose of my own blood. All it requires to activate it is a small nick on my forearm right above it to freshen the blood, I slam my forearms together a la 'Constantine'," she paused, giving Cas a wink, "and it activates. Bye-bye Angels." 

"I suppose you'll get to the part about why you feel you'll need to banish angels at some point," Sam surmised, "but it's right there… they’re gonna see it and take away any knife you have on you to prevent you from activating it."

Kat snorted. "Yeah, I suppose you're right." She flipped her right arm down to expose a third tattoo on her inner right forearm - a dagger. "That's what this is for."

Dean laughed. "Sorry, but I don't think it's sharp enough." 

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," Kat retorted. Cas, Sam, and Butters chuckled at the reference. Dean glared at them. Harry rolled his eyes.

"The previous two tattoos I got upon returning from Faery." she continued. "But this one is a gift from the Summer Lady herself." 

Closing her eyes, Kat extended her right arm again and murmured "Gladius".

The tattoo glowed silver, and with a flick of her wrist, slid off her arm and into her hand, manifesting into a shining silver dagger. Opening her eyes to meet their startled gazes, she smiled and flipped the dagger in her hand. The silver blade caught the light as it spun in the air, reflections dancing off the walls and their startled faces.

She flicked it again, and it flew over to imbed itself into the hardwood floor between Dean's feet. He jumped with a yelp as Harry sputtered, "HEY! My floor!"

"Sharp enough for ya, Dean?" she smirked.

[rookfern]

now I just want to recount all the stupid scar stories I can remember:

the oldest one is my left elbow scar, which is actually the only one I can’t wholly remember. It’s pink and puckered and I think I got it in pre-k when I fell down on a cement path. looks like it might have had stitches, but again, I have no idea

the silver one across the base of my left big toe. My brother closed my toe in a door. That shit hurteded

silver scar on the bottom of my left foot, going diagonally from heel to toe. Was following my older brother and cousin across a slick bridge with my bike (they were totally leaving me behind) and my foot slipped off the bridge into the barbed-wire fence beneath it. I had to limp my bike all the way home with a bleeding foot

half-inch indention just beneath my leftmost ankle. I dropped a pair of garden clippers (the small kind) point down onto my foot. It nearly hit a main vein but somehow didn’t. I was in my back woods and ran all the way home, just gushing blood down my foot. My mom wasn’t impressed

cat scratch #1, a now-fading half-inch silver scar on my right forearm, from when my dumbass thought it was a good idea to pick up my cat who was being spooked by the neighbor’s dogs

cat scratch #2, a really wonky-looking 2 inch vertical scar going up my right shin. can only be seen in certain conditions or when my skin is tanned. My cat was hiding in some grass, I spooked her, and she tried to climb my leg like a tree

small silver scar on my toe. I got my sandal caught in a surrey wheel (please look up what a pedal surrey is; it’s a tourist deathtrap)

a collection of scars on the underside of my right knee and a single straight scar on my inside lower right leg. after my high school graduation, I couldn’t find my family so I climbed a brick wall. In a dress and my gown. I slipped halfway off and scraped the shit out of my right leg. got back up and tried again (for the record, it worked and I found them soon after)

and my most recent, a few little pink nicks on my right knuckles from accidentally punching metal toilet paper dispensers in my college dorm (those fuckers are in the worst possible position and really hard to pull the toilet paper from and so I always used a little extra force...)