#that may sound a little arrogant if i'm honest but i don't care really

[irritablepoe]

every time i go to the theatre to watch/listen to (?) sherlock holmes, i realise how watered down the version of bbc is in comparison to the original, like i don't hate the series but there is a distinct difference yk

[tonydaddingham]

Hi! I'm kinda here to ask for clarification on something you said; hope you won't mind^. You say that Crowley's dark grey comment is one of the more honest and introspective things he says: that kinda comes across to me like you saying that Crowley's saying he's mostly bad with a capacity for good* and that's a fair assessment of him. I would have said it's more that he's mostly good with a capacity for bad**, baggages worth of issues and a bunch of flaws, primarily related to arrogance***, but that's technically beside the point: I also felt like that was the direction your character analysis of him was going. I'm now wondering whether I misunderstood the dark grey comment or misunderstood the analyses... what does your exactly mean, exactly?

*Concepts decapitalised because I'm talking about more human than Heavenly or Hellish standards of good and bad.

**Concepts decapitalised: see above.

***Blinkered was the word you used, I believe? It's a lovely expression.

^This isn't meant accusatory and I did my best not to sound like it, but I know you've had to field a few asks about yes, you do like Crowley very much, your criticism of him doesn't mean that's not the case, and I can only imagine how annoying that must be: feel free to can this if it comes across that way.

oh anon sweetheart 💕 don't worry about the tone or wording - your tone is perfectly polite and courteous, and i thank you for that!!! others have not been as conscientious 💀 though, be careful what you wish for in asking this, because it's gonna be lengthy 🫠

how you interpreted it is exactly as i meant it; i do think, when taking crowley's characterisation in the show (his book characterisation, for me, is rather different), crowley for me is a darker character with the capacity for light, rather than the other way around. and im going to specifically use darker and lighter, as opposed to bad and good respectively, because upon reflection, maybe that's more accurate.

yeah, to me, he is a dark character; if you've read any of my other asks/metas, please forgive me for repeating stuff, but imo the narrative tells us that he is more commonly swimming in darker tendencies than light. feel free to skip the next part and scroll to here*, because i will be recounting specific scenarios off the top of my head (going in chronological order):

not really explored fully in the pre-fall scene, because it runs throughout the show as a prominent theme; crowley is either unaware of why he fell (possibly true), or blatantly lies to himself and others about why he fell (equally plausible). his story about it changes, or at best is simply told in fragments... but his overall demeanour of when (e.g.) he's confronted with news of the apocalypse ("why me?"), when coupled with this, suggests a tendency towards blame avoidance, with a hearty dose of chip-on-your-shoulder complex

tempts aziraphale into eating in job; it doesn't really matter whether or not aziraphale ends up liking food and wine or not - he rejects the wine, and crowley immediately changes tack to offer food instead, citing that he can't get drunk on it, and of course he's not tempting him (absolutely is) so it's fine. aziraphale may have been curious about it, and this may be what crowley picks up on, but compare this scene to where aziraphale offers muriel a cupperty, and doesn't push when they refuse drinking it... hmm. (perceived feeder kink or not, crowley's face at the end of this scene screams satisfaction at his corruption)

this one is a little iffy, granted, but adding it anyway - blatantly dismisses aziraphale's concerns about the arrangement (heaven would be rather angry, but nowhere near how hell would retaliate - "they'll destroy you!), and pushes anyway. it's again another case of pushing for what he wants (and yes, true, what aziraphale secretly wants - which crowley detects and capitalises on), dismissing aziraphale's worries that, as we can surmise later on, were not unfounded

lets the french guard be taken off to his death. this is debatable, depending on whether you consider the guard to be a good or bad person in the context of the reign of terror, and deserving of execution as a result, but they could have easily escaped the cell unscathed without unfreezing the guard - ultimately, who are they (yep, including aziraphale here too, he's equally as culpable) to decide if he should die?

in the same vein, sends two watchmen falling to their deaths down a deep pit, and his only remark is, "might have slightly overdone it on the hole..."

(this one is tricky, but it rubbed me up the wrong way on first watch and thereafter so im including it) when morag dies, crowley's handling of the situation only really serves - imo - to rub it in aziraphale's face, when he already feels guilty enough for the both of them. i realise that he had to labour the point to aziraphale, and was just being honest - fair, he has a point! - but it came across as simply unkind and uncharitable... again, towards someone we are assuming he cares deeply about...

this one is in fact going to lean on some interpretation, but i think it's one that is so widely implied in canon that i think it might as well be; something happened to crowley between 1827 and 1862, and within that time, i don't think he was on best terms with aziraphale, given aziraphale's coldness when he arrives in st james' park. so, we could - could - surmise that he just suddenly asks for holy water from aziraphale, something that would be dangerous for them both and seems to exploit their friendship. he doesn't adequately explain why he needs it ("just insurance" is not sufficient at all imo), and taking offence to aziraphale's use of 'fraternising ' then contextually feels a little hypocritical

lies to aziraphale about having experience with a gun, banking on using a miracle if need be - which ultimately puts aziraphale's 'life' on the line, rather than being honest. he may well just want to make aziraphale happy, sure, but aziraphale goes into the bullet catch without all the facts - his face when crowley admits he's never shit (edit: meant to say shot, obviously, but leaving it in for @fabledshadow💕) a gun before says it all, really

when aziraphale saves his life with the photo trick, he doesn't thank him, or acknowledge any kind of gratitude at all, that it saved him from a rather bleak fate at the hands of hell. he may well be insulting aziraphale's skills to dissuade him from a repeat occurrence of the bullet catch (fair!), but he is also insulting the very thing that got him out of danger... and the very thing that aziraphale obviously takes a lot of joy, pleasure, and pride in (and, yk, what crowley was actively encouraging just a few hours previous). it was justified, to a certain extent, but it was... unkind

(the Big One - so let's get it over with) tries to tempt aziraphale into killing a child - antichrist or not - and continues to persuade him into it despite aziraphale evidently being uncomfortable with the prospect. it also indicates how little he knows aziraphale in this respect; regardless of whether it would be the antichrist or not, this is the angel who tried to preserve humanity by offering a sword to pregnant eve, and was ultimately crucial in protecting job's children. even in mesopotamia, you can see how subtley appalled he is with killing children - despite him trying to rationalise it by saying it's the great plan etc. killing a child, id wager, would destroy aziraphale. i digress, but if crowley loves aziraphale as much as he (and the fandom) likes to think by s1, it's rather dark that he would try manipulating aziraphale into doing this in the first place, and return to the suggestion again not once (bandstand) but twice (airfield)

sets up an elaborate trick just to make a point to aziraphale on the use of guns, and then lets innocent humans get arrested on what i would say would be very serious charges in s1 (i mean, let alone firearms offences, arguably it could be charged as attempt murder 💀)

hits anathema and acts in such a way that he probably understands that he equally hit her and she hit him, yet is more preoccupied with fixing the bentley, something he could miracle repaired later on... as opposed to helping her back to her feet and ensuring she was alright. he also is prepared, after all this, to reject offering her a lift, excusing that there's nowhere to put her bike

backhands "clever" with "stupid", because aziraphale is doing something (trying to reach god directly as a last resort) he doesn't think is worthwhile. aziraphale finds out that that is true, but once again, im gonna ring the 'unkind' bell

doesn't tell aziraphale about what went down with gabriel, or how closely hell is keeping an eye on him, or the threat of the BOL, or that he's living in his car, or what happened in heaven/the issue of the second coming. there are loads of other little things too, but he lies by omission, whilst maintaining that he doesn't lie to aziraphale, and routinely keeps information from aziraphale - not only information that would be beneficial to share in the general sense, but information that directly impacts aziraphale, and comprises both of their safeties. has a tendency towards a hero complex that ends up either going wrong/unfulfilled ("i won't leave you on your own" then immediately buggers off to heaven) or attempts to remove aziraphale's agency and dismisses him outright ("i have a suggestion-" "ive got this.")

abandons aziraphale when he is set in doing something that is not only in his very nature to do, but when he does it because he doesn't have all the facts (hides jim). despite his assertion that aziraphale shouldnt do it because jim poses a threat, he then leaves aziraphale to face it alone. it's unknown how soon crowley would have come back to the bookshop if it weren't for the BOL threat - we literally do not know this - and he reluctantly does the apology dance (arguably when he wholeheartedly believes he was in the right) in order to be allowed near aziraphale again. it's also implied that aziraphale always does the dance, whereas crowley doesn't - which suggests to me once again the whole thing about crowley avoiding blame

pushes jim into remembering stuff despite it obviously causing him pain and discomfort - on one hand, sure, he's not certain that gabriel isn't lurking about in there, but he does it again in ep5 when, as far as he's assessed with the whole jump-out-the-window thing (a whole other thing that need addressing), jim is in fact... just jim

plays around with maggie and nina (the both of them do, and they're both at huge fault for this, it's insane) like they're toys, without any regard for their personal thoughts or feelings, as if they have the right to do this

encourages jim to jump out a window!!! okay fine, yes, he fears that gabriel is lurking in there and is doing it as a test, but even he looks somewhat alarmed when jim is clambering over the windowsill - and objectively it's an atrocious thing to do. and ultimately it doesnt exactly prove anything more than what he already knows; if gabriel was chilling in there, and was so committed to the bit to drink hot chocolate, call crowley his friend with a straight face, speak to crowley as such as friend, and generally act the way he does... if gabriel is that good an actor? well, i can't imagine jumping a window would be beneath gabriel to do, to maintain his cover. so to me, crowley realised that what he's asked has crossed a line

and, im sorry, but - kisses aziraphale. now is probably the worst climate imaginable (ie. the "do that again" era) to be discussing my take on the kiss, but my read has largely always been that it was a temptation, and a cruel one at that. it was desperate, and heartbreaking, and i understand why crowley did it - but it was imo a largely cruel and selfish manipulation for aziraphale to betray himself, and stay with him. i love the kiss for what it is and represents, but as a result i just... yeah, im not a "do that again" girlie, because i think aziraphale absolutely recognised the kiss for what it 'was'.

anon, if you have made it this far... im so sorry. it's been helpful to summarise all of it though, so thank you for giving me an opportunity to do so!!✨

*now. the thing is, the vast majority of these incidents, these actions and behaviours (and probably loads besides that ive missed) are not evil. they are not even necessarily bad, not in the classic sense. a lot of them have well-founded explanations, sometimes outright justifications, and it's totally understandable why crowley makes them (even just narratively ie. even without speculating or inferring in any kind of trauma he may have suffered behind the scenes if the story as it currently stands).

id argue, personally, that each one of these is dark in their own way - dark, in the sense that they are morally ambiguous at best, immoral at worst. they might not be bad on their own merit, but arguably it is possible to see them as wrong.

we can absolutely look at crowley and think he is good - and i agree!... to a certain extent. even if you oust a good few of the above examples, there are a few that, imo, if ignored or excused, kind of strays into blatant mollycoddling of the character. crowley absolutely has the capacity for good and right - his objection to the flood, saving job's children, stopping the apocalypse, helping aziraphale many a time, are all prime examples (even if you could argue against each of these which... well, this ask is long enough so another time, maybe) - and i think will ultimately be guided by what he considers to be the right thing to do.

but when i say that his assessment of being "very dark grey", the above is why i think this is him being either extremely honest, or accidentally incredibly insightful about himself. it's not necessarily a dislikeable thing to be - crowley being more dark than light - but given the evidence as i see it, he's aware that he's not a wholly good person, more one that leans towards the objectively immoral than otherwise, giving more weight to when he does do good. and the thing is, he regularly asserts this - being 'bad' - to aziraphale.

in doing so - constantly saying he's not nice, rejecting thanks etc - maybe, actually, it's not as humble or self-effacing as aziraphale, or the fandom, likes to think it is. why shouldn't we consider that crowley might, actually, be a bit of an anti-hero? it doesn't make him any less of an empathetic, likeable, or compelling character - it just simply acknowledges that he may not be as irreproachable or scrupulous character as we might like to think he is!✨

[lazarettta]

Misthios

Characters (Reader x Mother Miranda...?) 👀

Rating (T)

Word Count (2.8k)

Warnings (none, first half is has no dialogue, writing while high,)

Once her little warrior, always her little warrior.

I'm sorry if it's hot 🗑💀

The fire was finally the way you wanted it and you could finally fucking rest. You'd been hiking all goddamn day through the rain and snow, and you just wanted a minute to rest and to eat. The sun was starting to set and you still needed to set up your tent, but for the moment you were content to just sit on the log and get warm.

“Who'd ever think a Spartan would be in Rome looking for answers, hm?” it was ironic, how you would've been accused of being a traitor or something like that back then. Ha...back then?

Truthfully you weren't sure anymore where your life really started it's been so long, centuries really if you were being honest. Sometimes even your own secrets were too overwhelming for you to admit, and as the years continued to pass you by it was getting harder and harder for you to hold onto the same principles you once believed in. The wars you've participated in, two of them by choice...and as a favor for the third.

It shouldn't have been possible but it was for you, it was both a blessing and a curse because you were nothing special...you grew up with Spartan blood running through your veins, pushed at a young age to hunt and to protect, it was a common tradition for families then, especially for the oldest or only children. Your didn't ever recall your father, he died in battle before you were born but your mother was there, always. Even if her face was blurry after all of the time that has passed you by—you still remember her teachings and her technique. Your mother was the best hunter in Sparta, proudly.

But after...after her passing, the streets taught you how to be a mercenary at a young age...and then an assassin, not by choice but by necessity because you weren't a good person then, not really, and you still weren't now...but you still had the will do what was right, and so you did.

And maybe that is why the Gods did not let you die in the battlefield when you'd been caught off guard, for what is no longer relevant as it is now long gone, but the scar left through your heart would forever stain you inside and out by some random Greek bastard. You don't remember much of the dying part as much as you remembered how badly it hurt and how livid you were watching him stand over you with his bloody sword raised to the heavens. But just like your pain, that emotion was ebbed away as you laid there dying.

And die you did. And your body laid there for who knows how long but when you woke up, oh you sprung up ready to fight but there wasn't a fight left to be had...the war was over...but you didn't know that until you woke up the second time. Not realizing that your body was next to be burned in the ditch as the battlefield was being cleared of all the corpses from both sides. A gruesome chore performed by the prisoners taken by Sparta.

You had no idea why the Gods healed you and brought you back from the dead, you didn't deserve a second chance (at the time you didn't realize that it was a power). You were blessed by the Gods and that's all that it was, people looked at you with both awe and envy. Some gave all of their iron and dearest family possessions as a gift to the Gods in hopes that their wishes were granted. They hated you and you did not care. You were unstoppable, everyone wanted your attention and your skills—it made you arrogant and stupid for years. And when you caught a pretty nasty gash across your back from a werewolf that ambushed you and your horse, your leathers had been torn and bloody by the time you speared your way through four of those beasts. But while there was blood, there was no wound...the only evidence were the scars it left behind.

Snap!

You turned your head slightly, a few strands of your hair falling in front of your ever sharp (y/e/c) eyes. You stayed perfectly still, eyes scanning the forest surrounding you but there was nothing after several moments. Just as well...with a loud sigh, you finally got up to put up your tent for the night and probably for the next few nights too. You slipped your hunting knife back into your boot but kept it unhooked just in case.

You lived in a time where guns existed but you were always better with a blade. You may not be an active misthios now (mercenary in today's world) but old habits were hard to kick. You were too old and too wise now, even if you didn't look a day over twenty-eight.

The next morning...

You woke with a start your grip around your obsidian hunting knife so tight your knuckles your skin strained against bone. You didn't have a dream but something woke you up, and it wasn't those damn birds chirping literally above your tint. With the help of the morning sun you could even see the spot where one of them pooped. Great. You laid there for a few more minutes, finally relaxed enough to move. You checked your surroundings again, walking around your camp but that feeling of unease didn't go away but it wasn't as strong.

Today was clearer than it was the day before though you still had to deal with the snow and the cold, not that either really bothered you too much. Leaving your camp behind, marking the trees so that you had a way to find your way back through these unfamiliar woods, you set off to find breakfast. You came to an edge, a cliff's peak and you went to stand on the edge of it—to maybe see the rest of the mountain you were exploring but something caught your immediate attention.

When was the last time you ever saw a castle? Not...not those tourist marks they have all over Europe but a castle. The place was eerie but most castles always felt that way to you...but this was different? It was as if the castle was looking right back at you, mocking you. From your vantage point you could make out the edges of a lake through the thick trees, you couldn't see it very well but you could tell it wasn't small nor was it man-made.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover this as you assumed that your trip would mostly be you exploring this cold ass mountain without a proper guide but you didn't need anyone to know why you were really up here, your reasons concerned no one but yourself. That and you knew you'd end up leading your guide. You were better off alone. Or at least that's what you kept telling yourself that but those words stopped being comforting a very long time ago. Not like fate was giving you much of a fucking choice though.

Your stomach growled, reminding you of your hunt...you glanced down at the village below the castle curiously before turning away from the ledge, the heavy aura of the castle still on your back.

~~

Fat and full, that's exactly how you'd describe yourself at the moment. There were more predators in the area than there were prey it seemed but the rabbit you caught seemed plentiful enough. With winter kicking in, the most worrisome predator in the woods would be hibernating leaving nothing but the wolves and maybe a mountain lion for you to deal with if you're lucky. You hefted your smaller backpack onto your back and left your camp, deciding to check out the village to see if you could learn more about the castle.

You were both excited and curious, you'd spent a majority of your modern life exploring the wonders of the Earth and using the currency you've collected throughout your lifetimes to fund whatever myth caught your eye. In other words, you were bored but the thought of war and fighting no longer made your blood sing or your heart race. You've done so much of that already, and lost so much because of it.

“Get back! Get back! Agh—GET THE FUCK BACK!”

Your legs stopped moving immediately and your gloved hand was already wrapped around the hilt of your hunting knife, ears trained. You heard growling and barking not too far from where you stood, maybe two or three hundred feet to your right just through those bushes and that fallen tree. It sounded as if someone was having a bit of trouble with a pack of wolves. Which struck you as odd, you were still pretty high up on the mountains and you hadn't seen anyone else up here in a week, so it couldn't have been a local...could it?

The growling grew more intense and there were sounds of a scuffle and grunts but the man still sounded alive.

And it wasn't your problem. Your days of coming to the rescue were over. You allowed your hand to fall from your knife. You got maybe seven steps away before the man spotted you, he caught a glimpse of your fur lined hood and started screaming for you to help him just as one of the wolves snapped the branch he was holding in half, forcing his back against a tree. His time was counting down now.

He was yelling so loud, you were sure even the villagers could hear him now. There was no way you could walk away now.

“Fucking hell.” with a heavy sigh, you dropped your backpack and stalked in the direction of the soon to be crime scene. You didn't feel the need to mask your presence, you wanted the wolves to know that you were there and that ultimately saved that man's life. The wolves were honed in on you the moment you stepped through the bush but three shots echoed through the small clearing before any of them could pounce in your direction. The echoes faded away quickly, and you sighed again watching the white snow stain red beneath the furry corpses.

The only other sound heard was the man's heavy breathing as he leaned against a tree. You looked down at your gun before putting it back in it's holster on your lower back, you may prefer blades but it was always better to have something and not need it, than to need it and not have it.

“Thank...thank you,”

You looked at the man with furrowed brows...just by looking at him, you knew that he wasn't a native but the moment he opened his mouth only confirmed it. He was American...you spotted all of his gear nearby, torn to shreds and you scoffed.

“I don't think camping is for you.”

“I don't think so either,” He tried for a smile but it was only a grimace, the blonde man pushed himself from the tree and approached you, carefully stepping around the wolves bodies, “I'm uh a bit lost, I guess.”

“And I'm leaving.”

“Wait!” he rushed around you, stopping you and you could've gone through the man if you wanted to...you were taller than him by an inch or two, and you definitely had more mass than he probably knew what to do with, “Listen, I'm obviously not from here, but I'm trying to find my daughter okay, she's—”

“I'm not from around here,” you held your hand to make him stop while simultaneously telling yourself that you're not about to get involved in someone else's mess and derail your own mission, “I'm sorry about your kid, but I can't help you.”

He frowned at you obviously not happy with your answer but he was quickly reaching into his pocket and any normal person, especially someone who is armed, would've taken a step back but you weren't some ordinary person. You simply raised an eyebrow, because you knew that he wasn't going to attack you even though he was probably fully capable of doing so. You assumed that he was about to dig out a baby picture or something but it was just a sheet of paper with writing on it. You took it before he could shove the damn thing in your face and you looked down at it carefully, keeping your face neutral.

“I can't read whatever language that is.”

You glared up at him from beneath your lashes, “And you think that I can?”

“Can you?” he shot back, and you rolled your eyes...your attention back to the paper before shoving it back in his hands, “Well?”

You nearly scowled at his impatience, “It's a mix of Romanian, Serbian and Tatar. Whoever sent that clearly doesn't want anyone else to know what's on it.”

“So you can read it then?”

“Bits and pieces,” You said with a shrug, “I'm not expert but someone named Beneviento is demanding a shorter route for wine delivery from that giant castle.”

He stared at you then down to the paper, which was full from top to bottom, then back to you, “What...that's all? Are you sure?? No, that can't be all...there has to be something about my daughter here! Here, please, just try again slower—”

“That's all I could read.” you shouldered past him, throwing your hood back up and ignoring his calls after you. Your backpack was exactly where you dropped it, you shook off the snow and threw it back on your back not caring about the cool wetness on your back now—you just wanted to get away from this area as quickly as possible. You should've used your knife as those gunshots gave away your position.

“Amateur hour everyone,” you grumbled under your breath...you veered off the path slightly, just in case he tried to follow you (wouldn't be the first time someone tried to force you to help them).

You'd maybe walked for a mile or two down the mountain before you noticed the hairs on the back of your neck standing, you chanced a casual glance over your shoulder but there was no one there, no man nor animal. Licking your dry lips you turned back around but as you were doing so, you caught something in your peripheral. A dark figure, twenty feet away and that's when you noticed how fucking quiet everything was around you...you forced yourself to keep walking even as a feeling of dread began crawling up your back, like two sharp fingers walking along the ridges of your spine.

Pushing the hood from your head, you whirled around with your knife drawn at your side gripping it with the intentions to kill but there was nothing there except two large obsidian feathers fluttering gently down onto the snow at your boots. Feathers?

Cool breath touched the base of your neck when you heard soft chuckling directly behind you. You turned around sharply, easily flipping your knife around but the mass of darkness in front of you disoriented you for a split second and that was all this creature needed. Before you could plunge your knife into it's feathery belly, a pale hand shot out and caught your wrist in a bruising grip as another hand curled itself around your throat, sharp nails oh so slightly pricking your skin.

You were about to kick away when the creature leaned forward, and it's face came from beneath the hood...only it wasn't an it, it was a she, though her entire face was hidden by the gold headgear you could see her lips and...and her eyes.

A pair of eyes you'd never forget in any of your lifetimes. It felt like a millennia ago when those eyes alone had you on your knees covered in fresh warm blood and exhausted from tearing through small armies.

Despite yourself, you were trembling in her ironclad grip, your hand that wasn't still trapped fruitlessly came up to wrap around her wrist as if that was going to help you. You both knew that it wouldn't. She brought you closer until your feet were no longer on the ground and you could feel the tip of your blade pressing against something...no, her...and your nose was nearly touching her helmet.

“ο μικρός μου πολεμιστής...” (my little warrior...) her cool breath washed over your face, her eyes still boring down into yours so intensely you swore you felt the heat, even as her hand tightened around your throat making you choke, but you were fighting against her... “επιτέλους ήρθες σπίτι μου...” her chuckle fell on deaf ears. (you've finally come home to me...)

~~

You were supposed to run into Alcina first 😭, but Miranda works too...(save the best for last obvi) I don't know I am playing Odyssey while waiting for this game to drop and I went The Old Guard route too so then I just ended up writing some shit, and I wanted to try something that's not so maiden-esque lol so I hope it's enjoyable at least...I honestly might make this a WIP...

[thefanficmonster]

I may or may not have just sent the 3 word challenge in my real account instead of anon... I'm sorry. Please don't answer there. :)

When you post, post answering here please.

Again, much love,

📚🌻

Don't worry dear! Your identity shall remain a secret 🥰 Here's yet another fic with my Resident Evil OC: Gwen Winters (she’s an adult guys, don’t worry. However this is still an Older Man/Younger Woman relationship)

The words dear  📚🌻 Anon gave me in their previous ask were: Unruly, endurable and system. Please enjoy!

What happens in the gym....

Pairing: Chris Redfield x Female OC

Warnings: Swearing, Spoiler Free 😊

Genre: Angsty Romance

“Sure, throw me in the fire like you always do, Leon!“ Chris snaps, clenching his fists tightly as he glares at his best friend while the two stand in the dimly lit gym.

“Chris, you’re a BSAA captain, for the love of God! You should know better than to complain about something as little as this!“ Leon, while significantly calmer tone and demeanor-wise, is glaring daggers of his own.

“Why me, damn it?! And why her?!“ Chris is not done with his attempts to get out of the situation Leon’s trying to land him in and his partner’s honestly done with it.

“And why not?! You see the same potential I see, why would it be so hard to train her? She’s a quick learner, she’s disciplined when she wants to be and she’s already skilled to a certain degree. You’ve made soldiers out of total wimps before, why is she such a hassle to you?!“

“Because she’s disciplined when she wants to be and I guarantee she won’t want to when she’s around me. She’s unruly, selfish, arrogant and a Chris-phobe. I’m telling you, she hates me!“

It’s about time Leon’s had enough of this conversation. To be honest, he was done with it as soon as it started but he stayed, thinking he’d be able to change Chris’ mind but seeing as how this is a hopeless case, he’s just been wasting his time. “Does she? Or are you projecting your hate for her onto her?” Slinging his duffel bag containing his training gear over his shoulder, Leon finally makes that realization that these are ten minutes of his life he’ll never get back and storms out of the gym without another word.

Chris doesn’t attempt to stop him, in fact, he’s relieved he left. He sighs, silently hating himself for all the shit he said and how he meant none of it. It was all hard bullshit and he doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed that Leon didn’t realize. Either way, he’s been cleared of possible suspicion, even if training the newest BSAA rookie still remains as his task.

Gwen Winters, she’s such a fucking handful. One cannot tell if it’s because she’s angry with the world, angry with herself or just straight up picked up on the habits of the family that took her in when she was rescued from Raccoon City where she was held as an experiment hamster. A chemistry project basically. Ethan and Mia were recovering from the events back in Louisiana at the time, still probably are, that is not some shit you get over, so they thought having another person in the house would help them. And help Gwen did. See, Gwen isn’t a handful with everyone. In fact, she’s a real sweetheart and Chris knows it too, despite his bogus claims. He knows she’s got a heart and soul of gold and is built with the will of a BSAA soldier already. All she needs is a bit better fighting skills and she’s good to go. 

He sees how she acts with everyone around him. She’s been quick to make friends with Jill and his sister Claire and she’s even got Leon’s liking and trust which is hella hard to get, especially after all the shit with Ada. She’s overall a super sweet and lovely girl, even with him from time to time. He’s seen her welcoming, friendly smiles whenever he stops by the Winters’ home. He’s heard her laugh at the jokes he rarely cracks.

Then why does she act like she hates him so often? And why does he claim he hates her?

Chris is snapped back to reality by the sound of rough impact. It’s a very distinct noise, one he places immediately: the sound of fists hitting a punching bag. It’s the middle of the night, almost midnight actually, and knowing how lazy the soldiers on his team are, he can only assume it’s either his sister or Jill, given that Leon just left. However, they’ve had people sneak in to train for free before, so it’d be for the best if he went to check who was releasing some pent up energy on the poor punching bag. Judging by the intensity of the punches being thrown, sounds like the person might be angry as well.

And they have every right to be. Because they are Gwen.

Chris’ face goes a bit red at the sight of the infuriated rookie giving the punching bag her all, punishing it the way she’d want to do to her superior she just heard call her all the names she hates being referred by.

“Winters I-“

“Unruly?“ Punch “Selfish?” Punch “Arrogant?” Punch

She stills herself, sighing and wiping the droplets of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, “You say all that and expect me not to be a Chris-phobe?” She lets out a bitter laugh, rolling her shoulders before continuing her wrath over the piece of equipment she’s threatening to destroy. She hasn’t spared him a single look yet, something he’s rather grateful for because the last thing he wants to see is whatever her gaze is hiding right now. “I’ll talk to Leon.” She says, her voice leveled and breathy, far from the pissed off tone she was just using. This calmness is a lot scarier though. “I’ll tell him I don’t want you to be my trainer. To be perfectly clear, I never wanted you to train me in the first place. I’m just not the type to complain, you know. I’m not picky. Beggers can’t be choosers. I take what I can get. And you were all I was offered, but...” she trails off, delivering a particularly hard punch, “It’s not gonna work. I may not be picky, but I know when to draw the line. I know when I deserve better.”

“Kid, you really have no idea what the case really is here.“ He attempts desperately, taunted by the thought of acting on his instincts and approaching her even if that means being the recipient of one of those hard punches.

“You know, I’m strong. I’m skilled. I can hold my own in a fight quite nicely. I’m endurable. I’m not afraid to work my ass off and sweat and pant like a dog after workouts. There’s not a line I wouldn’t cross, but you still choose to make me feel lesser than any soldier you’ve ever come across, that’s really lovely of you, Captain Redfield.“

“Winters, please...“

“It’s ok, I won’t tell Ethan and Mia. I’m sure they’ll send you to hell over it. I’m not petty like that.“

He’s had enough. He’s had enough of hearing that hurt tone in her voice. He’s done hearing these words she’s so certain are true but aren’t. He’s done lying to her and to himself. Before he can even think twice about it, he grabs her by the arms gently but firmly, turning her to face him despite her hostile attempts to free herself from his hold like a wild animal caught in a trap. He’s surprised when she relaxes, probably seeing that as a quicker way out of the situation rather than struggling though if she tried to free herself any longer he would’ve probably let her go.

“Fucking hell, Gwen, listen to me.“ He looks her dead in the eyes, catching onto the spark of shock created by his use of her first name. But he also sees something else, something that looks dangerously a lot like tears. He knows she won’t cry, especially not in front of him, but knowing that he’s the cause behind the welling of those crystal droplets in her always shiny, always smiling eyes breaks him. When she doesn’t look away nor protest, he continues, “I can’t be your captain. I can’t be your trainer. I can’t be any of that. I’m a strictly professional man, and it’d be highly unprofessional of me to take you in as my soldier.”

“But why?“ She’s fully aware she sounds like a whiny kid - exactly how she thinks he envisions her sometimes - but she couldn’t care less. She wants and needs answers. She knows she won’t be able to fall asleep or keep coming back to the training center if she doesn’t get them.

It’s blatantly clear this is far from easy for Chris. His first instinct is to look away, let go of her, run away like he always does - not that she’d let him do such a thing but still. He’s finds the words impossible to spit out yet he oh so desperately feels the need to get them out of his system. And so, he gathers all the strength within him and finally forces himself to say it.

“Because a captain isn’t supposed to look at a soldier the way I look at you.“

Sure, it sounds cryptic as heck but he has no doubt she’ll catch on. Gwen is a smart and sharp girl, among many other things. She confirms this when barely three seconds after he’s said it, he notices her eyes widening

“Sir, I-“

“Don’t.“ He says simply, a small, regretful smile playing across his lips as his hand slides down her arm to take hold of hers, “I just admitted my dirtiest secret to you and you are still gonna remind me how unprofessional I am by using my title, Kid?“

She purses her lips, the shock momentarily replaced by her signature mild glare, “Well, you just admitted your biggest secret to me and yet you still choose to call me ‘Kid’, huh?”

He chuckles, letting his other hand repeat the movements of the first, “Sorry, force of habit.” His thumbs brush against her knuckles briefly as his head falls, his gaze fixating on where their bodies are connected, “You know, I didn’t tell you this to get myself any pity or anything. I just wanted you to understand and....wanted to get it off my chest. Ethan will kill me if he finds out, won’t he?” He suddenly asks, regaining the courage to look up at her once again.

She giggles, “Who says he’s gonna find out?”

Chris bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “You’re right, there’s nothing really to find out abo-”

Gwen has never been a chatter nor can she tolerate when people beat around the bush so she’s quick to cut them off sometimes, no matter how rude that may seem or sound. However, just to clarify, her chosen method of cutting a person off isn’t always kissing them. Just saying - this is a special situation requiring special methods.

Taken aback by the sudden feeling of her lips on his, Chris’ eyes close automatically but not even a second later he responds to the kiss properly: wrapping his arms around Gwen’s waist as her hands travel up to cup his face. The kiss is short - too short if either of them is to be asked - but it’s worth all the words they didn’t say despite wanting to.

When they pull away, Gwen gives him a mischievous smile, “Now he could find out about that and then shit would go south. That’d suck, wouldn’t it Chris?“

He’s only ever heard her say his name twice, once in passing conversation with Claire and once earlier when she paraphrased his term ‘Chris-phobe’, both time spoken with some dose of dislike he now realizes was a cover-up all along. Turns out the two are a lot more alike than they initially thought. Regardless, hearing her say his name with fondness instead of bitterness makes his heart flutter, his body yearn to have her closer, his lips wanting to be in contact with hers again. But he’s a patient and self-controlled man, he’s nothing if not willpower sculpted in a human body, so he keeps his distance, waiting for her to pick the moves, waiting for her to make the decisions just like she’s his captain.

“Big time.“ He manages to say, voice coarse all of a sudden, barely able to leave his throat. “So it stays here, right?”

She giggles again, bringing her lips within an inch or two away from his, taunting him, threatening to break his self-control, “What happens in the gym stays in the gym, Redfield.”

Golden rules of discretion, ones he mustn’t break ever. Especially not when his captain - Captain Gwen Winters - holds so much power over him.

[sherlockmonkeesstartrek]

aw dear i hope everything's alright :O you can talk to me if you want. i don't know what to request, but what about some good old Beatles, maybe a cute fluffy early days Starrison? haven't read that in a while. i'm sorry i can't think of anything else. I hope you'll feel better soon my dear!

Hi my Luv. Everything is ok. I hate to be the type who complains on tumblr about my woes, so I thought I’d turn it into something positive. This has ended up longer than expected, so I haven’t finished it, but I hope you like it. 

The Chance to be Alone

Neither Richie nor Georgelived in the kind of home they could invite the other to. That was the sadthing really. Sure, George’s parents wouldn’t have minded much if he’d broughtRichie over, but with all his siblings, that wouldn’t really be fair. And Richie’sparents were a little too overbearing, even if he did live in the kind of placehe would be cool with inviting George to. Basically, they were in this paradoxwhere the only time they got to spend together was when they were playing atthe same joint. And they certainly didn’t get alone time.

Money was short, so when theycome into some, they didn’t get to use it. It went to their families instead.So, this, this was a very special occurrence, one Richie kind of felt guiltyabout. This money probably could’ve gone to the family. They’d done so much forhim, sacrificed so much for him. And what was he doing? He was sacrificing themto spend a night with his friend. What kind of a son would do that?

But he scolded himself forthat thought, because honestly, he didn’t really do all that much for himself.And this wasn’t a life-changing amount of money. It was enough to buy a hotelroom for one night. A shitty hotel room in Liverpool, their home city.

They weren’t getting far awayfrom home. They weren’t going on holiday. But they were leaving the worldbehind for one night, just one night.

Oh, but Richie hadn’t toldGeorge yet. He thought he’d make it a surprise. He thought of the smile onGeorge’s face, one with his little vampire teeth showing. That would be areward enough for the night. That seemed to make this little sacrifice of moneyworth it. He couldn’t wait to tell him.

The area Richie lived in waspretty rough. He kept his head down and walked fast. His mum had worried abouthim leaving the home without her. It didn’t matter to her that he was probablyold enough to go out when he pleased. He was a boy that, in her eyes, reallydidn’t need to get into any trouble. He’d been a sickly boy, as she’dconstantly remind him. He wasn’t well, she’d tell him. Well, his health didn’treally have an effect on him, and it wouldn’t make all that much of adifference if he was mugged. Without anything worth stealing- save for themoney in his back pocket at that moment- he’d probably get roughed up no matterwhat. And having lived around there all his life, he wasn’t afraid. Very littlecould stop him from going to George’s house.

It always seemed noisy andfull of music at George’s, whether it was playing or not. His mum loved music.

Richie strode up to the door,which was open, and politely knocked on it. He wasn’t just going to walk in.That would be something John Lennon would do, bloody arrogant guy, thought heowned every home of his friends. Not that Richie had anything against him.Actually, he liked John. He probably just got the wrong impression from otherpeople. Of what he heard from George, who knew him better anyway, he wasn’tthat bad a guy. Though George would probably say that arrogant is a good wordto describe him.

Richie, in comparison, wasquiet and gentle and certainly polite. He waited on the doorstep for a coupleof long minutes, soon realising his knocks hadn’t been heard, but out of fearof annoying his friends and family, he didn’t knock again. It was instead bychance that George himself, the slender thing dressed in a plaid shirt twosizes too big for him and trousers that hung off his hips, walked passed theopen door and saw Richie standing there. He paused and smiled so friendly. Morefriendly that he would have afforded anyone else.

“What yeh doing out there?”He asked.

Richie smirked. This is whathe had been waiting for. He’d decided that he didn’t see George enough. Seeinghim when he was with the rest of the Beatles or when he was hanging aroundcertain pubs, just didn’t satisfy him. And he didn’t turn up like this enougheither. He thought, then and there, it might be worth doing it more often,especially when George seemed quite pleased.

“Coming to see you.”

“No, I mean what yeh doingoutside?”

“I’m not staying long.” Hesaid with a smile, “And I’m hoping on taking you with me when I leave. Do yehthink your mum will have a problem if yeh stay the night?”

George suddenly neared thedoorway, lowering his voice, but the smile on his face told Richie he was allup for it.

“Are yeh serious? At yours?”

“No. At a hotel.”

His eyes then widened.

“How did yeh manage to swingthat?”

“Don’t ask. Now, go and getyour things”

George didn’t have to be toldtwice, even though he worried. Hotel rooms cost money, and he had none, so wasRingo going to pay for him? No way, he didn’t like that. Course it was sweet ofthe boy, typical Richie, but George knew he wouldn’t be able to pay him back.It wasn’t fair.

Still, he also felt as thoughhe couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to let Richie down like that, just becauseof his ow pride and politeness. He ran upstairs and packed a bag full of achange of clothes and a pack of cards. He also snuck into the kitchen to takesome bread.

“Hey mum!” He called fromthere, “Richie’s here. Can I stay at his?”

He didn’t really hear thereply. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure where his mum was. He just heard areasonably positive tone as he rushed to the door and joined Ringo in walkingdown the street.

They didn’t have a hotel inmind. They just started walking and hoped they might come across something.They considered catching the bus, but that cost money too. They were happyinstead to walk with each other, where ever their feet may take them, because,for once, they were alone, they had no excuse to hang out together other thanthe fact that they wanted to. For once, they were two friends, just hangingout.

Well, friends… Both boyswished it could be more. After being around John and Paul for so long, the twoguys in George’s band, they kind of got wind of this idea that guys could fancyguys. And then then sort of noticed just how attractive guys could be. Richienoticed George’s pleasantly slender body, his evil little mouthless smiles andshaggy handsomeness. He also loved watching the boy play guitar, as it seemedthere was nothing Georgie could get more pleasure out of then coaxing gorgeoussounds from that instrument.

And George was totally takenby Ringo’s huge blue eyes. He also liked the way he looked in leather, hishair, the rings he wore, but it was those eyes, those eyes that melted George’sotherwise stole cold heart. As he walked along beside the drummer, he sometimeslooked up and caught his gaze, and just seeing the blueness of them, made himsmile.

“What?” Richie chuckled,“What are yeh laughing at?”

“Not laughing.” George said,as though he was lying. He wasn’t at all, but to tell his mate that he wasgazing into his eyes, that was far too cheesy for his liking.

 “Yeah yeh are! What areyeh finding so funny? Do I make yeh laugh?”

“Yes.” George shot back,quite genuinely, “But in a good way.”

 “Oh good, that’s notworrying at all.”

“Worrying?”

“Ok, not worrying…” Hetrailed off. He wasn’t really sure what to say, nor what he wanted to say. Herolled his bright blue eyes and reached out to grab George’s tiny shoulders.Clumsily, he drew him into a sort of manly embrace, though he was sure, for a moment,he got dangerously close to pressing a kiss on his cheek. He wondered if Georgehad even noticed.

Judging by the pink colouringhis pale cheeks, he thought that he might have. But neither acknowledged it.

Had George noticed the wayRingo had gotten almost a little to intimate? No, he hadn’t, but any touch,like the affectionate hug he’d been pull into, was enough to make him blush.God, even if he wasn’t in love with this boy- which he was starting to fear wasthe case- he did love him, like a brother, like the closest mate he’d ever had.He hadn’t even realised he’d possessed so much love within him, but for Richie,he did. He couldn’t even explain it.

And now he felt as though hewas becoming as bad as the cheesy love ballads his band avoided singing.

 Theywalked for a while, until their legs hurt. Then they found a pub with roomsthey could rent. The place was pretty rough, people in there drinking earlyenough to suggest to the boys that they’d been there for much of the day. Itwasn’t the ideal place to ask for one room to share, but Richie cared not. He’dtake the prejudices and slurs. He’d shoot every person a dirty look. For allthey knew, these two boys could be brothers, yet they’d think the worst,because they were too drunk to have a clear thought.

At thebar, George tapped Richie on the back.

“Justgoing to the loo.”

“Alrightmate. Don’t be too long.” He chuckled back. As George left, Richie caughthimself watching, fondly. He convinced himself it was to ensure he got to theloos safely, though was sure if anyone else saw that, they’d probably guessthat he was certainly not that boy’s older brother. He couldn’t help smiling tohimself, an inner voice practically screaming that he’d finally done it, he wasfinally going to get time alone with Georgie.

Andhe knew how that sounded. If George was a girl and Richie had booked a hotelfor them both, the implication would be that they would have sex. The thoughthadn’t even crossed his mine. Well, this one had. Course, he knew what it may’veseemed like, even to George (he so hoped George didn’t think anything of it.)But he hadn’t thought of having sex with George that night. That wasn’t whatthis was about. He’d hardly even told George of his deeper feelings really. Itwas sort of an unspoken mutual understanding they both had. They didn’t need tosay it.

No,this night was literally a chance to be with George for longer than a couple ofminutes, before swarms of people joined them.

“Oneroom, please.” Richie told the owner of the bar. The man was a red faced, hardlooking guy who seemed to judge everyone quite openly. He may not have seenRichie come in with George, but Richie felt as though he was judging him forthat, those dark eyes of his narrowing as he took Richie’s money.

Therewas some left over. Richie hadn’t exactly thought of dinner or anything likethat. He’d literally just thought of getting into a hotel room and hanging outwith his little mate. But now he had some money, just a little, just enough for…

“CouldI also have a sandwich?”

He wantedto be quick. He wanted it to be a surprise for George. Bet he wasn’t expectinga whole night out. The owner shrugged and pissed off into the tiny, grubbylooking kitchen as Richie reclined against the counter. He was feeling quitesmug, treating this boy. Ok, this really was worth spending his well-earnedmoney on something a little less… responsible for once.

Thankfully,the sandwich came before George came back, so Richie stuffed the thing into a loadof tissues and hid it under his jacket. In his hand, he clung to the hotel key;his one chance at privacy with his friend, the one chance to block out theworld.

“Alright?”

Hehad been so excited, so distracted by the thought of getting into the room thathe’d hardly noticed George’s return.

“Oh,yeah, do yeh want to get going?”

Georgelowered his voice. Ringo understood why. “Yeh got a room?”

“Yeah.Come on.”

Therewas no second floor. All the rooms were in a second part of the pub, and therewas only around three, none of which seemed occupied. The two boys could guesswhy as they got into their room. The covers on the narrow bed didn’t seem to beclean, the carpet was covered in so many stains that its normal colour was inpatches and the en-suite, which they did actually have, was grotty. Propergrotty.

Still,it was a room. It was their room that night. A soon as the door closed, theydidn’t care what they could hear or see of the outside world, because they’dlocked it out. For once, they were the only ones in the entire world thatmattered…

…andthey quickly realised they had no idea what to do.

“Sooo,”George hummed as he hazarded sitting on the bed. It dipped beneath him to suchan extent, he felt as though he would be swallowed by the mattress, “What’s up?”

Richiesmiled. Throwing the hotel room key on the rotting bedside table, he shrugged. “Areyou hungry?”

Georgedidn’t know how to reply. He was always hungry, but saying yes would mean thatRichie would probably find him some food. He’d already bought them a room, thatwas all George could allow.

IfRichie had not already spent his leftover cash on a sandwich, which he producedbefore George could formulate an answer. Staring down at it, George was stunnedinto silence.

Itwas just a sandwich. It shouldn’t have meant all that much. If anything, thehotel room was a bigger gesture than a bloody sandwich which Ringo could’vemade at home for all George knew (ok, he knew that Ringo hadn’t been hidingthat thing under his jacket the whole time, but that wasn’t he point.) YetGeorge took it as though Richie was handing him a new guitar.

“You…”

“Ithought yeh might get hungry.” Richie said quite casually as he took up a seaton the opposite side of the bed. George held it in his long-fingered hands. Hefelt truly undeservingly spoiled. He felt simultaneously guilty and utterlyflattered.

He wishedhe had some way of showing Richie how much this meant to him, but the best hecould think of was, “Share?”

BeforeRichie could reject the offer, which George knew he would do, George thrusthalf of it into his friend’s hands and stuffed a mouthful into his own face, asif to say ‘no take backs.’

Aftereating, George drew out a pack of cards.

“Whatare we playing for?” He laughed.

Richietapped his coat, as if checking for money, or something to play for. Of course,he had nothing. And neither did George. Or so they thought.

“How’sabout we play for a kiss?”

Richiedidn’t hesitate, “Sure. If I win, I get to kiss you.”

“Andif I win,” George laughed, “I get to kiss you.”

Neitherwere sure if the other really meant it, but somewhere inside them, it was nojoke. George had suggested it, because he wanted some kind of intimacy withRichie, to show him, if he couldn’t tell him, how much he meant to him, whichwas certainly beyond his vocabulary by then. Richie agreed because he thought,why not? Why not try the whole intimacy thing, to see how far his attraction ofGeorge went?

Andwith this win-win situation, they were going to find out either way.

“Bestof three?” George suggested.

Richieknew he was never all that good at cards, and George was a big cheater. Once,when he was playing with a mixture of the Beatles and the Hurricanes, George somehowproduced 6 Aces. 6! Not even one more than should be in a pack, but two! Andhow they missed it, Richie will never know, as the design on the back of thecards were totally different to the pack they were playing with.

Hedid, however, manage to bag the first game. The other two, as was expected,went to George, who smirked, glimpsing Richie as he collected the cards. He wasrecalling the wager. Did Ringo really mean it? Would he really…?

“So…”George hummed, “This kiss.”

“Yeah?”Richie replied, filing the cards into a neat pile, nervously.

“Arewe actually…?”

“Well,you have to… you have to kiss me.”

“True.Do you mind…?”

“Whywould I mind?”

Theawkward politeness had gone on long enough, George decided. It was just makinghim even more nervous. Because he was actually going to do this. Richie wasstill playing with the cards, shuffling them, the rings on his fingers glintingin the low light. George took the opportunity, as Richie’s attention wasn’t onhim, to turn towards him, kneel on the bed and lean down. He caught Richie’s fulllips with his own, quickly, chastely. And for that brief touch, his eyesfluttered closed. When he opened them, sitting back beside him, Richie was halfsmiling, staring at him with those bright, stunned eyes.

“Thatwas nice.”

“Thatwas.”