#the moment i saw the word and fandom i said to myself 'rosie'

[rainintheevening]

Salutations, hope you're having a nice day/night! For the ask game thingy could you do word: sneaky and fandom: ooh BBC Sherlock please? Thanks!

Rosie rubbed her hands together for a moment, like Uncle Sherly did when he was excited, before realizing even that faint rasping might give her away. She was good at being sneaky; she'd picked Mr. Lestrade's pocket two days ago, and Uncle Sherly had beamed at her so proudly, she'd felt warm from head to foot. But catching her father off-guard was another matter entirely.

Sometimes Dad wouldn't notice her until she had an arm around his neck and she was kissing his cheek and taking peppermints out of his jacket pocket—and sometimes he'd say, "Put the knife back, Rosie," without looking up from his laptop, and before she'd even finished wrapping her fingers around the handle.

Now the sweet, rich smell of warm chocolate cake reached her nose, and she crouched lower on the stairs, ready to spring.

[truefandemonium]

Heyy there! I was so happy the moment I saw you accept requests for King 🥹

Can I ask for a fic where King is jealous bc of Candie? Django notices this and tries to calm down King, which was useless. Later on, reader (fem or gn pls) notices King is a bit distant and ignoring her, so she confronts him and he accidentally admits his feelings (King and Reader had just a few intimate moments before, but nothing serious bc King have said it was dangerous). Fluff and Angst maybe? 🥺

I hope you like my request, tysm! 🤗✨

Thank you SO MUCH for requesting this!! I absolutely love the idea and writing Jealous King was fun! (As my first fic in the fandom, I hope he’s not OOC!)

I took some creative liberties with the canon plot to fit this prompt, but I hope you enjoy! 😍

Dr. King Schultz xFem!Reader

Mature. Tags: angst, fluff, jealousy, possessive!King, mentions of slavery, innuendo, implied sexual content, strong language

3,884 words

…

King had hardly been able to stop ordering you and Django around since getting onto the road that would eventually take you straight to CandieLand. “And make sure you do not make him angry,” he tells you. “I have heard from good sources that Mister Candie is not exactly what you’d call reasonable.”

“So, be a pushover, then?” you ask curiously, but genuine. You’re willing to do whatever you need to in order to save Django’s wife, and if that means pretending to laugh at a madman’s jokes and not smile at his slaves, so be it.

“Not in your wheelhouse, my dear, I know,” King says regretfully, glancing sideways at you on Django’s horse while he controls Fritz’s reins from the wagon. You used to argue with him about sitting on the stagecoach with him, but King had insisted that if a fight broke out, he would want you to be on Django’s horse to make a quick getaway if need be.

So here you sit, arms wrapped around Django’s waist as you stare longingly at the man across from you on the wagon. You shut your eyes for a moment and lean forward, laying your head against Django’s back and pretending it’s King’s warmth that you’re feeling now.

“Getting cozy, huh?” the man in front of you grunts, and you quickly pull back, sitting upright just as King glances sideways again and notices your rosy cheeks.

King smiles softly in your direction. “Frauline, if you are needing rest, I can request a room for you upon arrival…”

“No, no,” you shake your head, “I just— I would rather stay with you both.”

King nods, understandingly, while Django mutters, “Suit your damn self.”

The rest of the ride is relatively silent, besides the short huffs and whinnies from Fritz before the three of you arrive at the grand entrance of CandieLand.

You watch with a deep rooted pain in your chest as you roll past fields, seeing the slaves that fill the place. Righteous anger fills you— the need for justice overwhelming. But you remember that you’re on a mission, here. You’re saving Broomhilda.

The wagon rolls to a stop at a lofty porch, with stairs leading down to the dirt path you’re on now, and King waves, beckoning over a slave to discuss the reason for his arrival.

Soon, the head honcho of this place— Monsieur Candie —is chatting with King and discussing business.

You shiver as King eventually introduces you, and Candie’s eyes rake over your form atop the horse, half hidden behind Django’s body.

“Well, nice of you to bring such a fine young lady along with yourself, Dr. Schultz,” Candie muses, his brows raised as he runs his tongue along his teeth.

You feel sick with his eyes on you— feeling like a sheep laid bare for the wolf to devour. But you remember what King said and instead just smile politely, dipping your head as a shameful blush floods your face.

King chuckles nervously and looks back at you. “Yes, she is quite a help in the cooking department. I, myself, am not much of a chef.” You can see the way his green eyes fill with roiling emotions, the way he’s hardly managing to stay cheery. “We keep her around as a sort of maid,” he adds, and you have to stifle an eye roll at the absurdity. He’s not entirely wrong, but you know you contribute much more to the team than washing laundry and dishes in rivers as you pass them.

Candie nods, sucking his teeth. “Yeah? She good for anything else?”

You feel your face fill with heat once more as King makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat. You feel Django tense in front of you, one arm still looped carefully around his middle, and suddenly you realize that King is struggling for words. Struggling to stay calm.

Django saves him with a quick quip, “Shovelin’ horseshit.”

King whips his head to stare at his counterpart as Candie lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, I see! She’s not one to lie on her back, then? No matter, I’m sure we can accommodate you fine gentlemen if’n you feel the need for a little roughhousin’ later on tonight.” He punctuates his words with a sickening grin, and King forces his gaze back toward the man, plastering a smile onto his bearded face.

“Excellent,” King agrees.

“In fact, Dr— you said you speak German?” Candie continues. “We got a little comfort gal that could take care of you this evening. She even speaks a little German, the devil. Tilly!” He beckons over a female slave and leans down to mutter, “Where is Hildy?”

The girl wrinkles her nose and points to a metal box lying out in the far field, baking in the sunlight. “She got put in the hotbox, monseuir. She bein’ bad again, and runned off.”

Candie curses and glances up in embarrassment, ordering the girl, “Well, get her the hell out and get her cleaned up for my guests.”

You feel Django shift, his hand coming to rest on the gun at his hip as you squeeze his shoulder worriedly.

But before he can shoot, Candie is beckoning you all inside, and sending people to take the horses back to the stables. King hurries over to the side of Django’s horse and reaches up to help you down, his hands firmly planted on your waist as he lowers you to the ground. You feel him hesitate there for a moment, his fingers hovering over your body, your hands on his shoulders— faces mere inches apart.

Then he pulls back and theatrically beckons you to follow, rushing after Candie and diving into the false pleasantries between them. Django gazes out at the field as you watch a naked woman get picked up from inside the metal prison and placed in a wheelbarrow to be hauled inside. Her cries of pain echo toward your ears and you nudge Django’s elbow gently to break him out of his horrified staring.

The two of you follow King and Candie inside, ignoring the odd looks from strangers as you walk through the grand arched entrance and into a large living room.

Candie reclines in a large chair, offering King a cigar as they sit and open a jar of whiskey. Django stands in the corner, arms crossed as he watches Candie with an untrusting gaze.

You, too, remain standing, unsure of exactly where to sit— until Candie spots you and shoots you a wide grin, lighting up his cigar with a match. “No place to rest your feet, darlin’?” he asks you. You start to stammer a reply before he waves you to silence and flicks his fingers for you to approach.

“Come on,” he insists, reaching out and snatching the cloth of your dress in his fist to tug you onto the arm of his chair. You make a small sound at the sudden movement, arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance as he chuckles. “Well, Dr. Schultz, if you ever did get bored enough to bend your maid over, she sure does make pretty little noises.” He slides his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as you balance on the arm of his chair.

“Mm.” King’s eyes flash with a dull fury, his fingers tightening until he’s white-knuckling his smoking cigar. “Indeed,” he mutters with barely restrained disdain.

You remind yourself to stay polite despite the way that you want to smack Candie across the face and knock that smug smile off his chapped lips, recalling this is for Django. You’re going to save Broomhilda, and you won’t let this man’s disgusting display scare you off.

So you smile down at him, letting your hand plant on his collar, fiddling gently with the cloth between your fingers as he speaks with King and Django.

You pretend to not care that his grip on you makes your stomach turn uncomfortably, or that he smells of smoke and whiskey in all the worst ways. Instead, you distract yourself with stealing glances at King— a sigh working its way out of your chest at the sight of him. He’s so perfect— so wonderful. The way his green eyes sparkle in the firelight, his greying beard so perfectly framing his soft, crooked lips. The curl of his salt and pepper hair that falls around his ears to meet his sharp jaw.

“Poor bitch must be exhausted, she can’t even hear me,” Candie chuckles suddenly, and you whirl to look down at him.

“Oh— huh? I’m sorry, sir—” you start to say, panic filling your chest.

“I asked if you’re hungry, sugar,” he says, his tone slimy and low. You repress a shudder and force a smile onto your face.

“Oh, I could eat,” you tell him.

Candie chuckles wickedly, smirking in King’s direction. “Y’hear that, Dr? She’s a girl with an appetite.”

You burn at the implications of his words, giggling in lieu of calling him a bastard right to his smirking face.

You glance back to see King staring with a furrowed brow at you, eyes flicking between your falsely glad face and Candie’s, something dangerous flickering deep in his green gaze.

“Why don’t you three go get cleaned up for dinner, huh?” Candie then ushers you up off the chair arm, smacking your backside flirtatiously as he does so. You playfully wave him away, feeling close to throwing up. You wish King would do something– anything– to show Candie that you were his. But of course, nothing between you was official anyway, even if it wasn’t terribly dangerous to defy Candie in his own home. But you and King had kissed, once. After a particularly long day, Django and King had killed four men and had their corpses lying in the dark shadows beyond your makeshift camp in the desert, a roaring fire before you as the three of you downed bottle after bottle of watery beer in celebration.

Maybe being drunk had something to do with it, maybe because the tension between you both had grown too strong, but whatever it was compelled you to kiss him that night. You simply pulled him in by his collar and pressed your virgin lips to his, relishing in the woody way he smelled, and the rich taste of him. And it was wonderful.

You wished that the kiss would change things, perhaps solidify what you thought you had going between you, but alas, nothing more ever came of it. The two of you were still close– even romantically so, at times. But King never let you get too close. Why, you couldn’t say. You wish you could ask him, but your fear of losing his friendship remained stronger than your curiosity.

Candie instructs a servant to lead you up the stairs and to the empty rooms down the hall, and you follow in silence, looking expectantly toward King, hoping for a reassuring look of kindness or concern. But to your dismay, he seems to be avoiding your gaze, all the way until he reaches his offered room, and goes inside without so much as a glance in your direction.

You look to Django, who’s still in the hall with you, confusedly, hoping he has an answer to why on earth King is suddenly distant.

He simply shrugs, heading into his own room and leaving you alone to ponder the sudden sadness creeping into your chest.

When you finish washing up, a servant girl brings you a dress to wear, a gift from Candie, and you put it on, returning to the hall as soon as possible in order to visit King’s room. You rap on his door and wait for the muffled, “Komm herein– come in.”

He turns, fixing his collar distractedly until he sees you, and his throat bobs hard, eyes growing wide. He slams a wall down over his features so that his expression becomes unreadable, and hurriedly finishes with his collar before retrieving his coat and pulling it on. “Ah, frauline. Everything is fine, I hope?” he asks brusquely.

You look at him longingly, confused and hurt by his sudden coolness toward you. “King, is everything alright? Did I– Did I do something to upset you–?”

“I am quite well, Ms. L/N, thank you,” he says, turning toward the mirror above the empty dresser and fixing his grey locks, brows drawn over his darkened eyes.

You wince, feeling as though you’ve been struck. “‘Ms. L/N’? King– what is the matter with you? Please, if you’re mad at me, just say so–”

“Dinner is ready,” a servant tells you from just outside in the hall, startling both you and King into whipping your heads toward the open door. King smiles fakely, ducking his head.

“Ah, thank you very much,” he says, adjusting his coat once more before waltzing past you and out the door to return downstairs. You watch with swelling pain as he walks away without another word.

Dinner doesn’t go much better, King visibly pouting throughout the meal. You play along with Candie, reciprocating his lewd gestures, lingering touches, and laughing at all his dirty jokes. Your attempt at buttering him up seems to work, however, as he is incredibly calm at the prospect of King buying Broomhilda for a small sum.

“Well, I will be sure to send her up to your room tonight, then, doctor,” Candie winks in your friend’s direction, his hand flat on your thigh under the table as you try to remain calm and chew your food without choking.

King smiles again, and you begin to miss his real smile, the way his white teeth flash behind his mustache. “Thank you immensely, Monsieur Candie.”

“I do believe I could use some rest,” you say suddenly, pushing up from the table and glancing at King to see if he reacts. You feel the sting of rejection as he turns his eyes downward to his plate.

“I could walk you,” Candie offers, standing alongside you with a wolfish grin.

King stands, too, now, his eyes fiery. He opens his mouth to speak, and Django quickly straightens, grabbing King’s sleeve. “Mister Candie, my partner wanted to discuss the Mandingo fighter— Big Fred —we’ll be right back.”

With that, he drags King out the side door by his arm, and you mutter an excuse to Candie before following. He watches with narrowed gaze as you round the corner and hear the two men whispering in the hall.

“You need to calm the hell down,” Django whispers in a low tone.

King hisses, his accent more pronounced as he grows angrier. “Do you see that? I am this close to putting a bullet in his brain—”

“Y/N is not bothered, King,” Django says so softly you have to strain to hear.

A small sigh, and then, “That is what worries me.”

You jump on shock as Candie appears behind you, loudly asking, “Everything alright back here?”

King returns from the hall, grinning again. He claps his hands. “Peachy, Monsieur Candie. But as a matter of fact, we have all had a pretty long day and some rest would be most welcome.”

“Course! Make yourselves at home,” Candie assures you. He adds with a wink in King’s direction, “And I’ll send Hildy up to your room a little later.”

Django’s eyes flash hopefully. “Wonderful,” King says.

“Behave yourself until then,” Candie reminds him, fiddling with the cloth of your dress for a moment as he murmurs, “And you too. Ask Tilly where to find me if’n you get lonely, hear?”

You nod politely, counting the seconds until you can escape his gaze. “Yessir.”

He smiles. “Good girl.” The man ushers you all toward the end of the hall, leading to the staircase, and bids you goodnight. “Git, now. We can discuss further business in the morning.”

You curtsy before following the men upstairs and to your vacant rooms, heart pounding fearfully. Candie makes your chest squeeze uncomfortably— like the feeling you get when you know you’re about to get hurt, you just don’t know how.

You hesitate to follow King to his room, seeing him slam his door and taking that as a sign not to bother him. But the pain at wanting to be close to him refuses to leave. Do you quickly undress, pulling on a lacy nightgown and slipping back into the hall after the rest of the house has quieted.

You knock gently on his door, waiting for his reply, but instead of his usual German quip, he calls, “Just a moment!”

You hear the soft steps as he comes to greet you, the creak of the door as it opens and suddenly you’re face to face. His eyes light up, at first, before he furrows his brow and seems to grow distant again. “Frauline,” he whispers. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” you tell him, pain at his harsh attitude making your heart ache. “Please— I need to talk with you.”

���Can this wait until we leave tomorrow? Broomhilda will be up any minute—”

“No!” you hiss, startling him. His green eyes grow wide as you push against the door and close the space between you. King inhales sharply, stepping back to allow you to breach further into his room, and you shut the door quickly behind you. “King,” you start, the need to be with him beginning to be overwhelming, “I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this, but you need to tell me what’s wrong. What can I do?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he lies, avoiding your gaze as he walks to the bed and runs his hands through his hair in a panic. You watch the flex of his muscles beneath his starch white shirt, suspenders pulling taught over his shoulders.

“King, if this is about Candie—”

“I do not care how you choose to conduct yourself,” he bites back, speaking over you. His tone is clipped as he talks over his shoulder, still refusing to face you head-on. “If you misread my concern for romantic interest, I apologize.”

“But… isn’t it?” you ask softly, feeling as though your heart might truly shatter in this moment.

King still won’t face you, his head turned slightly so you can see the sharp curve of his jaw, the way his eyes cast downward as he struggles for words. “I have lost people, dear Y/N. I have loved, and lost, and I have never learned from my mistakes until now.”

Finally, he turns, and you can see the tears brimming in his eyes, and your heart wrenches.

“I don’t know how I came to be so graced as to bask in your presence on the daily, frauline, but believe me when I say that if anything happened to you because of my recklessness, I would never forgive myself…” His words cut like a knife, simultaneously stoking the fire that burns deep in your gut. His voice breaks as he grinds out, “I don’t believe I would like to keep living if you were not.”

“Oh, King,” you cry, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle your tears.

He shifts and you close the space between you with a few short leaps, falling against his front and wrapping your arms around him. King hesitates only momentarily before folding his own arms over you, resting his chin atop your head as you whimper gently into his chest.

“You know I’m only playing along so we can save Broomhilda, right?” you whisper once you’ve caught your breath. King pulls back slightly to look you in the face, his expression cloudy with confusion.

“You mean…?”

You laugh gently, sniffling. “King— he’s an absolutely deplorable man. I think less of him than anyone I’ve ever met.”

You can feel the relief enter King’s body at your words, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “Liebling, forgive me… I have never been a patient man.” He chuckles abashedly, and you reach up to cup his jaw in your palm, reveling in the way he practically purrs, leaning into your touch.

“You don’t have to be patient anymore,” you tell him. “I’ve been waiting for you— for this. I want you, Dr. King Schultz.” His name on your tongue tastes like the sweetest honey, and you find yourself smiling as you stare at him.

“My dear,” he says, his tone strained as if he’s hardly containing himself. His hand comes up to encircle your wrist but doesn’t pull your fingers from where they’re buried in his beard. “You have no idea how much I have longed to hear those words on your lips.” His eyes flash painfully. “But I could not bear to let you get hurt.”

“I won’t,” you promise him, desperation leaking into your voice. “I swear it. I’d rather spend a short time as your woman than a long life without being in your arms.”

King’s mouth falls open as he croaks, “Honest?”

You smile again, tears filling your eyes. “Honest as the day is long, King.”

He gazes fondly at you, his grey hair framing his aged face, and you find yourself aching for a kiss. You cautiously let your hand travel down to his collar and King seems to get the idea, his eyes brightening with realization as a smile crawls onto his lips.

You press further against his front and his hand comes to rest at the small of your back, holding you gently but firmly and flush against his middle as you crane your neck to look up at him.

King pushes a strand of hair from your face before gently holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger and leaning down to place his lips to yours.

You instantly let out a soft moan of affection, deeply inhaling the scent of bonfire smoke, pine trees, and old beer. Beneath that: the musk that always reminds you of King, manly and sharp and sweet, somehow. His lips work against yours as you melt into his touch, the kiss deepening until you swear you’ll never stop tasting him.

King’s hands find your waist and he grips you, his hold almost possessive as if he’s afraid of losing you. You pull back to breathe and see King’s pupils are blown wide with want, his hair mussed from your wandering hands, his lips already red from your assault.

You smile at the sight of him so undone, and you start taking steps forward, urging him backward and toward the bed. King gasps as you push him fully onto his back, climbing atop him and leaning in to plant kisses all along his neck.

He pants gently, his hands now shaky as they hover over your hips, nervousness obvious in his sudden tension. “My dear,” he tells you, his voice breathy and worked up. “Broomhilda will be up here any moment, I will need to be presentable.”

“Tomorrow then?” you murmur, loving the feeling of his soft lips beneath your own. “Promise me.”

“Tomorrow,” he yields, grunting gently into your mouth as you press him deep into the mattress with a kiss. He grins as you pull back, gasping for air. King promises, “And every day after that.”

…

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Diary found in K---D--- : Part 2

So, here's the next little part of this :D

Imagine by @lathalea is indented!

Enjoy <3

Taglist: @shrimpsthings, @mulasawala (so you see where I'm going with this lol)

(Yes, there will be MORE artwork coming, stay posted...)

Fandom: Hobbit

Characters: Ori x OC

Rating & Warning: Fluff and silliness

His name was Ori and he was a scribe in Erebor. It turned out he visited the forest often to sketch the animals and plants. You spent the rest of the day together. In the evening, you exchanged campfire stories, sharing a meal. At one point, he shyly asked about where you came from. Blushing, he admitted, almost whispering, he never saw a person with such beautiful hair before.

You told him that you came from another world, from a region called East Asia, where many people looked similarly to you. He was very curious about your homeland, your culture and your world. You spent hours telling him everything about it and he listened to you in awe.

“Ori.” He replied, his lips quirking a tiny bit as if he was not used to speaking his own name. “I’m a scribe. In Erebor. The Mountain.” He pointed to a tree beyond the clearing.

Thankfully, I was familiar with the Lonely Mountain and did not think that he didn’t know the difference between a living organism and a pile of minerals.

“I have never seen you, neither here nor in that Mountain.” I replied, for I went into the halls sometimes to translate for travellers, but for the most part, I let the king be his grumpy, glorious self.

“I come here often, to sketch, but I seem to have lost my way.” He admitted with a tiny frown. Ah, a real dwarf. They only knew up and down seemingly and if there was no way into a hill, they’d stubbornly trek up until they tumbled off the other side again.

As if to prove to me that he was not lying – dear reader, he had a face that was utterly devoid of malice or dissimulation – he showed me rather good sketches of the fauna and flora of the dense forest surrounding us. “That is really good, Ori, the scribe, from under the Mountain.” I commented which made him blush with a fierce and, apparently, unexpected pleasure.

In an expression of indescribable cuteness, he literally wiped his face with his sleeve as if he could clean away the rosy hue like a stubborn ink stain from under his skin.

“What are you here for?” He then asked, pushing out his chest heroically. As a reminder, he was the one who had lost his way, but apparently, he wanted to defend either the forest from me or the other way around.

“I am here to think…in silence.” I replied; he retreated a few steps. “Oh? I’ll leave you to it then, I guess. It was great to make your acquaintance…”

I gave him my name, after all, he had given me his, and he chewed on it for a few moments before his face split into a smile that was like the sunlight breaking through the cloudy afternoon sky: tentative, warm, and strikingly beautiful.

“Stay. I like your face.” I heard myself saying. Maybe, it was my teasing, mischievous streak acting up, but I had liked his embarrassment so much that I couldn’t help wanting to coax more of these blushes out of him.

“My…face?” In that weird dance he had been engaged in for the last few minutes, Ori stepped closer again, shuffling his feet in the heavy boots dwarrows insisted on wearing.

No, your ass, I thought, but bit my tongue; Ori the dwarf looked like someone who would die on the spot if I said anything even remotely inappropriate…as I was wont to do when nervous.

My sarcastic thought spurred my own interest though and I examined him a little closer: he was indeed swaddled like a babe, beads of sweat pearling down his temples on account of the steep climb and the stubborn blush powdering his nose and cheeks with pink blotches.

“Sit down, you’ll get a heat stroke.” I invited him and pointed to a patch of moss beside me while rummaging in my pack for the flask of ale I had brought.

“Thank you ever so much.” He plopped down in a cascade of earthen-coloured wool and awkward limbs. He did smell warm, I noticed, a blend of cinnamon and comfort.

Also, he had one of those faces that only became better when seen up-close, I admit freely; there were golden stars dancing in the depth of his dark eyes and he had the most adorable freckles as if some outlandish fairy had sprinkled gold dust over that heart-wrenchingly handsome face.

“Are you thirsty, Mistress?” He asked, nodding at the flask in my hand.

Handing it to him rather abruptly, I realised that I had spent the last moments intently staring at his face as if I had never seen a male dwarf before in my life.

“I have work to do.” I snapped, feeling immediately guilty for taking my own embarrassment out on him, but he merely nodded and pulled his sketching supplies into his lap.

Strangely enough, Ori did not disturb me. If anything, the silence felt fuller, richer, deeper with him by my side. As I translated a letter, as a spinster I had to support my family and my insufferable sisters as best as I could, I felt like the chirping of the birds and the vibrancy of the colours around me were even more enjoyable now that I shared them with someone else.

…

The sun crept along its never-changing arc slowly and yet, much too fast.

As I looked up, I wished I was a better painter myself, for this dwarrow was made for sunsets.

The way the last golden hurrah of a perfect day exploded in a halo of warmth around his figure, the way all the greys and the blues seemed to bleed out of the world to leave nothing but warm tones behind, and the way his smile was the perfect expression of this mellow, unhurried mood…it struck me deeper and more violently than a thunderstorm in all its booming rage would have.

“Will you join me for dinner, Ori?” I asked gently, “I shall escort you back down.”

“It would be my honour.” He nodded, tearing out a page of his notebook and handing it over.

“It was an invitation; I do not demand payment.” I said seriously, for the sketch of the doe was so good, it might have been worth actual money. “Oh…” His nose crinkled at little at that.

“I wanted you to…have something beautiful. I have seen you work very hard.”

Of course, he was a scribe as well, he would consider the scribbling work, I thought and gave him a thankful smile. “You’re beauty enough for one day.” I shrugged.

He gasped, bringing his notebook up to his face as if to shield himself from my words.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you? Dori has warned me that girls do that sometimes.” He sounded utterly dejected. “I am not having you on. Has nobody ever told you that you’re handsome?” It was my turn to be wide-eyed with shock.

“And who is Dori?” I followed-up when he didn’t really reply to my question even though I thought I had seen his braids move like strings of pearls in a draft. The minutest of shakes of the head, a quiet admission of inadequacy that sunk ugly, ragged claws into my soft heart.

“He’s my brother. I have two of them. Dori…and Nori. They’re…” – “Older than you.” I completed. “Protective.” He supplied.

He was still holding his drawing out to me, and, after a moment, I took it gingerly and put it between the pages of my own writing supplies. I would hang it in my room and look at it daily.

Nowadays, there were but very few gifts for me; all the money went to my two younger sisters who were still nubile and would, if Mahal willed it so, be able to make a good match.

Busying my hands with making a fire, I asked him to tell me about his brothers.

“Oh, Nori is…agile. He’s…funny and brave and resourceful.” Ori started, his voice warm with affection and admiration. He sounded like a proper rogue to me, and as it turned out, he was, but he also deserved every single ounce of the deep-felt care Ori held for him.

“Dori is…fussy. He’s polite, he’s very caring, and he’s exceedingly proper.” Ori went on as I waved a hand for him not to stop. I enjoyed hearing about the life of other families than my own.

“So, is he the one who raised you to be this…warmly clad and gentle?” I asked, turning to place the foodstuffs I had brought up and stored in the cool lake water on spits to roast over the fire.

“Warm? Oh yes…I was a sickly pebble and he’s been worried ever since. I hope I have behaved in a way that would not make him disappointed in me.” Again, he worried his lip.

“Let’s see, you’ve startled a bird and an unsuspecting dwarrowdam.” I listed with a wicked gleam in my eyes; his face fell, and he looked properly guilty.

“Then, you’ve kept me company, and the best company I’ve ever had, it has been, on my grandmother’s grave, I swear.” I went on and that treacherous blush was back with a vengeance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He then said in a low voice. “Great beauty is always startling.”

“I am hardly Thorin Oakenshield.” He laughed. Readers, you cannot imagine that sound just by reading my words. If flowers blossoming had melody, if the sun setting on the eternal sea had a song, if autumn leaves dancing on a gale had a tune, they would have sounded like nails on scree, like cats having their tails trampled, and like kettles going unheeded compared to Ori’s laughter.

“There’s beauty in the doe as much as in the wolf.” I replied gently.

“May I…can I ask where you’re from? I don’t seek to be rude, but I’ve never seen anyone quite like you; your hair looks like those fabrics the Elves weave. It…seems so soft, so liquid, so smooth.” He blushed a darker shade yet.

This might well have been the first time that someone had asked me about my origins without making it sound like an accusation; there was honest fascination in his demeanour.

“My family and I have come from the Far East. I have travelled a lot, Ori, I have seen landscapes entirely made up of rock and sand, I have walked forests so stiflingly hot and moist it felt like being underwater, and now, I am here in the land of tall trees and taller mountains.”

I said, surprised by my own frankness.

“That sounds amazing.” He took the food I offered readily enough, and I told him about the people I’ve left behind to be stranded at the other end of the world.

“This is good, is that a recipe of your homeland?” He asked, looking down on the piece of meat I had seasoned with herbs I had grown myself in our small backyard.

“It actually is. I’m glad you like it. I had not planned to have company, otherwise I’d have brought something more palatable to the local tongue.” I apologised quickly.

“No, I like it. You should definitely trade some recipes with Dori…and Bombur…oh, and if any of your delicious herbs are medicinal, Óin.” He laughed again when he saw my dumbfounded expression.

“I make a good honeycake, if I can interest you in that? Maybe…” He fell back into silence.

…

A look at the sky told me that it was too late to go down in the inky darkness.

“We’ll have to stay here for the night.” I mumbled, slightly uncomfortable at the idea of spending the night with a dwarrow who had not lost a single word about a wife.

“Are you married, Mistress? Will that endanger your wedlock?” He asked shyly.

“No, I am not and I have no name to lose…It’s a long story.” I didn’t feel like blurting out my disgrace, lest it give him strange ideas after all, especially as he would easily have been able to overpower me if he so chose.

“Neither am I. I don’t know about my name…Doesn’t look like I’m going to be married either. There’s not enough dwarrowdams as it is, and I think the royal line has a prerogative there.” There was no resentment in his tone; he seemed to accept this as a fact.

How could someone that sweet not be married, I wondered. He was courteous, he was cute, and he would have made the fortune and happiness of someone.

“Well, in that case, I think we can risk our reputation rather than our necks.” I grinned, rolling out a blanket I kept tied to my pack for emergencies and stretched out next to the fire on the moss.

“Erm, yes…Good night…” He mumbled, fidgeting around with his different layers of clothing. Apparently, he was deciding which one he needed least on his body to use it as a bedroll or blanket.

I eyed the proceedings with interest and a good deal of amusement.

“I can offer you my cloak to lie upon…the ground will grow very cold and wet soon.” He said in a low voice, not sure if I had already fallen asleep or not.

“Alright, I can offer you a spot under the blanket then?” I extended my own graciousness.

“With you?” No, with the red bird, I thought, rolling my eyes internally.

“Yes, Ori the scribe, with me. I will not eat you, as you have witnessed, I have had dinner.” Not that he did not look good enough to devour, standing there with his cloak in his hands and his face all crunched up in embarrassment.

“Hmmm…I guess.” He muttered doubtfully, spreading out the cloak and sitting down on it carefully. Impatiently, I scooted over and spread my lousy blanket over the both of us with a flourish.

“Sleep!” I commanded as I turned around only to find him staring wide-eyed at the spot where the back of my head had been only a second ago. Now that he was presented with my face, only inches away from his, his eyes grew even rounder and bigger in wordless distress.

“Friend…Have you never lain with a woman? And I literally mean, lying next to one?” I laughed for there had been friends and cousins aplenty in my own life and the feeling of having another body so close to mine was not a new experience for me.

“Well, I fell down on the battlefield once, next to a foe…I’m pretty sure that was a Lady-Orc. She was dead. There was a…” He gestured, indicating a spear or a lance sticking out of his chest and brushing against my own with the back of his hand. Dear reader, he flinched back as if I was a tiny Durin’s bane wreathed in flames.

“A Lady-Orc, indeed…” I mused; no doubt, he could hear the smile I hid in my voice for his face crunched up in embarrassment.

“I am sorry.” He sighed, rolling his eyes, and thinking – there was not a shadow of a doubt about that much – of his brothers who would have mocked him mercilessly for his stammering.

“There’s no need to be sorry” I tried to reassure him, but I admit now that there were things that I did not tell him right away then. We had only just met, and he was blessedly unaware of my shameful past.

How could I have made him understand – without hurting his feelings – how much I enjoyed that air of purity about him that I had squandered myself on an undeserving fiend? As a daughter amongst others, I had been used to dwarrows coming to court or to seduce, their eyes ablaze with greed and their hands wandering.

He would not have comprehended how much the absence of that voracious hunger that had plagued my youth and had ended up destroying my promising future meant to me.

“Sleep.” I repeated, unable to put into words how miraculous and precious the things he seemed to be most ashamed of were to me.

“Good night, Mistress.” He breathed with a soft smile that was nowhere near the wolfish baring of fangs I was used to and so, it was easy to return it.

You who may or may not have stumbled upon this ludicrous account of the most important story in an otherwise unimportant life, you shall hear another confession I did not make at the time.

I was fiercely aware that – had I but leant forward a little – I might have pressed my lips upon his; I was young still at that time and, despite what had happened, parts of me, that should have withered and died in the aftermath of my botched engagement, were much alive.

He smelled like our dinner and warmth, and the gentle reticence of the curve of his smile was more inviting than any flashing grin I had ever seen before.

Yes, in that very moment, on this very first evening, I had already been conscious of the shrewd attraction this self-effacing dwarrow held for me…and it scared me half to death.

…

Part 3

[piscesparker]

Betraying the bond

Masterlist | Taglist

Part 9

It hurt. Seeing him kiss someone else hurt, but why? No, I was not going to let my heart take control over this situation. I shook off thoughts and walked back to the ball, I couldn't believe that I thought that he could change or that we were getting along for once. Once again I as so lost in thought that I never realize that my vision got foggy as the tears threatened to spill. No. I wasn't going to cry over some stupid boy because I was falling for him. That's when I realized, I had fallen for him and his stupid charm.  

Whenever he had his hand on my waist, my heart sped up; and all this time I thought it was fear. Hatred. I was being such a fool, I promised I wouldn't fall; I felt so stupid. And to make matters more worse, I bumped into Edward on the way.

"Woah, Y/n, are you alright?" He addressed his concern, "Are you...crying?" I turned around so he was facing my back and subtly wiped away my tears and took a deep breath to calm down. Once I composed myself I turned around and gave him a kind smile, "I'm fine Edward, thank you."

"Okay, well I was searching for you, hoping I could have a dance with you, for old time's sake?" He winked at the last part making me chuckle, "Of course, it would be my honor." I said as he led me to the ballroom, I looked back at the gardens one last time and deciding never to let my heart make any decisions.

Unlike Harrison, Edward was actually making sure that I was having a good time; I actually felt a bit lighter and more care free, but I guess the universe can never see me being too happy. Harrison stood behind us and cleared his throat to announce his presence, "May I?" He asked Edward.

"All yours." He smiled and gave my hand to Harrison. His grip on my hand and waist was a little tighter than usual, but then it happened again, my heart sped up. No, Y/n fight it! "Who was that?" The blond asked as we began to dance, I could sense a bit of anger and jealousy in his voice; a fake smile covering his real emotions.

"Not that it is any of your business, but that was Prince Edward, a childhood friend of mine." I said a bit sternly as he spun me around. The only way to avoid falling for him was being stern and mean.

"What do you mean 'not any of my business'? I am your fiancee, of course it is my business." The way he said it sounded as though he was hurt, whereas it was the other was around.

As he pulled me back in, it was a bit harsher and forceful than we had practiced, once again making his grip strong. He was being possessive and protective, I did not need that, not anymore. He constantly kept eyeing Edward and as if to show off that I was his, he spun me out and pulled me in, leading to a dip where his one hand was securely on my waist and the other under my neck; once again catching me off guard. The crowd erupted with applause.

After the dance, we exchanged rings and signed the alliance, making it official; every moment of it was pure agony for me. I was giving my everything to someone I didn't want to have, but this was never about me, it was and always has been about the people.

The night came to an end and it couldn't have ended faster, after Amber helped me get ready for bed I waited for a good few minutes and snuck off  to the stables; being with Spencer right now was the only thing I needed. As I walked down the empty halls, the echo of my footsteps keeping me company, when I reached the stables Spencer let out a shrill neigh; it was something he did when he knew that it was me.

I knew if had to take him for a ride I would be in a lot of trouble, so I settled to be in his stall and groom him while I spoke to him. As I softly stroked his hair with the brush I heard a clattering sound, it couldn't have been any of the stable boys, no one was allowed when I was with Spencer.

"Who's there?" I asked, stepped out of the stall, it was eerily quiet which sent chills up my spine.

"Boo!" I let out a loud shriek and turned around to see the last person I wanted to see, Harrison, laughing uncontrollably with his hands on his knees. "What are you doing here?" Letting out a sigh of relief, I punched him lightly on his shoulder as he continued to laugh.

"You should have seen your face." He said, I walked back into the stall and continued to brush Spencer. "Is everything alright?" He asked as his laughter died down and concern overlapping his voice and leaned on the stall door.

"Everything is fine, why?" How does this matter to him now?

"Because it's in the middle of the night and you are grooming your horse? I don't suppose that is a normal person's routine." He chuckled.

And I don't suppose that kissing your ex at your engagement party is also normal. I forced myself from saying it out loud, "This is my castle and I will do what I want," I shot back, "and in that case shouldn't you be asleep too?"

"Ours, now," he corrected me, "I was going to but then I saw you sneaking off so I thought I'd see what you were up to." There was that word again, ours, I hated the idea of an 'us' or 'ours' even more than ever.

"Stop stalking me! I can take care of myself I don't need to be paraded by you all the time, just leave me alone!" I snapped at him and left him out the cold. And again I was overpowered with these confusing emotions. Why didn't he come after me? Fight for me? No Y/n, don't do this to yourself.  

a/n: I know this chapter was boring but I promise to do better :)

General Taglist: @petersasteria @bleh-bleh-blehs @astrosurreptitious @hollanderfangirl @alinastarkrovs @parkerpeter24 @yourstrulyamour @celestialholland @theonly1outof-a-billion @miraclesoflove @theglitterymess @osterfieldholland01 @spideyssunshine @zspideyy @yousayironisayman @rosie-posie08

Harrison Osterfield Taglist: @hollandbroz-n-haz @hjoficrecs @euphorichxlland @asshatgrace @anissalime @just-lost-inbetween-worlds

Betraying the bond taglist: @in-some-fandoms @frenchfrostpudding @sheranatic111 @kickingn-ames @minejungwoo @multific @emistrash @yukh3ic0re @faeriepadfoots @britishvamps @bicyhot1

[johaerys-writes]

The Spaces in Between

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Summary:

"Beyond this door, in the eyes of all men, he shone like a midday sun, his rays touching everyone that gazed upon him. Here, in the semi-darkness of this room, he shone just for me. Neither man, nor woman, neither hero nor legend, not yet; floating in the spaces in between, he was mine. My Achilles."

Or: Achilles and Patroclus steal a moment alone while in Skyros :) Fluff, smut and feels, from Patroclus’ POV!

Read here or on AO3

When Achilles lifted his arms, they looked like wings.

It was the ease of the motion, the grace. It was in the way the wrists curved, so delicately, fingers extending from the soft pads of his palms like feathers. It was in the arc they drew over his head, only to fall once more, faintly, faintly.  

Then they lifted again, and it was like a bird taking flight.

I was not the only one watching him in awe. Lycomedes’ hall was full of people, tables packed and overflowing with food platters and bronze cups, with servants silently weaving amongst the bystanders. The other dancers moved around him, the hems of their dresses whispering, but at that moment, for me, there was only him.

Most days, Achilles was aware of the effect he had on people, however little it concerned him. That day, though, he seemed entirely oblivious of the crowd, moving for the sake of the movement, his feet tapping the ground gently, his legs prettily curving, in love with their own motion. He tossed his head back, and the golden hair underneath the purple cloth that bound it glittered in the shifting flames of the lit braziers. The large room was drab and colourless even with the bright tablecloths and the decorations on the walls, but Achilles was swirling in the midst of it, catching the light, like a jewel.

The music of the flute, the cymbals and the lyre rose and fell in time with the dancers’ practiced movements, and the people around me watched, enthralled, some even forgetting to drink the wine that the servants were pouring in their cups. When the music finally drew to a close, the dancers gathered in a semicircle and curtsied, lifting their skirts slightly to show their slender ankles.

They all straightened in unison and the people around me slowly stirred from their rapture, like a spell lifting. Achilles looked up, his eyes searching mine in the crowd. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were shining with satisfaction; I could not help but smile at him. He smiled back as the dancers departed in single file back to their quarters to change.

I took a sip of watered down, spiced wine. Lycomedes’ feasts were usually modest —Skyros was not a wealthy island— but the wine was always sweet and fragrant, easy on the tongue. My food lay before me in my plate, untouched, and Achilles’ was beside me. Ever since I had come to Skyros, he had stopped taking his meals with the other dancers, sitting beside me at Lycomedes’ table instead.

I leaned back in my seat, my eyes scanning the room as I waited for him to return.

The dancers, one by one, entered the hall again and returned to their seats. Achilles was not amongst them.

Curious, I approached one of the dancers that I had seen him speaking with once or twice, a girl with curly hair and dark, tilted eyes. “Where is Pyrrha?” I asked her in a low voice.

She glanced up at me, a little startled. “She stayed in the women’s hall,” she replied simply. “She was feeling unwell.”

Her words surprised me. Achilles seemed perfectly fine a moment earlier; what could have happened in the space of minutes to make him feel so unwell?

I thanked the girl, and immediately departed. The corridors beyond the hall were dark and cool, and thoroughly void of guards, servants and passers-by. They had all gathered at the hall, where food was being served. I made my way to the far side of the palace on quick, silent feet, like a shadow.

I hesitated only for a moment before pushing the door to the women’s quarters open. No man  was supposed to enter there, other than certain trusted guards, but my curiosity and concern for Achilles got the better of me.

“Pyrrha?” I called quietly, and then, when I received no answer, “Achilles?”

Silence met my words. I followed the path of lit torches to the far end of the corridor, which led to a large room. It was humbly decorated, like the rest of the palace, but the embroidered rags on the floor were newly made and vibrant in colour and the stone benches were covered in plush cushions. A half finished piece of colourful cloth was stretched on the loom shuttle in a corner, and coiling tendrils of fragrant incense smoke drifted towards the ceiling from braziers.

“Achilles?” I called again, then I walked in.

A whisper of fabric behind me, so faint I thought I’d imagined it. The door clicked shut and the latch was drawn before I could so much as blink, then a piece of cloth fell over my eyes.

“Got you,” I heard Achilles’ voice next to my ear.  

I laughed, bringing my hands up to touch the fabric he had placed over my eyes. It was the same one he used to bind his hair, purple with embroidered red and yellow flowers, and it smelled of him: almonds, crushed rose petals and pomegranate, the musk of his skin.

“What are you doing?”

Achilles did not reply as he tied the cloth securely at the back of my head. His slender fingers then slid down the side of my neck, following the line of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. “What does it look like?”

My skin prickled as he moved lower, caressing the length of my arm. “Lycomedes is waiting for us in the hall, Achilles,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. I could tell he was in the mood for games, but that was hardly the place, or the time. “He’ll want to make a toast; we have to be there.”

“We will. In time.” His breath skimmed my cheek, and his lips brushed the shell of my ear. His light and careful touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I barely bit back gasp when his arms came around me, pulling me flush against him. “But first: this.”

I swallowed thickly, trying to retain whatever little control I had left. “What if someone comes in?”

“I have locked the door.”

“What if someone walks by and hears us?”

His smile was pressed against my skin; I could tell it was a wicked, mischievous one. “Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?”

I could only let out a breathless chuckle as Achilles moved around me and caught my hand. I let him guide me to one of the benches, close to the window. A crisp breeze was blowing, caressing my skin, and I shivered when Achilles pushed me gently down upon the cushions and kissed me.

His lips were soft, delicate, when they brushed my own. I sighed into the kiss, my worries about anyone seeing or hearing us quickly melting away. His tongue, when it brushed over my own, tasted of sweet, honeyed wine.

I surrendered myself to his touch, to his palm that slowly skimmed the length of my leg and slithered underneath my tunic, slowly slithering upwards. A quiet moan escaped me when his lips left mine to kiss my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. I reached up to lift the scarf that he had placed over my eyes, but Achilles deftly caught my wrist.

“No peeking.”

I laughed. “Am I supposed to stay in the dark, then, while you can see?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound fair, does it?”

Achilles undid the clasp of my tunic, the fabric loosening over my shoulder. “It is fair.” He pushed it down, until I was bared to the waist. Achilles’ lips raised goosebumps along my skin when he pressed soft kisses down the center of my chest. His tongue flicked over my nipple, his teeth then closing gently over it. “For me.”

“That is, perhaps, the exact opposite of ‘fair’,” I protested half-heartedly, but already I could feel my defences evaporating at his every touch.

“No peeking. Swear it.”

“Alright,” I sighed in acquiescence, arching underneath him. “I swear it.”

It always had this effect, Achilles’ touch on me: no matter how hard I would try to keep my composure, my thoughts would soon drift away to be replaced by the sure and sharp desires that his soft lips and deft hands sparked within me. It was a familiar jest between us, that whatever argument I would think to bring up during times like these would just crumble and dissolve as soon as I felt his lips on me, his hands, his tongue.

My tunic was swiftly pulled down and discarded. I caught the faint whisper of the fabric as it touched the floor beside us. Achilles’ mouth moved lower, following the line of soft hair that led to my navel; I shivered in anticipation, gripping the cushions beside me to keep my hands from straying to the blindfold.

“Gods,” I gasped quietly when his lips closed around me, enveloping me in slick, velvet heat.

He moved slowly, his tongue moving in broad strokes; he knew the rhythm I liked, the pace, the pressure. My hand moved as if on its own to cup the back of his neck as he gave me pleasure, feeling the silken locks slipping through my fingers. I knew what he looked like even without seeing: I could see the flushed lips, the rosy cheeks, the heavy lidded gaze. I could see him, in my mind’s eye.

With every motion of his mouth and fingers my desire grew bolder, stronger. I wanted to see him with my own two eyes.

I lifted the blindfold and gazed down at him. His lips were full and glistening as they wrapped around me, the cascading waves of his hair framed his face, his eyes were dark with wanting. I reached down to caress his hollowed cheek with the tip of my finger.  

“You are so beautiful,” I sighed, “Achilles.”

He slid his mouth off of me when he saw me looking, and frowned. “I said, no peeking.”

I bit my bottom lip, grinning. I said, “I’m sorry,” though I wasn’t, really.

“You swore.”

“I know.” I cupped his neck, pulling him up to bring his lips to mine. I kissed him hard, my tongue slipping past his teeth to twine with his. “Some oaths are made to be broken.”

Achilles moaned softly, rocking against me. I caught him by the waist and rolled him underneath me, coming on top of him. Though he was stronger than me, slightly taller, he was slender and agile and moved easily along with me. He gazed up at me, the flames from the braziers dancing in his eyes. His hair was spread like a halo around his head, the golden strands matching the swirls of the embroidered cushions beneath him.

He looked so vulnerable, so soft when he gazed at me like this, eyes sparkling with desire and expectation. My pulse beat hard in my throat when I reached down, to his ankles, and pushed up the rich fabric of his skirts. The dress did not look foreign on him; Achilles had always been graceful in his movements, and there was something soft about his features, delicate, like a woman’s. Now, as I smoothed my palm over the silky skin of his calves, the muscles of his strong thighs, revealing more of him, he was a creature of gold and ivory, of bone and rough cut jade. Neither man, nor woman, neither hero nor legend, not yet; floating in the spaces in between, he was mine. Mine. My Achilles.

Outside, beyond this door, in the halls and the palaces and in the eyes of all men, he shone like the midday sun, his rays touching everyone that gazed upon him. Here, in this room, he shone just for me.

“Achilles,” I whispered as my fingers curled around his length. Achilles gasped against my lips, arching into my touch and thrusting in my palm. I kissed him hungrily, moving with him, drinking in his moans and his gasps.

The wick of the oil lamp flickered beside us, releasing a sweet scent of roses and beeswax. I reached out and dipped my fingers in the warm oil, then reached down between us once more, smoothing the liquid between his legs.

I pushed inside him gently, one finger, then another, watching his every expression as if I were a starving man. Achilles’ eyelids fluttered in pleasure, his hips rising to meet my hand.

“Patroclus—” he breathed as he writhed, pleading for more. He wrapped his long legs around me, pulling me close. “Patroclus, I want you, I—” He licked my lips, caught my tongue between his teeth. “I need you. I need you, philtatos.”

I shuddered at the sound of his voice, the words that left his lips. He always, always knew the right things to say.

I carefully pulled my fingers out and pressed myself against him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. I whispered praise and sweet nothings against his lips as I did —I must have— but my thoughts were dispersing swiftly like the coiling tendrils of incense of smoke when the breeze blew. Gods, you’re so warm, so soft, I might have breathed in his hair while I thrust slowly, opening him up; or you’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my Achilles, I might have gasped against his palm when I brought it up to my lips to kiss it; or, perhaps, I sighed philtatos as he locked his ankles behind me, pulling me closer, philtatos as he threaded his fingers through my hair and kissed me breathless, drawing air from my lungs, philtatos, philtatos, philtatos, my beloved, my Achilles.

In truth, I cannot remember. It always had this effect on me, Achilles’ touch.

I remember his smile, sharp and wicked when he pushed me on my back and climbed on top of me, straddling me. His hair fell in dishevelled curls of spun gold down his shoulders, and the fabric of his skirt bunched around his waist. His dress was a mess, only half of it undone in our haste, though Achilles seemed to care about it not at all. The buttons and laces down the front were open to his navel, leaving his chest exposed, the rest of the rich fabric falling to his elbows. He was swaying on top of me, head thrown back and lips half parted in ecstasy, eyes closed.

Our pleasure soared in tandem as he moved, taking me deeper with every roll of his hips. I smoothed my palm up his chest and curled my hand around his slender throat, caressing the arch of it with my thumb.

“Look at me,” I whispered. “Look at me, Achilles. Open your eyes.”

I waited until the fair eyelashes lifted and revealed warm, jade eyes, eyes that gazed at me with hunger, warmth and adoration, everything that was pure, everything that was him.

I held that gaze as if it were a lifeline as I thrust faster, sinking deeper and deeper inside him, chasing those shimmering threads that tied us to each other. I watched his every expression as we leapt over the edge and let the waves of warmth and pleasure wash over us, as we both came undone. Achilles was shivering on top of me when I reached down and took him in my hand, stroking him through his finish. The beads of his seed shone on the fabric of his dress, white on white.

Achilles collapsed on top of me with a sigh. His heart was beating frantically against my chest, the thrum of it mingling with my own until I couldn’t tell them apart. I held him close to me, nose buried in his hair, letting the sweet and musky scent of his skin fill my lungs as my pulse quietened, breath by breath.

I could not tell how long we stayed like this, entangled. The night breeze blew crisp and chilly from the half open window, and over the gentle trill of the crickets I could just make out the sounds of music and chatter coming from the main hall.

Achilles hummed softly as he rolled off of me to lay beside me, nestled against my side on the narrow bench. His features were calm and tensionless, and he had the softest of smiles on his flush, bitten lips.

“Think Lycomedes has finished with his toast?” I asked, gazing into the night.

“Gods, I hope so,” Achilles said, and his voice was still a little hoarse from passion. “They always seem to go for hours.”

I looked down at him with a knowing smile. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

He cracked open one eye to peek at me, the edges of his lips curling even more. “Whatever for?”

“Because it seems your ruse was a success, after all,” I mused teasingly, shifting on my side to face him. “Drawing me away from the hall just so you could avoid listening to Lycomedes’ toasts.”

Achilles huffed a quiet, sleepy laugh. “I did nothing. You came on your own.”

“You knew I would,” I chuckled, drawing him closer. The skin of his brow was hot when I pressed my lips to it, smooth like silk. I closed my eyes.

Wherever you are, I thought, you know I’ll follow.

**

Thank you so much for reading! Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated :) I’d love to hear your thoughts!

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 8/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter Summary: Following their misadventure at Hill Top Road, Jon finally takes some time off; Martin remembers something disturbing about the archives’ collection of books.

Chapter 8 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read at AO3 above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Jon, take the pills.”

Jon, wrapped in a blanket and staring out over the railing of the flat’s small balcony, stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll just wait.” Martin set the vitamin bottles and the glass of water on the sturdiest-looking part of the railing, and shifted the second chair enough so he could sit down.

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

“Yeah, probably.” Martin was dressed in a light jumper with only a t-shirt beneath it. It had been warm enough earlier in the day—the weather was getting nicer—but as the sun started to go down it was cooling off.

“Your choice.” Jon picked up his lighter from the small table between them and lit another cigarette, and they sat together as the sun continued its journey below the horizon. It really was beautiful, Martin thought. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to observe any part of nature in a long time. It hadn’t ever been much of a priority to him, but there was something nice about taking in the colors that spilled across the sky—deep yellows and oranges that gave way to pinks and purples, and eventually a dark glowing blue that was only barely distinguishable from black.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Jon readjusted in his seat to pull his legs up under the blanket a little more.

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

“Why should I take them? You heard the doctors, there isn’t anything actually wrong with me. They’re just grasping at straws.”

After an hour or so on the porch at Hill Top Road, Martin had calmed enough to make the decision to go to A&E. Although Jon had protested, the fact was that he had been too weak to do anything about it, and Martin only felt a little bad taking advantage of that. As he’d said then, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t insisted on doing it before; he’d become so used to not being able to get help, that he hadn’t really considered it until then. He wasn’t going to mess around anymore, though, especially now that he realized he might not always be able to help on his own.

After hearing about Jon’s recent fatigue and his fainting episode, the healthcare staff had run a lot of tests. They’d hooked him up to monitors, measured things, done blood draws. Martin had to admit Jon’s description of their conclusions wasn’t far off—they didn’t find anything explicitly wrong with him. There was no diagnosis they felt comfortable giving, although they had pointed out a few possibilities that they should monitor. And they’d recommended the vitamins, of course.

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

“—and your vitamin D levels were actually quite low.” Martin shivered involuntarily in the cool night air.

“God damn it, Martin.” Jon fidgeted with the lighter on the table, but didn’t actually reach for another cigarette. “Will you take the blanket, anyway?”

“Will you take those pills?”

“They won’t help with anything,” Jon protested. “We both know that. This is ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martin countered. “I’m not assuming anything about what will help. Beyond that, given how you’ve been eating, they can’t hurt. And finally, yes, I am being ridiculous, and I don’t care.”

“I didn’t say you were being ridiculous.”

“No, I said it. I’ll own it. I am being ridiculous, because I don’t want to lose you, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you now any more than I did when we were walking through an apocalypse together, or when you were being kidnapped by actual monsters every week, or when you were taking unannounced holidays in coffins or whatever.” Martin shivered again. “Look, it’s just not that hard to take them, Jon.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m behaving like an ass,” Jon sighed.

“Now I didn’t say that,” Martin replied. “I’m not trying to ignore what you’re feeling Jon, and I know there’s not a quick fix for any of it. It’s just that it’s—it’s such a small thing, and if it helps, at least it’s something.”

Jon grumbled.

“And not to bring this up again, but—I mean, it might help if you would just talk to me?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. When I try to put it into words, I—it never comes out right. I sound like a—well, a monster.” Jon seemed to shrink back into the blanket even more. “Or maybe I am one, and I can’t face you knowing it.”

“Jon…” Martin hesitated, but decided to finish the thought. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve asked myself if—if you are.”

Jon turned to him. “And?”

“And I don’t think so,” Martin said simply.

“Why not?”

“To be completely clear, it’s not the most rational reason. I just don’t think I could love you like this if you were. You’re just not bad. You’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing. You’ve only ever wanted to protect people, to protect me, even if—” Martin cleared his throat. “Even if we haven’t always agreed on what that looks like.”

“I see,” Jon said softly, turning to look over the railing again.

“So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Martin leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, blowing warm air into his hands. “But in that case, it’s vitamins and freezing myself.”

“May I ask a favor first?” Jon said, eyeing the glass of water warily.

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course.” Martin was relieved; that was one thing he imagined he’d always be happy to do. “But you’ll take those pills if I do?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You’ve made your case.”

He reached down to kiss Jon’s head before he walked back into the kitchen, and noted with comfort that Jon leaned into him as he did.

***

That was Sunday evening. Since they’d returned from A&E, Jon had spent most of the time before that afternoon sleeping. He’d been restless, and Martin had slept on the couch for a few nights to try to let Jon get as much sleep as he could. Of course, he had woken anxiously every few hours needing to check on Jon, so he was more than ready to go to bed after their discussion on the balcony. He ended up turning in before Jon, so he was a little surprised to find him already awake and sitting back against his pillows when he opened his eyes on Monday.

“Hey,” Martin said, moving closer to rest his face against Jon’s hip, throwing an arm over his legs.

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long after you. I’m just not that tired. Maybe I finally slept enough.”

“That makes one of us.” One night of sleep hadn’t done Martin as much good as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry.” With his eyes still closed, Martin felt Jon’s hand come to rest on his head, gently rubbing his scalp just above his ear.

“I’m going to have to cut my hair soon.”

“I like it,” Jon said, gently tugging at a few strands. “I mean, I like it shorter, too. I guess I just like your hair.”

“Flatterer.” Martin yawned, then pressed his face into Jon even harder for a moment before rolling back to his side of the bed. “Just so long as you know it’s not getting you out of those pills. Do you want to shower first?”

“Actually, I was thinking I might not go in today.”

“Really?” Martin sat up to look at Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He picked at an invisible spot on the quilt. “It’s more that I’d just—I’d like some time to think. If you’re ok with it.”

“Yes, of course I’m ok with it. I’ve been trying to get you to take it easy ever since we got here. We can—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jon’s face and realized what he was actually asking. “Oh, you meant—just you. Yeah, no, of course that’s fine. That’s great.”

“Are you sure? I mean—if you want to stay too—”

“No,” Martin interrupted. “No, it’s really fine. It’s not a problem. I mean, I know I’ve been really irritating with the—”

“That’s not it,” Jon said reassuringly. “It’s really not. I’m—I’m glad you’ve been here for me. It’s just my mind’s been so cluttered, and it finally—I feel like I can gather my thoughts.”

Martin nodded. “I get it. I do.” He did, mostly. “Would it be ok if I called to check on you?”

Jon smiled. “I’m sure I’d worry if you didn’t.”

So Martin went in by himself. He told Tim and Sasha the truth, mostly; Jon had blacked out after therapy, of course, not in an abandoned house in Oxford where there existed a possible gap between dimensions and realities, but the part about going to A&E and Jon staying home to recover was straightforward enough.

“Glad something slowed him down,” Tim said, and Sasha gave him a look. “Well, something was bound to happen, and at least Martin was there. It could have been worse. He was pushing himself too hard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin agreed, and Sasha patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

He went in by himself the next day, too. Jon seemed to be doing well enough. They didn’t talk much; Martin was tired and Jon seemed lost in his thoughts. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon was doing most of the day, though it didn’t seem to be much of anything. He was eating—well, drinking the nutrition shakes Martin had picked up for him—and Martin suspected he was sleeping a little, based on how the bed looked when he came home. Jon managed to eat solid food at supper again that second night, and reached protectively for his half-empty plate when Martin assumed he was done.

“Sorry,” Martin said with his hands up in apology, leaning back into the couch. “Does that mean—maybe you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Starting to.” Jon stretched out his feet to rest them on the bottom ledge of the coffee table. For an instant, Martin already missed the feeling of Jon falling asleep against him—but this was better, he knew. He pushed the mournfulness away.

He went in by himself again on Wednesday. A little after noon, Sasha joined him and Tim in the assistants’ office.

“Want to come to lunch?”

Martin assumed she was asking Tim, but when he didn’t hear an answer, he glanced up to find both of them looking at him.

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Tim replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Might be nice to take up some old habits again.”

Martin didn’t have to think for too long to figure out what Tim was referring to; memories from this world came easy now. Not long after his mother had died, they’d started going out for lunch together once a week. It had almost certainly been for his benefit, but no one had ever admitted that to him; instead, they’d all acted like it was a spontaneous idea that for some reason had never occurred to any of them before. Martin had been so grateful for the company that he’d simply accepted it without thinking about it too hard.

“We’ll miss Jon, of course,” Sasha added, “but he can come with us next week.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tim said, elbowing Martin good-naturedly as they left the office together. “This just makes up for those times Jon couldn’t wait and stole Martin out from under us.”

Martin remembered that, too; there had been a few times when, despite their best intentions, he’d been overwhelmed by the thought of lunch with the whole group. Jon had somehow understood and anticipated those days, and had come up with some reason he had to go early, asking Martin if he’d wanted to join. They hadn’t said much when it had been just the two of them, nothing important, but that had sort of been the point, hadn’t it? It was a nice memory, anyway, and Martin was glad he had it now. He wondered if Jon had remembered it yet.

***

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a little bit awkward. Martin hadn’t spent much time with Sasha, at least not compared to how much time he’d spent with Tim, and he could tell she was being careful with him. She was polite, keeping the conversation easy, deliberately avoiding topics that held anything other than surface interest. After he finished eating, he decided to ask her some things he’d been wondering about, and hoped she’d chalk up anything strange about it to him being a little thrown off from last week.

“Sasha,” he asked, setting his fork down, “do you—like being the head archivist?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning toward him slightly over their table.

“Do you like it? Is it a good job? Is it—is it how you thought it would be?”

Sasha crossed her arms in thought. “Well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, the Magnus Institute has its issues, I suppose. It’s an academic joke, of course, but it’s not like the respect of my peers was ever that important to me.” She laughed at herself. “And some of our benefactors are… well, a bit full of themselves? But I suppose that’s true anywhere. I am quite happy with the job security, and it pays well enough for what it is. Plus I’m actually using my degree, which is more than I can say for most of my classmates.”

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

Sasha frowned slightly. “No—no, not really. Why?”

“No reason,” Martin said as casually as he could. He couldn’t exactly say just wondering if you’re trapped here. “Just been doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Well,” Sasha said, “I’ll admit the job’s felt a little bit different lately. Hard to say exactly how… I guess I’ve been struggling a bit with—well, I’m still not sure how to handle the—incidents, I suppose? It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’m responsible for the people who come here to talk to us. Like I should be keeping track of their stories, somehow. I just don’t know what to do with them. Honestly, I’ve just started asking them to write everything down. I feel bad, but I just can’t listen to some of them. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

Martin took a few sips of water. Jon hadn’t mentioned that specifically, but it probably wasn’t anything.

“What about—what about Elias? He doesn’t seem too fond of the Institute. Why does he stay?”

“You’ll have to ask Tim,” Sasha said, poking at what was left of her salad with her fork again. “They’re best friends.”

Tim laughed. “We are not best friends. However, I do think you should spend a little more time with him outside of work. You’re missing out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” Tim poked her arm playfully with the tines of his fork, and she batted him away. “He and Allan are a trip.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“What I meant was, they’re funny. Especially Elias.” He turned to Martin. “Now the key to understanding him is to recognize that he has money—and also that he hates money, even though he has no idea how to function without it. And people with money, he especially hates. But at some point, I suppose, his father wore him down, and he has now accepted his position in life with as little grace and composure as he can.”

Martin thought back to what little he knew about Elias Bouchard, the actual Elias Bouchard, from his own world. “That… makes sense, actually.”

“And it makes him a pain in the ass when I need something,” Sasha added. “But on the positive side—he does leave me alone to do my job, for the most part.”

Martin remembered Allan’s name too; Martin remembered he had died after finding an old book. “So Allan is—his roommate?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That, Martin, is none of our business.”

“What?” Martin was genuinely confused before he realized what Tim was getting at.  “Oh—oh god, no, I didn’t—”

“However,” Tim interrupted him, “if you find out let me know, because I believe Sasha will owe me 10 quid on that day.”

“Doubtful,” Sasha said, grinning over the phone she was now scrolling through. “Very doubtful.”

Martin could feel his face turning red, so he was grateful for the distraction when Sasha leaned forward with her phone.

“Speaking of working at the Magnus Institute—look at this,” she said, attempting to angle the phone so both Martin and Tim could see at once. “I cannot get over how much she’s enjoying her retirement. I never thought she’d leave, but then it was like she was just up and done one day, and she never looked back.”

It took Martin a moment to understand what she was showing them, but it was a picture of Gertrude Robinson—a Facebook picture. He might not have known it was her, if it wasn’t for the name posted above it. The biggest difference was that in every picture he’d ever seen of her, she’d been wearing her hair in the same tightly-pulled grey bun; here, she was wearing her hair down, and it flowed softly past her shoulders. The next most obvious difference was he didn’t think he’d ever seen her smiling in a picture before, and she looked quite happy in this one, drink in hand, next to an equally-cheerful looking older man who had been holding up the phone to snap the photo. The caption read catching up with an old friend.

Sasha pointed at Martin to emphasize his surprised reaction. “See, that’s what I’m saying. I guess you just never know.”

“Who—who’s in the picture with her?” Martin asked.

“Oh right, I forget you never met him in person. That’s Jurgen Leitner.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think she was that fond of him, really. Must be another retirement thing.”

Jurgen Leitner—what was his connection to the Institute here? It’s not like he would have been living in the tunnels, there was just no—

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Leitner Room. In this world, the Magnus Institute was home to every book Jurgen Leitner had ever collected. He had collected them, of course, only his library had never been destroyed because there was nothing to make that happen. When he’d decided to downsize in his later life—when he didn’t feel quite the same sense of pride in them—the archives had been the perfect home for his books. Of course, up until now, it meant nothing except a new collection and a nice endowment for the Institute.

What did it mean now?

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked. “You look—”

“You look like you just got run over,” Tim finished.

“Sorry.” Martin pulled his hand away from his mouth; he hadn’t even realized he had put it there. “I just—I just remembered something. It’s, um…”

“Do you need to get back?” Sasha asked after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Martin answered, apologizing with his voice. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. You can stay, if you want—”

“No, I’m done.” Tim took one more drink to empty his glass. “Sasha?”

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “I—there’s something I need to take care of for Jon.”

***

After they got back, Martin tried to look busy at his desk, hoping they’d think that he was taking care of whatever it was online. He took the opportunity to review the records in the system, and was comforted to note that nothing in the Leitner group currently had any special notations connected to it. All of the books were, at least in principle, on the shelves, and no one had requested access to any of them. He’d been hoping that was why his attention hadn’t been drawn to any of them previously, and it seemed like he’d lucked out. It was an obscure collection, and there were a lot of restrictions on them at Jurgen Leitner’s request; not just anyone could come in and browse them, and only a very specific set of research purposes qualified for special permission to remove them from the library.

He relaxed a little, and then waited for an opportunity to leave the office without attracting attention. He had to wait a while, but eventually Rosie came in with something for Sasha to review. A moment later Sasha called Tim in to her office, and Martin took the opportunity to leave. He just didn’t see a reason to risk drawing anyone else’s attention to the Leitners, especially since it seemed they were all but forgotten as they were.

He walked out past Rosie’s desk and back into the stacks; the room really was quite out of the way, buried deep in a corner of the shelving units. It wasn’t a large room, and if you weren’t looking for it, it would have been easy to miss. Even the sign above the door, emblazoned with the word Leitner, was barely distinguishable from the metal door frame behind it. The room was kept locked, but as an archival assistant Martin had a copy of the key. He held his breath and turned it.

Walking into the room was anticlimactic; it didn’t feel like much. There was no threatening aura; there was no sense of danger. It felt like nothing more than a small room full of musty old books, like many other small rooms of musty old books Martin had been in before.

He took a quick look at some of the titles on the shelves. At first glance, he didn’t see any he had heard of before, but of course he hadn’t heard of most Leitners. He continued to look, straining his eyes at words written on faded spines, occasionally pulling one gingerly off the shelves to check the front cover; he just needed something to prove to himself he wasn’t overreacting. Finally he found one he knew: a thick, black paperback labeled The Boneturner’s Tale. Martin felt a shiver run down his back as he involuntarily jerked his hand away from it.

He closed the door to the room, locking it behind him, and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had service, and he immediately dialed Jon’s number.

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

“No,” Martin said. “Well, yes, I’m glad, but—”

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m…” Getting Jon to remember for himself was going to be much easier than explaining it.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I—well, all right. At lunch, Sasha showed us a picture of Gertrude Robinson. On Facebook.”

“Oh,” Jon sounded puzzled. “I knew she had retired, but I hadn’t thought to—”

“Well, that’s not it. She was with someone in the picture.”

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

There was a prolonged silence before Jon spoke again. “Oh. God.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re there, aren’t you? Right now.”

“Yes. I’m—I’m not sure what I should do.”

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

“Damn it. I should be there. I should be there with you.”

“No—no, it’s fine. I just—what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like—” Martin swallowed. “Ok, I’m sure this isn’t the best idea, but—what if a fire were to start in here? Or—something?”

“Do not,” Jon commanded. “Martin Blackwood, I have never been more serious in my life, do not do anything of the sort.”

“Ok, ok,” Martin said. “I said it probably wasn’t a great idea—"

“Some of those books would—let’s just say burning them would not have the desired effect. Or wetting them down, or chopping them up, or—”

“All right, all right. I get it. I mean—that’s not surprising, I guess. So what do I do?”

“Did you check the system? Are any checked out, or reserved, or—?”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, yes, I checked the system, and they’re all—they’re all here, in theory. No one’s asked for any of them.”

“Ok.” Martin heard the relief he’d felt earlier echoed in Jon’s voice. “That—that’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

“You’re—you’re not going to like this, but—I think you should go. For now.”

“And just leave them all here?”

“Yes. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, but I don’t think there’s another option just yet. They’re relatively protected there, and hopefully they’ll continue to not draw attention.” He paused, and then added softly, “Right now, I just want you out of there.”

Martin sighed. “Right. Ok. Um… I guess… I can at least set up an alert so I get notified if anyone puts in a request?”

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll—I’ll keep thinking. Are you leaving yet?”

“Right after we get off the phone. Just in case. I don’t want to attract attention if someone else is down here.”

“All right. Message me when you’re back at your desk.”

“Sure.” Martin hung up, disappointed there wasn’t more to be done, but Jon was almost certainly right—it would be much too easy to do damage instead of prevent it, if he acted rashly.

Before he left though, he had one more thing he wanted to do.

***

That night, when Martin got home, he found Jon on the small balcony in back again; that was what he’d been hoping for. He grabbed the small metal trash bin out of the toilet in the hallway and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“Martin,” Jon said, stamping out a cigarette in the ash tray on the small table as he stood up. “You startled me. You’re a bit early—we can go in.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—I should have said something. Actually, I wanted to catch you out here. I brought you something.” He set the bin he’d brought out with him on the balcony, between the two of them.

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

“Well, that’s only part of it.” He picked up the lighter Jon had left on the table and handed it to him.

“If this is commentary on my smoking habit, I think the ash tray is big enough. Besides, I don’t plan to keep—”

“No—no, that’s not it. I don’t care about the smoking. Well, I don’t love it, but that’s really not it.” Martin sighed. “Look, I know you said not to touch anything in the Leitner Room, but—well, here.”

From behind his back, he brought out a small, square book; he could see Jon didn’t need to read the title to recognize it in the dim evening light.

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think, don’t open it. Just—take it. Burn it. This one should be fine. I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Jon reached a hand toward the book, running his fingers hesitantly over the scribbled black spider webs illustrating the otherwise plain white cover. He spoke as if he were in a dream. “Yes. I imagine this one would be ok.”

“Light it,” Martin encouraged him, reaching for the hand that held the lighter to pull it closer. “Now.”

It seemed too easy; he was afraid it wouldn’t catch, or that Jon would change his mind, or any number of other things would go wrong—but nothing did. The cardboard cover caught beautifully, the yellow-orange flame spreading elegantly out from the corner in less than a minute, swallowing the book front and back.

“Now let go,” Martin said, as the flame began to spread, and Jon nodded. They dropped it together into the trash bin, and Martin watched as the title words A Guest for Mr. Spider were consumed, slowly, letter by letter. They watched together, transfixed, until the fire burned itself out and all that was left was a smoking pile of ash.

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Jon said quietly. “Going through the shelves—taking it out—it could have been dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, you said the web was probably still weak, and—” Martin reached for Jon’s arm. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you,” Jon stepped carefully around the trash bin, and then his arms were around Martin’s waist and his face was in his chest. “Thank you.”

[hxney-lemcn]

Cute!

Word Count: 883

Pairing: Asmodeus x fem! reader

Fandom: Obey Me!

Warning: None

Master List

≑≑≑≑≑≑

I breathed in smelling the fresh air. It was the smell of freshly cut grass. The need to do something filled me, I normally didn't feel this way but the nice day in the Devildom was too nice to just pass by. I stood up from my bed turning off my t.v. I looked into my closet for something to wear, I wanted to wear something a bit fancier than normal...my normal being hoodie and jeans.

...too bad I don't have many other types of clothing. I grabbed an oversized crop top and some mom jeans and changed quickly. Now where should I go? Maybe a cafe? Some tea would be nice. I put some grimm and my D.D.D. into my mini backpack and made my way out of the House of Lamenation.

As I passed by Asmodeus's room he came out quickly, placing a hand on my shoulder stopping me. I turned around in confusion. What I saw shocked me greatly. He was wearing what I assumed to be some sort of genie costume.

"Hey Asmo, what's up?" I asked holding the straps of my backpack.

"How do I look (n/n)?" Asmo asked twirling around.

I couldn't help myself from giggling, "You look cute!"

"Of course I do!" Asmo said hugging himself. "Where are you going all dolled up?" He asked tilting his head curiously.

"I was gonna head to that one animal cafe Satan brought me too that one time," I explained.

"Ooooo~" Asmo gasped with stars in his eyes. "Hold on a sec I'll get ready."

"Okay," I said leaning against the wall next to his room that he walked into.

He took longer than I thought he would but what surprised me was that he didn't change out of the genie outfit.

"O-oh..." I stuttered trying to be nice about what I was going to say next. "You didn't change?"

"Why would I darling?" Asmo pouted slightly.

"W-well I don't know...just that wouldn't people judge?" I asked nervously holding onto my left arm.

"They only speak of by beauty!" Asmo stated grabbing my hand and walking us out of the house.

Well I knew that most people and demons find Asmo attractive...just what if they judge me? I shouldn't think of things like that, just enjoy time with the avatar of lust. As I thought, many demons were staring at the two of us. I overheard some demons saying things like "Why would he hang out with someone like her?" and "She must've gave him a potion." I shy'd away into Asmo's side wanting to hide myself from the hate I was hearing. I glanced at Asmo and he was looking at me in slight concern. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders pulling me closer into his side.

He leaned his face close to my ear flustering me, "Don't listen to them (y/n), I love having you by my side." I simply nodded my head unable to respond as my cheeks burned.

We got into the cafe finally and ordered what we wanted. He got a boba tea while I got (f/d). We sat down across from each other sipping on our beverages. Some cats walked towards us rubbing on our legs making me smile. Man I love animals so much. What I didn't see was that Asmo was staring at my smiling figure since I was too focused on petting the cats.

"Asmo look how cute these cats are!" I exclaimed glancing up at him.

"Not as cute as you sweetie~" Asmo cooed making my eyes widen in shock. It was not unusual for him to complement me, but it still made my heart beat faster. It was almost like he gave me a new pet name everyday.

"You didn't even look at her," I pout as I watched the cat walk to another table.

"I don't need to," He replied resting his head on his hand with a smile.

"W-whatever," I mumbled looking out the window. He giggled to himself taking a sip of his boba tea.

After we finished we went for a walk enjoying the nature. He held my hand the whole time. I was content at that moment. Even if I wished that we were more than friends, I don't mind it. I don't even think he knows what the word steady means.

"(Y/n)..." Asmo started gaining my attention.

"Hmm?" I hummed letting him know.

His hold on my hand tightened slightly before he continued speaking, "Would you like the honor of being my girlfriend?"

I stopped in my tracks as I froze. What the hell? Me? Girlfriend? I looked up at him, my eyes meeting his pinkish eyes. He was completely serious which wasn't normal and he was blushing a rosy hue. I subconsciously rubbed my thumb over the back of his hand feeling his soft skin.

"I would love to," I mutter unable to look away from the gorgeous demon in front of me.

"Of course you would love," Asmo said holding my face in his free hand. He leaned in closer, his touch sending tingles throughout my skin. I turned my head to the left so that his lips touched my flushed cheek instead. He pulled back with a frown.

"L-lets go slow okay?" I asked with a sheepish smile.

"You're so adorable!" He squealed pinching my cheeks.

"Anything for you~"

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

The Governess and The Doctor’s Hunt for the Copper Beeches (4/4) | Sherlock x Reader

Prompt: Drop

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Words: 4128 (?!)

Warning: Mentions of abuse and drugs

A/N: Fourth and final part of Hunt for the Copper Beeches. Kind of tried to wrap up the story in this one. I’m two days behind in Writer’s month again, but hopefully after this, I stop making it too complicated for myself.

-

The plan was set into motion. As soon as most of the men leave the farm, that’s when you and Molly start moving. The reverend will have people making sure the men stay away as long as possible while he has other people keeping a lookout around the farm. Elise McGregor told you the rough layout of the estate and where to find the key to the basement. The problem was sneaking past Elise’s husband and another farm hand that decided to stay.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“And what if you get hurt because of this?” Molly worried.

Elise chuckled bitterly. “I’ve been married to him for ten years. It’s no different than any other day living with him.”

“I’m honestly surprised you hadn’t tried to kill him yet,” you said.

“(Y/n)!” Molly scolded you.

Elise’s bitter disposition broke, a bright smile appearing on her face as she laughed. “Yes, well, there has been an attempt or two in the past, but then I remember how much this town depends on this farm. No, I needed to make a plan, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

“What about the wife of the younger brother? Lottie, was it?” you asked.

“She… she doesn’t talk much. They got married because her parents owed the family money,” Elise said, “She just does the chores around the farm, then return to her room to knit.:

“Will she be okay?” Molly asked.

Eilise nodded. “We get along just fine and I know she loves the animals there. She can stay with me.”

“Then, it’s settled then.”

The walk to the farm seemed to take forever, the long dirt road stretching out far enough so those on the main road could barely see the estate. Luckily, you had sturdy boots on, though Molly only had sneakers with her. You tried to steady your breathing, feigning calmness as the estate became more visible. Once the boys are rescued, you’re going to give them a big smack on their heads for this.

Nearing the barn, you shifted your bag around to your front and Molly took out two large bones from the butcher shop. Elise said there were two dogs on the farm, but they’re easily distracted when it came to treats.

On cue, you and Molly heard growling from the barn coming towards the fence. You heard Molly exhale slowly as she gripped the two bones in her hands, waiting for the right moment to throw them to the opposite direction. At the first sight of their heads popping around the corner, she chucked it to the other side with all the strength she could muster. Once they ran towards it, you hopped the fence and quickly helped Molly over.

“Oi, what are you doing?” A man shouted.

Your heart leaped out your throat as you grabbed Molly and flattened against the side of the barn. Molly slowly peeked around the corner and saw a lean man with straw blond hair talking to the dogs with their newly acquired treats. His footsteps eventually faded away, allowing you a temporary sense of relief.

You scanned the house a few feet away, spotting the wooden doors to the basement, a large padlock holding the heavy chains tight. One of the keys should be nearby in the barn, but you need to work quickly and time it right.

Molly kept watch until the man left for the large field across before signalling you to hurry in. You slipped through the barn doors, the stench of cow and horse manure stronger inside. If it was any other barn with all the time in the world, you would have wanted to talk to the animals or just sit and watch them munch on their food. But, time is of the essence.

You sifted through the crates and bags, hopping over stacks of hay to get to one of the corners where a few gallon buckets sat. You heard a crunch from outside and immediately ducked. The farm hand muttered and cursed to himself about a broken part in the tractor, moving crates around to find something. You spotted the toolbox across from you and quickly looked around for something to cover you with.

You carefully moved a tarp over and covered as much of you as you could, his footsteps growing louder and louder. You squeezed your eyes shut and gritted your teeth, his breathing sounding just above you.

Blood was pumping hard in your ears and for a moment, you were worried that he could sense it. You tried to calm yourself down by thinking of Baker Street, playing with Rosie, handing out in 221B while Sherlock played the violin and John typed away on his computer. You thought of the time you grabbed Sherlock’s violin while he was in his room. You had barely drawn the bow across the strings when Sherlock snatched it away from you.

“This requires grace and patience,” he said, tucking it under his chin and laid the bow across the strings with a flourish.

“You don’t really have either of those qualities either,” you muttered under your breath.

Sherlock’s playing had abruptly stopped as he shot you a glare. You gave him a toothy grin before taking your place on his chair. From the corner of your eye, you could see John smiling in amusement at your exchange while he bounced Rosie on his knee.

Oh, how you wished you could go back to Baker Street with the boys while Mrs. Hudson would make tea and Rosie trying to find anything hazardous to play with. John better be giving you a raise after this. It felt like you were looking after three kids instead and the actual baby was giving you less stress..

“Now how the hell did it get here?” the farm hand said, the sound of metal clanging as he lifted the toolbox.

He paused for a moment, seemingly standing still with the only sound in the barn was the animals. Suddenly, the dogs began to bark, drawing his attention away. He let out a string of curses, stomping over to wherever the dogs had gone. You felt yourself relax once he left.

You removed the tarp and continued your search. It didn’t take long for you to find the key under one of the crates. You creeped towards the door, looking both ways before rushing out to find Molly. She waved you over as she crouched behind one of the thick bushes near the house after she had texted the Reverend. He and another member of the church had walked up to the house, alerting the dogs and drawing the attention of the farm hand and, hopefully, McGregor.

“I got it,” you whispered to her.

She nodded, slowly making her way over to the basement doors. You passed the key over to her and she made quick work in unlocking the padlock. You held the chains as she removed the padlock, slowly dropping them onto the grass. She swung the metal latch out and looked at you with wide eyes. This was it. You grabbed one door and she grabbed the other. Together, you swung the basement doors open and were immediately greeted by the faces of Sherlock and John, their hands bound behind them with rope.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock commented.

You were about to give him a snide remark when Molly shouted. “Watch out!”

You turned a second too late as the butt of a gun made contact with your temple and you felt your body drop into the basement.

-

When you came to, you heard John shouting at one of your captors to release him so he could at least see if you needed any medical attention. You leaned back, your head feeling heavy on your neck. Your hands were tied behind your back next to one of the wooden support beams. In front of you were the farm hand and another man that was taller, but less fit, with a shaved head hidden under a worned out baseball cap. This must be McGregor. Poor Elise.

“We don’t want no trespassers here,” McGregor said, “Look at you city folk. Coming here and telling us how to run things! Only putting value into people and things that will benefit you. The moment we provided the chance to smuggle out goods around the country and to the docks, you people quickly see worth in us.”

“You’re farmers,” Molly said from the other side of the wooden beam, “How are you going to smuggle out paintings?”

McGregor smirked. “The crates, the piles of hay, anything we can hide something in that no one suspects.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

His smirk morphed into a snarl. “Because, suddenly the farm ain’t enough anymore. Suddenly, our roads are being worn down and buildings falling apart, and no help or funding were ever  sent. We needed to think like the city folk and use their greed against them. Now we’re moving onto bigger fish, not just some damn paintings. Clever, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve been patting yourself on the back,” Sherlock said sarcastically, “And I bet it helped your wounded ego after being raised in a toxic household where your father was a cheating alcoholic that would come home and release his anger on you and your siblings and mother. Yet, no matter how much you insist you weren’t like your father, you had only ended up repeating history.”

“You shut your damn mouth!” McGregor snapped, pointing the gun at him. The dogs began to bark again. His eyes wavered before he growled, turning to the farm hand. “Well, what are you doing standing here for? Go and check what’s going on!”

The farm hand clambered out, stuffing his gun in his jeans. His footsteps retreated, then returned, his panting figure leaning against the doorframe. “It’s Reverend Chris again,” he said.

“What?”

“Reverend Chris. He said some of our boys were causing a disturbance back in town and wanted to talk to you.”

The knocking at the front door became louder as Reverend Chris called out for them. You could hear Elise’s voice greeting the reverend before calling for her husband. McGregor let out another growl, looking over at your tied up group before stomping up the stairs. The farm hand climbed back out and went to lock the basement again. Just as they left, you shifted around until you could feel your pocket knife from your back pocket.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t escaped sooner,” you said to Sherlock.

He grunted. “Well, it was rather annoying. I might have underestimated them-” You let out a dramatic gasp, which he chose to ignore “-and they kept constant watch on us. When we do manage to untie ourselves, we would be easily outnumbered and tied back up again.”

“And I’m assuming you lost your gun?” you asked John. You felt one of the ropes fall and you continued to saw through in earnest.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “Are you two okay?”

“Yeah. Molly?”

“I’m good.”

You sighed as the ropes around your wrists grew slacked and you were able to free yourself. You turned around and quickly got to work on Molly’s ropes.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Mols,” you said.

“It’s fine, (Y/n),” she assured you, “I chose to come and suspected that there would be a bit of danger when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are involved.”

“You’re too good to us.”

Once you got Molly free, she looked around for any cutting tool she could find and helped you free the boys. They slowly got up, stretching their limbs and getting circulation back. As soon as John regained his bearings, he brought you and Molly into a hug. You both hugged him back, feeling relief to have finally found him alive and relatively well.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing awkwardly as he dusted off his shirt, searching around for his black trenchcoat. Molly smiled and gave Sherlock a hug, too.

“I’m glad you two are okay,” she said.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. “Well, we still have to escape this asbestos ridden basement and have them arrested.”

“Can you just enjoy the moment, please?”

“Right. Sorry.”

You smiled at the two of them, then looked away. Your eyes flickered over to the locked basement doors before landing on the staircase that led into the house. It was hard to tell what was going on upstairs, but you could faintly here conversing. You couldn’t find the rest of your things in the basement, so they must have taken them upstairs.

“We need to get up there,” you said. “We could try and make it up the stairs once they’re outside.”

“We don’t even know the layout of the house. That’s just reckless, even for you (Y/n),” Sherlock said, “Stumbling through the corridors, only to get caught again.”

“But we know Elise McGregor,” Molly piped up, “She told us about every room and hidden secrets of the house.”

“Oh.”

“We can outhumber them now that there’s four of us. Five or six if we count Elise and Lottie,” you said, pacing around, visualizing the map of the house in your mind. “As long as the other men don’t come back, at least.”

You stopped as you spotted a metal bat and handed it to Molly. “Why are you handing that to me?” she asked, surprised.

“I’ve seen you slap Sherlock before. Your arm is pretty strong,” you said, shoving it in her hand.

She took it reluctantly, then turned back to John and Sherlock. “Who’s going up first?”

John decided to go up first, walking up the stairs to find the door was unlocked. You watched from the bottom as he slowly opened the door and peeked out. With light feet, he walked out and scanned the area. The men were talking out at the front of the house, slightly out of view. John looked over his shoulder and waved for Molly to come up, followed by you, then Sherlock.

You stuck close to each other with Molly telling John when to turn. He found the stairs and carefully climbed up, being cautious of any creaking wooden boards. You all stepped where he stepped and once he reached the landing, Molly told him where the master bedroom was.

Elise to you and Molly that she had been in charge of accounting and had kept the records in a locker box under the bed. Molly walked into the bedroom first, lifting the mattress for the small locker key while you crouched down to pull the box out. John stayed by the closed door while Sherlock went straight to the windows, peeking through the lacey white curtains to check on McGregor.

Papers of transactions were neatly sorted in the box, filled with names, prices, items, and locations. Molly quickly flipped through them, seeing things from paintings and sculptures to more dangerous dealings. You looked up at Molly with a shocked expression.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t think McGregor is that smart to be dealing with drug smuggling,” you said.

You saw Sherlock stiffened as he leaned closer to the window before whipping his head towards the door. He signaled at John to watch the door, Molly silently handing him the bat. All of you fell silent as you heard soft footsteps approaching the door.

There were three knocks, followed by a timid voice, “Hello?”

“Lottie,” you mouthed at Molly.

You all scrambled to hide as the door knob turned. Sherlock shoved you into the musty closet with Molly before he closed the door behind him. John hid behind the room door, readying himself with the bat if needed. You squeezed Sherlock’s arm in an effort to calm yourself and dull the throbbing in your head. He squeezed your arm back in reassurance.

Lottie walked in, the sound of struggle and a muffled cry followed. The bed creaked as something, or someone, was thrown down. Lottie sighed, picking up the locker and flipping through the papers.

“How rude of you to go through my things, Elise,” Lottie chided, “I was looking for these. What were you planning on doing with them, exactly? Without these, this town will turn to shit.”

Elise coughed. “This isn’t how we’re supposed to do things. Drugs, Lottie? That’s too dangerous.”

“So is living like this. I thought you’d understand. Once we’re able to run things on our own, we could get rid of those McGregors and still keep this place. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I won’t let you drag innocent people into this,” Elise said, “One mistake, and it’ll backfire on the whole town. Please, Lottie. I know a way to be rid of those men while getting what we want, without smuggling that damn cocaine and without killing anyone!”

Lottie let out a tired sigh. “Then, I guess you’re in my way.”

There was a click, signalling John to come out of hiding. “Don’t you dare,” he said firmly.

“Or what,” she laughed, “You’re gonna swing at me?”

Sherlock rushed out of the closet, grappling Lottie and trying to grab the gun from her. In the midst of the struggle, Lottie pulled the trigger, shooting a hole in the ceiling. Elise jumped and covered her head. You rushed over to Elise’s side and dragged her away. Molly collected the papers and closed the box, taking it with her as she followed you towards the window. The gun flew out of Lottie’s hands, skittering across the floor. John quickly picked it up, pointing it down as he went to check the window.

“They’re coming upstairs,” John warned.

Molly scrambled for her phone, when she remembered that they had taken it off of her. Her eyes widened when heavy footsteps started making their way over. You searched the room, grabbing a sash from the curtain and used it on Lottie’s wrists as Sherlock pulled them behind her back. John trained the gun at the door, standing in front of Molly and Elise.

The door burst opened, McGregor and the farm hand storming through. They slowly took in the scene before them and saw the gun in John’s hand and the bat in Molly’s.

“You’re outnumbered, McGregor. I’d advise you two to put those weapons down and tell us where you had put our belongings,” John ordered.

“Or what?” McGregor dared to ask.

John cocked the gun and shot an inch away from his foot. “I’m a trained soldier. I won’t miss the next time.”

They exchanged a look and the farm hand lunged forward. Molly gasped, her bat swinging on instinct, instantly knocking him unconscious. McGregor grimaced, lowering John’s stolen gun and kicked it over to him. Molly knelt down and checked for a pulse on the farm hand and sighed in relief when she found one.

McGregor glared at his wife. “How could you help them? He spat.

“It was a long time coming, Frank,” Elise said, sticking her chin up, “The divorce papers had been signed, I just need your signature.”

-

Lestrade was busy as he went to work rounding up the McGregor brothers, the conspiring farm hands, and Lottie, all of them in handcuffs. Once they were all put in the vans, Lestrade walked up to your group.

“You guys alright?” he asked.

“You must be having a field day, Jeff,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed, giving a tired look at John who just shrugged. “It’s… you know what, sure. I’m just glad you and John are safe. You know, (Y/n) wouldn’t stop looking for you. How she managed to trace you all the way here is beyond me.”

Sherlock smirked, looking over at you with pride in his eyes. “She’s a clever girl.”

“How did you know to leave those clues?” you asked.

“The McGregors were already on to us the moment we stepped foot in the town and continuously followed us. Given their attitude towards outsiders, I figured a plan B would be in order. So, I sent out directions to my network to leave clues in a way that you would be able to solve them,” Sherlock explained.

“Well, those records you found will help us big time in hunting down the other smugglers and dealers,” Lestrade said, “Lots of work to do and papers to fill out and all that.”

“So I’m guessing raincheck on dinner then,” Molly said.

You stepped back, replaying what Molly had just said. You looked between her and Lestrade, then at Sherlock and John. Sherlock looked bewildered while John smiled. You suspected that he already knew about their relationship. Yours and Sherlock’s jaw dropped as Lestrade and Molly hugged in front of you.

“When?” you asked. “I mean congrats, but… when? How?”

Molly smiled, ducking her head in embarrassment. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” She looked over at Sherlock. “Can we talk?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to give a blunt comment, but shut it as Molly gave him a warning look. He sighed, then nodded, following Molly to the side. Lestrade shook his head, turning back to pat you and John on the shoulders.

“I’ll see you guys on a more pleasant occasion, yeah?”

John nodded. “See you.” As Lestrade left, John eyed your head, touching around with a practiced hand. When he pressed the area where you were hit, you winced, shrinking away from his hand. “Sit down so I can examine it better.”

You pouted. “Fine.”

After John finished checking on you, the four of you made your way towards the cabs that Lestrade had called over for you. Molly walked over to the cab that John was climbing into, leaving you to take a cab with Sherlock.

He cleared his throat, mechanically opening the door before you could reach it. He glanced over at Molly who gave him a nod of encouragement before ducking into the cab. You thanked him, ducking first and scooted all the way down to the other side.

The ride to the train station was long, and so was the silence between you and Sherlock. You turned away from the window and looked down at your lap.

“Why didn’t you call Lestrade for help?” you asked, thinking back to those two weeks that you were worried sick about them.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock countered. You remained quiet. You didn’t have the patience or energy to debate with him. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I underestimated the situation and got us captured. You were the only one I could think of that could get us out of there.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

You would have thought that he’d ask Molly for help. They’ve worked together and known each other for a long time and Sherlock always confided in her. You were just a babysitter for his flatmate’s child until she grows older and needs someone to tutor her.

“You’re clever,” Sherlock said, “We could go for hours talking about any subject that we indulge in. You’re extremely bearable compared to the others. The banter is quite… fun. You follow quickly on how my mind works and lower the difficulty so idiots like Anderson could understand. You understand… how important friends and family are. You were quickly accepted in my very small circle of friends, all who I knew have good judgement when it comes to getting close to people, though I’m technically considered their friend for some reason. You’re just… brilliant.”

You sat there in shock. “I… never knew you thought of me this way, I…”

Sherlock turned away. “Yes, well, Molly insisted that I tell you all of this. It frustrates her, apparently. John as well. He wouldn’t stop going on about it.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that…” he sighed, “That I am quite fond of you and it is no longer enough to be friends.”

It took you a minute for his words to fully register in your brain. Even then, you couldn’t understand how that was possible. You were under the impression that he was either not interested in any romantic relationships or just attracted to equally intelligent people.

“You’re silent. Silence is not good,” Sherlock said.

“I just… let me get this straight. Are you saying you like me as more than a friend?”

Sherlock frowned. “Isn’t that what I said? Did they hit you in the head that hard?”

“Since when?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Me, too.” Sherlock’s head whipped around to face you as you said this. “It just happens all of a sudden, right?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well. The way back home is quite a while. I’m sure we have plenty of time to set down some ground rules for our relationship.”

[hiraethhh-h]

second choice

fandom: obey me! shall we date?

wordcount: 1k

warnings: just big sad hours :’(

notes: wrote this bc i do be feeling big sad also i kinda inserted myself in it but i changed my name tumblr also deleted my draft and i had a lot typed out :(((

satan’s day had been normal so far. he had gone out with a colleague of his, went to a cat cafe that had just recently opened in the devildom, and visited a bookstore he frequented to pick up a few things he had ordered.

unfortunately, it was a weekday. so lucifer’s curfew was enforced as always.

the avatar of wrath had just returned to the house of lamentation before lucifer did his night rounds, though he would have loved to see the eldest’s reaction to him being out so late (but satan didn’t feel like being lectured until dawn).

the male approached his room, reaching to open the door. but satan paused halfway. he felt as though he was forgetting something, but the demon couldn’t quite place his finger on it. satan placed his hand over his chin in thought. cyan-green eyes trailed over to the paper bag of books he held.

“do you mind picking up a new book for me? there was this series i wanted to try...”

satan snapped his fingers in realization. that’s right, athena had asked him to pick up a book. he gave a soft hum, figuring that paying a small visit to her room wouldn’t hurt. padding down the hall to the human’s door, he raised his fist to gently knock on the wooden surface. “athena? i got that book you asked for.” he announced, placing his hand on the doorknob and gently swinging the door open.

satan furrowed his brows upon seeing how dimly lit athena’s room was, save for the miniscule amount of light that came from the lamp on her nightstand. closing the door behind him, the avatar of wrath stepped further into her room. his eyes flew to the clock that was mounted on the wall, peeking out from behind the greenery. she was still usually up at this time, seeing as athena was a night owl.

his train of thought was interrupted when a sniffle came from the bed. satan furrowed his brows upon seeing a lump beneath the white comforter.

“athena..?”

the said girl stiffened at the sound of the demon’s voice, having been too lost in her thoughts to hear him entering or calling her name the first time. shifting beneath the sheets, athena poked her head out. just as satan had suspected, the girl was crying. her dark brown hair went in all directions, her brown eyes red and puffy much like her rosy cheeks. 

“satan..?” athena murmured, her voice scratchy and tired sounding.

setting the paper bag down at the foot of her bed, the avatar of wrath approached her side, gently sitting down. athena scooted back a bit to make more room for the male. “why were you crying?” the blonde questioned, gazing down at the girl with a concerned look. the girl clenched the sheets tighter around herself, silently leaning away from him as she avoided his eyes. “it's not important…”

satan furrowed his brows at her words, shaking his head with a soft sigh. “if it’s making you upset then it’s important to me.”

athena hugged her knees close to her chest, still avoiding eye contact with the demon before her. “i’m serious satan… it really isn’t important. i’m sure the last thing you want is for me to burden you more than i have today…”

the avatar of wrath’s eyebrow twitched in irritation, but he knew better than to lash out at the girl when she was like this. “you’re not burdening me at all, athena,” he said firmly, brown eyes finally met his cyan-green green ones.

“whatever you have to say, i’ll be here to listen,” he muttered softly, placing his right hand over his chest. “no matter how stupid you think it is, just say it.”

athena pursed her lips, uncertainty shining in her eyes. “are you sure..?” she questioned in a small voice.

satan gave a nod at her words, silently egging her on. she let out a shaky breath, shutting her eyes for a moment. “growing up… i went to school with two of my other friends for seven years,” athena began, picking at the seam of her blanket with her fingernail.

“we were kind of like the golden trio, if you get what i mean.” she explained, “but… out of our whole friend group and outer friend circle, i was always the second choice…” athena paused for a moment, her throat tightening rather painfully.

“looking back on it now i…” she hugged the sheets closer to her body, “i guess i’ll always just be everyone’s second choice…”

satan watched as the girl buried her face away into the white comforter, his hand reaching out to the girl. “come here…” he muttered, gently taking her wrist and pulling her into his arms. the avatar of wrath cuddled the girl close to him, athena blinking tears out of her eyes as she tried to process what had just happened. 

“down here with us, you’ll never be the second choice.” satan assured her, patting her head gingerly. 

athena, still in shock, had barely came to when she felt the demon touching the crown of her head. a few stray tears streamed down her cheek, but she moved to wipe them away. slowly, athena wrapped her arms around satan’s waist. she rested her head on his chest, relishing in the warmth that he radiated. “thank you, satan…”

“and athena..?” satan called to her again, his cheeks flushed slightly from her close proximity. the said girl lifted her head from its spot, a brow raised in question. “if you ever feel down again and need a shoulder to cry on or someone to talk to,” he murmured, “i’ll always be here.” satan leaned down, ghosting his lips over her forehead. the demon’s cheeks burned at his bold move, but he calmed down slightly when he saw athena gazing up at him with a small smile and sparkling brown eyes.

“does that account for head pats too..?” she joked wearily, plopping her head back down on his chest. satan chuckled at her words, continuing his previous ministration.

[waywardnewcomer]

Reunited Finale

A/N: So it’s been a while. I edited this myself so all mistakes are my own. This is the final part, I hope you enjoy the ending! Thank you for sticking through this with me, sorry the updates haven’t been regular. Please go back and re-read, there are a lot of precursors to this ending!

Summary: Y/N’s happy ending is threatened by a car crash yet again, will it ruin their family or reunite them once and for all?

Warnings: Car accident, memory loss, a whole lot of fluff

Pairings: Jared x Stepdaughter!Reader, Genevieve x Goddaughter!Reader, Jensen x Niece!Reader, Misha x Niece!Reader, Danneel x Niece!Reader, Vicki x Niece!Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Previous Part Series Masterpost Masterlist

Jared took a long look at Gen and kissed her pale temple. He looked up at Jensen and nodded.

“I need to see Y/N.” He smiled sadly, “Will you stay with her please?” He looked to Danneel.

“Of course, I’ll call the minute something changes,” She smiled at him nodding her head. 

Jared nodded and followed Jensen out of the room, sighing softly. Jensen patted his hand on his back and lead him towards Y/N’s room.

Jared could hear you thrashing and shouting from the end of the corridor. His eyes widened and he quickened his pace to see you. 

“Woah, Woah Y/N, Y/N.” Jared grabbed your flailing arms and looked into your eyes and whispered your name softly seeing you visibly calm down. 

“Jared?” You looked at him softly, glad you recognised a familiar face. You collapsed into his chest, breathing heavily.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He gave Misha and Jensen a worried look over your head. Why were you so unsettled?

“I didn’t know where I was, I was so confused. Wait. Where’s Mom?” You asked frantically.

“She’s fine she’s in another room sleeping.” Jared sighed, deciding not to go into the gory details.

“What happened? Who are these men standing in my room?” You asked with a puzzled look on your face.

Jared looked between you, Jensen and Misha confused. Then it clicked.

“You called me Jared,” He sighed making you look at him weirdly. “Y/N what’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Me and Mom going to pick you up from the airport.” You spoke as if it was obvious, getting scared at the concern etched onto his face. “What? What is it?” You looked around at the men in the room, all of them with the same sad look on their faces. 

“Y/N your Mom died 6 years ago in a car crash. You’ve lived with Gen since then and with me and Gen for the past 2 years,” Jared sighed. “This is your Uncle Jensen and Uncle Misha, my co-stars.” He gestured to the men beside him.

“What?” You asked tears forming in your eyes. “NO, you’re wrong! You’re wrong!” You shouted.

“Y/N,” Jensen tried, speaking softly. 

“Get out. All of you. GET OUT!” You shouted letting your tears roll down your cheeks.

The men ushered out of your room and looked to Jared softly. 

“You okay man? That was a lot.” Jensen patted his hand on his back.

“Yeah, it was just hard to relive it all.” Jared sighed, “Look I’ve got to go find her doctor. Can you go sit with Gen? Just so I know she has people.”

They both nodded and gave him a solemn hug before walking down the corridor. 

Once Jared had spoken to your doctor and allowed him to do a few tests he walked back into your room hoping you had calmed down. 

“You can sit down,” You smiled sadly. Jared obliged and took your hand looking to the doctor for answers. 

“Y/N has suffered from trauma from the car accident and is suffering from localised dissociative amnesia. She has forgotten the most painful part of her life and has lost all the memory from then to now. However, this should come back within the next few days. Just be patient.” The doctor smiled. 

“Thanks, doc.” Jared smiled and shook his hand. He looked back towards your sad face.

“Okay, fill me in.” You sighed softly, knowing you had a whole 6 years to catch up on, making Jared smile softly. 

Just as Jared was recounting the engagement one of the men from before, who you had now come to know as Jensen, popped in looked at Jared urgently and just said, “It’s Gen.”

You’ve never seen him jump out of his chair so fast. You looked up at him worried.

“Can I come? Please, if I lost you for 4 years I don’t want to be away from you another moment in case it happens again.” You begged him, making him nod indecisively. 

Jensen got you a wheelchair and wheeled you down behind Jared’s long strides to Gen’s room. He hadn’t uttered a word about whether it was good or bad news since he’d barged in on your reminiscing but the tug at the corner of his mouth suggested it was good news. 

“Gen!” Jared exclaimed as he saw her eyes open and her talking softly to Daneel, sat up slightly in bed.

“Jare, how are we all? Oh Y/N look at you.” Gen exclaimed reaching out for your hands. Jensen wheeled you closer so you could grab on.

“I have memory loss.” You stated sadly, looking into Gen’s pained eyes.

“We’ll get through it, like a proper family,” Jared smiled putting his arms around his girls.

*2 months later*

Recovery had been tough on all of you, your memory came flooding back a few weeks after the accident causing your heart to break all over again, Gen had a lot of rehabilitation and Jared was rushing himself about silly looking after you both. As a family, you had decided to set something to look forwards to as a recovery goal. Your adoption.

The day had come and Jared had gone to the courts to sign the forms, you and Gen were waiting in the foyer, arm in arm. Your life as a family was about to begin. As Jared came out waving the papers and smiling you shrieked in delight and ran and jumped to hug him, him spinning you around.

“I am now officially your Dad.” He sighed clapping his hands on yours and Gen’s backs. “To commemorate this occasion I have come up with an amazing Dad joke so brace yourselves.” His voice rose with anticipation.

“Oh god, Dad please don’t.” You begged laughing.

“You’re gonna love it. What do you call someone with no body and no nose? Huh?” He laughed at himself.

“Go on before you die with excitement,” Gen sighed jokingly.

“Nobody knows!” He laughed at himself, looking at the two of you waiting for you to join in. 

“That was terrible.” You laughed, your Mom nodding in agreement. 

“Right let’s go we have a wedding to get to.” Jared winked making you look at him in surprise.

“What?” You asked confused.

“Surprise! You’re the maid of honour so we gotta go get ready quick!” Gen squealed, grabbing your hand and taking you across the courtroom foyer to the changing rooms where Danneel and Vicki were waiting with makeup and tongs. 

“You were all in on this?” You asked laughing. 

“Of course, now chop chop get in the chair so I can work my magic.” Danneel laughed, ushering you into the chair in front of her.

Walking down the aisle with Jensen and Misha by your side was surreal, your family dream was finally becoming a reality. You stood to the side looking at your Dad and grinning. You turned to see your Mom walking down the small aisle in the courthouse, in a simple gown and watched your Dad physically go weak at the knees. 

You looked around the room seeing your Mom and Dad’s closest friends and family and sighed, you were finally part of something special. You spent the whole ceremony feeling grateful and teary listening to the absolute adoration they shared for each other. Your parents made this happen, even though they weren’t around they gave you the best life you could have asked for. 

“Time for the honeymoon,” Jensen grinned once you had all gone out for a celebratory meal. 

“Honeymoon?” You asked inquisitively, this day had already been overwhelming enough. “You’re leaving me so soon?”

“You’re coming with stupid!” Jared laughed softly, “We’re going to the summer cabin, and everyone is invited.” 

“Really?” You squealed making the adults laugh.

“Of course, Honey’s coming too.” Gen laughed and gave you a kiss on the forehead. 

That night you started the long road trip to Malibu from Texas, taking a full day it made you exhausted. You slept most of the next day and woke up to the smell of BBQ wafting through the house. 

You quickly got dressed and grabbed your denim jacket heading out to your favourite spot, greeting your family as you went by. You sat on the dock and looked out onto the lake, just as you did 6 years ago and sighed. You were finally a family again, this time with different people and a whole lot more love. Honey came bounding over to your side licking your face making you giggle, followed by your Dad behind.

“You okay sweetie?” 

“Just reminiscing, I sat in this spot 6 years ago, so much has changed but I still feel so loved.”

“You always will be, we’re a family now.” Your Mom came over and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders.

“We’re never getting split up ever again,” Jared muttered to himself, smiling at the scene of his family all together once more.

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[vannahfanfics]

Moonlight Sonata

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Gintama

Characters: Gintoki Sakata, Tae Shimura

Requested By: Anonymous User

“Bye, everyone! I’ll see you tomorrow night!” Tae called cheerfully over her shoulder as she walked out of the doors of the cabaret club. There was a chorus of polite farewells from her coworkers, as well as quite a few lamented wails from her drunken customers, as her sweet smile disappeared with the swing of the door. As soon as she stepped outside, however, Tae had half a mind to jump right back into the building, as a chilly wind swept across the dirt street to leap through the folds of her kimono and nip at her vulnerable skin with far too much glee. She lingered in the entryway for a few minutes, as its wooden bearings provided at least marginal protection from the biting cold, while she pondered what to do. The walk home was appreciable and she had no care to fall ill on account of simple pride and forgetting to check the weather forecast for the night. She also had no desire to linger in the cabaret club for the wee hours of the night until the sun came up to bless the world with its warming ways, either.

“Oh, dear… What a mess I’ve gotten myself into,” she tutted aloud as she pouted and tapped her index finger against her cheek. It was a pity that her gorilla-like stalker was seemingly absent today, for he would have undoubtedly noticed her plight and would be bundling her up in a coat by now. Stalkerish and annoying as he was, she did acknowledge that he cared for her and at least tried to, in his brutish, stupid way, look out for her… If he wasn’t a blatant stalker, I might even appreciate it! she thought with a dour look. Just thinking of his ridiculous antics soured her mood a little.

“Well, there’s nothing for it. It’ll only get colder,” she decided finally and pushed away from the post she had been leaning on to begin shuffling down the street towards her home. She kept her arms tucked to her midriff and her steps quick and light to avoid chilling her extremities too much, but it honestly didn’t help; after only a few yards or so she was shuddering and rubbing the pale, goosepimply skin of her arms in feeble attempts to reclaim the minimal warmth she had possessed a few moments before. She tossed a longing glance over her shoulder at the cabaret club. I could always nick a coat from one of those drunkards… She fancied it but would never follow through. She had no desire to be fired over stealing from a customer.

“What the hell are you doing out this time of night in just a kimono?”

While such gruff, aggressive speech would normally frighten a young lady alone in the dark of night, Tae thankfully knew the silver-haired man such rudeness belonged to. She pursed her lips as she turned back around to see Gintoki Sakata standing in the middle of the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat and that same bored look in his eyes that he always wore. Even this dense man had the sense to bring a jacket tonight, she thought with a small sigh. It’s not like it was surprising, since Gintoki watched the weather religiously due to his worship of Ketsuno Ana, but one would think that a samurai would bravely proclaim “I’m a man! I’m immune to the cold!” Yet here he was, bundled up like it was below freezing. With this wind, it probably is, Tae grimaced as she rubbed her arms again. She could swear that the tips of her fingers were going numb.

“I’m going home from work. I forgot to bring a jacket today,” she answered simply. Standing around conversing with him was only leaving her subject to freezing there on the spot, so she decided to resume walking because at least the activity would get her blood flowing and stave off some of the icy chill… theoretically, but it didn’t seem to help much. She only made it a few feet, right to where Gintoki was idling there just watching her with that same blank, disinterested stare, before she had to stop in her tracks again to let out a very loud, not-very-ladylike sneeze. Whining miserably, rubbing her nose, and lamenting the cold she was most definitely going to be bedridden with tomorrow, she cursed her own carelessness.

“It’s unlike you to look so in distress,” Gin chided at her, and she didn’t even have to look at him; she could hear the smirk on his face. Her head snapped up to deliver some stunning retort, but it died in her throat as soon as she saw what he was doing. There was a quick, shrill whine from the zipper of his jacket as he casually pulled it down, followed by rustling fabric as he shouldered out of the overcoat. Tae’s eyes widened as he thrusted it out to her with one hand (and picked his nose with the other, the gross bastard, ruining what could be a perfectly romantic moment in the only way that Gintoki could). “Here. Take it. I’ll never hear the end of it from Shinpachi if I let his sister freeze to death and not offer her my jacket.” He said so, but from the way that his eyes were trailed off somewhere over her shoulder rather than directly on her implied that perhaps even his seemingly callous heart was a little moved from seeing Tae in such obvious duress. A faint haze of pink bloomed on her cheeks as she reached out to gently take the offered coat, and she almost sighed in overwhelming relief from the sheer amount of heat that bloomed just on her hands.

“Thank you.” One wouldn’t think putting on a jacket had any erotic implications, but Tae literally had to suppress a very small, light moan as she slipped her arms into the large sleeves of Gintoki’s coat. His lingering body heat radiated into her every cell and made it feel like she was ice melting into deliciously warm water. It was slightly too big for her, requiring that she shake the ends of the sleeves slightly to allow her hands to poke through so that she could zip the jacket back up, and she did, right to the tip of her chin to trap as much of that heat in the fibers of the coat as possible. Gintoki, poor vagabond that he was, somehow had acquired a luxurious coat lined with furls of cotton on the inside, and very soon Tae had forgotten what the cold even felt like. Her smile was radiant as she once again expressed her gratitude to him, “Really! I feel much better now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tae knew for sure that he must have been freezing, but Gintoki had not a shiver about him as he ran his hand through his moonlight silver hair. Had he glanced at her even once this entire exchange? He was still gazing off lazily into the wild midnight blue of the starry night sky above them. Gintoki was a serious person and not shy in the slightest, so this behavior was definitely interesting. Tae blinked and leaned forward slightly to peer up into his face, and she was damned if there wasn’t the faintest dust of a rosy blush gracing his cheeks. He really does care, doesn’t he? “What the hell you starin’ at?” he snapped at her. He may have intended to place some bite behind those words, but it almost came out fearful; by the way that his face continued to redden, he caught the weakness in his voice and was not too pleased about it. She giggled lightly and flashed him another small smile.

“Care to walk a lady home? In exchange for letting me borrow the coat, I’ll make you a snack when we get there.”

“Tae, I will die before eating any of your cooking.” She stuck out her bottom lip at the terse reply, but, there was no denying she was a terrible cook. Still, there were things that even she couldn’t mess up.

“How about some hot tea, then, with lots of sugar?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” he grinned, and for the first time, his dark irises flickered to meet hers with an excited glitter. There were few things more powerful than Gintoki Sakata’s sweet tooth.

Placing his hands behind his head, he whirled on his heel to fall in step with her as she continued her trek through the streets to her distant abode. For a long time, the only sound was the alternating scrapes of their sandals in the cool sand of the unpaved streets; Gintoki once more had his eyes trained on the heavens as if he were involved in rather deep discussion with the moon and stars, which was apparently more riveting than a conversation with the woman right next to him; Tae didn’t mind, exactly. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure what they would even talk about.

She snuck a sordid glance at him out of the corners of her eyes, and with the silence, she could honestly appreciate the magic that the pale glow of the heavens was working on the otherwise undesirable samurai. Gintoki really didn’t have a bad face at all, and the white light accentuated that, defining his sharp jawline even further such that it mirrored the slicing edge of a katana. Its glow seemed to deposit the stars themselves in his dark eyes, glittering faintly only to Tae’s eyes. Then, of course, his white hair absorbed it like a sponge soaked up water, making the fine threads glow with an almost ephemeral quality that left Tae with the overwhelming urge to run her fingers through it because it looked like supple threads of silk. She was considering this as his gaze once more flickered to hers, and she went red because there was no arguing that she had been staring at him. “What?”

“I was just thinking that you’d be a pretty handsome guy if you weren’t the way you were.” His face immediately screwed up into a very unflattering grimace at her shameless, brutal honesty.

“Damn, Tae, just go and insult my entire being, why don’t you…” he grumbled under his breath and looked away in either embarrassment or annoyance. His arms dropped to his sides to slip one of his hands into the folds of his clothes, while the other fell against the end of his wooden sword, probably the result of muscle memory. From Tae’s vantage point, it almost looked as if his face did not know what expression to form. His reaction had been altogether peculiar too because if anyone else had been with them, he would’ve whipped around and sure given her a verbal lashing. Is he acting differently because we’re alone? she wondered, and she wasn’t quite sure what she would make of that if it were true.

Tae respected Gintoki a lot, despite his overall nature; he clearly loved Shinpachi a lot and he was an honorable man when it came down to the wire. Now that she considered that they were indeed walking side-by-side, under the moonlight, and she was wearing his coat and was going to prepare tea for him, there sure were a lot of implications. Tae found herself looking down at her feet as her face grew warm. It must be the cold muddling my head, she reasoned and slapped at her cheeks. Tae couldn’t possibly have a crush on such an uncultured sleaze like Gintoki Sakata! The brusque strike against her soft flesh left them stinging and faintly red.

“Is your face cold now or something?”

“Wh-what? Um, it was a little, but I just warmed it up a little!” she laughed nervously at his weary sigh. Suddenly she was the one who was nervous and couldn’t look at him. She focused on their surroundings, finding with relief that they were in her neighborhood; sure enough, when she glanced up, she could see her house. Eager to save herself from the awkwardness of the conversation, she scampered quickly over to ascend her steps and unlock the door, with a slightly frowning Gintoki ambling on behind her. “So, about that tea—" she started as she whirled around, her slightly hitched breathing producing a puff of fog before her mouth.

“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s late; I can really just take my jacket and head home,” Gintoki shrugged as he rubbed at the back of his neck. His expression had gone all stiff and complicated again, and Tae suddenly found herself terrified that she had annoyed him some way and disappointed that he didn’t in fact want to stay for tea. She wasn’t going to pester him, though, because she was actually kind of appalled she was disappointed; why on Earth would she want to be alone with Gintoki, and even worse, excited at the prospect? Mind whirling from all the very confusing emotions coming on her at once, she began removing the jacket as she hopped back down the steps. She was just wriggling her arms out of the sleeves at the halfway point when she very ungracefully fumbled over her own feet and tumbled into the open air. She let out a surprised yelp, hands grasping at the empty air in an instinctual attempt to find a hold, while the soles of her sandals slid uselessly across the wood of the steps.

“Whoa!” Gintoki cried and surged forward.

“Oh!” Tae cried as she landed against him. His arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace, and she was very aware of the shape and form of every muscle of his she was in contact with at the moment. Her face was buried right in the middle of his pectorals (which were actually softer than one would think) and just beneath the intense blazing heat grazing her cheeks she could feel the intense pounding of Gintoki’s heart. “I’m sorry!” she cried as she looked up at him; whatever she was going to sputter out next abruptly fizzled out on her tongue, because his face was a mere inch or so from her own. His mouth was similarly hanging open, in the process of asking her if she was all right, but what came out was more of a choked croak. His pupils met hers for only the briefest of moments before once again sliding to the corners of his eyes. “Why won’t you look at me, Gin?” Her voice was a mere breath, light in sound but heavy with desire and want.

Maybe it’s a small crush, quipped a little meek voice in the back of her mind. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth as she saw the corner of it twitch.

“Because I keep thinking you would be a pretty cute girl if I hadn’t seen you pound grown men into dust,” came the eventual reply laced with snark and a fair hint of hesitation. Tae’s eyes flickered back upwards to find that he finally was looking at her… and the way he was looking at her made every hair on her body stand at attention as an electric shiver pulsed across her nerves. Tae couldn’t even bring herself to be angry at the insult borne in his words because the connotation behind them, and that smoldering fire in his dark eyes, had dominated her mind. Tae’s mind was jelly but at least her body knew how to proceed; hands curling into the fabric of his clothes, her back arched slightly as she pressed against him, inhaling deeply with each square inch of skin that met his. The tip of his index finger ghosted across her cheek in the slightest of touches, but Tae could feel the nerves singing even long after he had pulled his hand away to bury it into her tresses of hair, tousling it out of the simple up-do with ease as it settled against the back of her head. After all that time short-circuiting in her mouth, her tongue finally managed to work so she could say something.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for tea?”

“Fuck yes,” Gintoki growled in response, and no sooner did that rumbling reply send another wave of intense electricity over Tae did he jump forward to claim her lips in a feverish, passionate kiss. Tae’s hands flew to his shoulders to brace herself against him as his broad body pushed against hers to make her back arch slightly to compensate for her head craning back; one of them soon began to migrate, sliding over his shoulder up his neck to bury her fingers into his luscious messy tufts of moonlight-white hair. Her eyes drifted closed of their own accord, and as blackness overtook her vision it seemed like every other sense of hers went on high alert; the sweetness of his lips was almost intoxicating, and sparks were jumping over her body with every igniting touch between them. Tae was barely able to stand under the assault of feeling, but when Gintoki pressed the kiss deeper, running his tongue over her bottom lip to silently plead entry, whatever starch keeping her knees steady melted away.

As she complied, parting her lips so his tongue could slither forward and eagerly entangle with her own, she slumped completely against him. He wound his arm around her waist to hold her up as every swirl of their tongues weakened Tae further. Warm waves of pulsating energy hummed in every one of Tae’s cells in tune with the singing of her frantic heart, pounding in a rising crescendo. Just as she was becoming deafened by the symphony of the moment, Gintoki pulled back, and suddenly the music fell into a deep but comfortable silence. Exhaling shakily, Tae’s eyes fluttered open and she found that Gintoki could look nowhere but at her all of a sudden. He chuckled as this fact brought a faint blush to her already flushed cheeks. “What? Now you don’t want me to look at you?”

“I didn’t say that!” she huffed at him while puffing out her cheeks. He laughed under his breath again as he pulled her against his chest, pressing his cheek against the side of her head while he played with the ends of her hair absentmindedly. It may be more than a small crush, she thought in faint amusement as she closed her eyes and just enjoyed the feeling of him holding her. Shinpachi sure won’t be happy about this…

One thing was for sure— Tae was the furthest thing from cold.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[hannahindie]

Sacrifice

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 1,293 Warnings: Angst, language, character death, alcohol use A/N: This was written for my Sing It With Me Challenge, and I used the song Props and Mayhem, which you can listen to HERE! @squirrel-moose-winchester​ requested it, and I hope you love it! It got a little...angsty. And by a little, I mean a lot. She also won an aesthetic, and it was made by me! Beta’d by my darling @masksandtruths​, who I love dearly. “Holy what the eff balls?!”

As always, tags are at the bottom. If you’d like to be added, please let me know. :)

Saving the world is bullshit.

Sure, it sounds good on paper. Save the world, win the girl, live happily ever after. But in execution? Bullshit. You'll be lucky if you get one out of three. Two out of three is pushing it, but not completely impossible. All three? It'll never happen.

They try to sell it to you when you're a kid, comic book heroes that always stand for the greater good. Despite the bad in the world, there is always an overwhelming majority that's good, that will go out of the way to do what's right.

And then you grow up.

Maybe you grow up when you're supposed to, or maybe you're forced to grow up when you're ten years old and you get handed your first sawed off. Regardless, you find out real quick that all of that is, you guessed it, bullshit.

After Mom died, Dad used to tell us that what we did was important, we had to find the thing that killed Mom and, in the meantime, save others. We were heroes. Whenever I would ask him why no one knew what he did, why nobody wrote stories or comic books about the Winchesters, he always told me it was because real heroes don’t need stories or trophies or a pat on the back. Real heroes kept doing the dangerous work so that the rest of the world didn’t have to know how dark it really was.

Helluva thing to say to a nine year old.

But I accepted it, and I kept accepting it...even when Sammy didn’t. I will never admit this out loud to anybody, but when Sam left...God, I was screaming inside. Screaming at him to run and never fuckin’ look back, because one of us had to. I’m smart, I know that, but Sam...Sam is a fucking genius. Watching him get out sucked because it meant I was alone, but it also meant that he was going to get to have a life. He could have a real job and a girl, and maybe, just maybe, a permanent seat at the normal table.

And then the shit hit the fan.

Dad disappeared and I dragged Sam right back into it. I didn’t question it, I didn’t even stop to think really, I just showed up at his door unannounced and took him away. Jessica died, and even though I am pretty damn sure it would have happened regardless of whether Sam was home or not, it was on my watch. Suddenly the heroic life we led seemed a little less appetizing, and I think it was a reminder that we don’t get to have a normal life. Maybe for awhile, but in the end, it always ends the same for us. That was determined the moment Mom burned, and no matter what any of us did, we always arrived in the same place.

Until you came along.

Maybe I’m jumping ahead too far; there are years of stories I could go on and on about, hours of bullshit to prove my point. But does any of that really matter? It all amounts to the same thing: the world tries to end, the big bad arrives, and we stop it. The Winchesters always stop it. In  between the apocalypses and princes of hell and sacrificing ourselves for the greater good, though, I somehow found you. Sure, it was a quick glimpse between slashing blades and blood splatter, but it was a hell of a glimpse. You were sure footed, more graceful than Sam and I could ever dream of being, strong, and when you chopped that vamp’s head off with a single swipe and then looked at me and winked...I knew. I fucking knew. I could count the times on one hand when we ran into another hunter on a job and it ended well, but in that moment, you could have done just about anything and I would have agreed to it.

Fuck. I don't know why I'm going on about this, and I sure as shit shouldn't be drinking. Does it even make a difference, though? When I'm sober, I feel pain, everything fucking hurts. If it hurts this much when I'm shitfaced, I don't want to experience it sober. Whiskey does a body good...or at least a body in denial. And that’s what this is, right? Denial. I can’t fathom where we are right now, that this could ever be an option.

Saving the world is bullshit.

I meant well, you know? Abaddon, she had to be stopped. I couldn’t let Sammy do it, and you sure as hell weren’t an option. She had to be stopped, and I had to be the one that did it. Everything that happened after that...I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, for any of it to affect you. I thought I was stronger than I was, I got cocky. I wish I could say I didn’t enjoy the power that the Mark had given me, but that would be a lie. Truth is, my soul wasn’t strong enough, my willpower wasn’t strong enough. My body was a weapon, and the rest of me...well, it was gone. Mostly gone, anyway. I wish I could separate me from my own two hands, I’ve killed so many times, but I can’t save the world from creatures that won’t die. Maybe that isn’t a great excuse, but it’s what I have.

I just...I need you to understand why I did what I did. Hell, I need to understand it. It happened so fast, and no amount of whiskey can erase it. It’s like I’ve fallen into a nightmare that I can’t wake up from. There are days that I think that maybe I really am in the pit, and that this is my torture. Then I realize that even if I am awake, even if I’m up and moving and living, that I’m not really. Not after what I did.

I’ve asked myself more than once what if these demons keep falling from the sky? I thought, even with the Mark, that I knew the answer to that question. But when push came to shove, when I was in the moment and the Mark had taken over...when all of my power was coming from the blade, as if it was making every decision for me...my answer was gone. My actions from then on were not mine, and I tried to stop it. God, did I try to stop, but the one thing I didn't do was leave.

I should have left. If I had, you wouldn't have been there. You wouldn't have followed me into the slaughter, and the fucking extension to my arm, the arm that used to hold you and explore your curves, the hand that wiped your tears away...wouldn't have seen another monster, another black eyed bastard that needed to be dispatched.

I can't unsee it. I can't unsee the look on your face, the wide eyed betrayal as the blade sunk into your chest. I can't stop feeling your fingertips grazing my arm, a cool touch against fevered skin. Or how it felt when we both sunk to the ground, your hand tangled in my jacket like a lifeline. I am going to live a long and empty life until I turn into a black eyed monster like the one I thought had taken you over, and even then, I won't be able to forget.

How can I forget killing the woman I love?

Like I said, saving the world is bullshit. They don't tell you that to be a hero, to fight off the monsters... you sometimes turn into one yourself.

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[footballwritersprofile-blog]

Football Fic Writer Profile - Utami (thebluesideofmyworld)

Hello lovely people! We hope that you all are having a great week so far. We meet again in another article, featuring one of the fic writers from the football fandom.

Have we told you before that we felt like there are so many fic writers who were born on February? Here’s another one who was also born on February. On February 14, to be exact.

People, please welcome Utami. And yes, people. It’s her birthday today!

Happy birthday, Utami!

You can find her on her Tumblr ( @thebluesideofmyworld )  where she posts her M/F fics, or you can also go to her AO3 account where she posts her slash fics.

Now let’s refresh our memories about her writing by reading an excerpt from one of her fics

She curled up on her couch, staring at the TV without really looking at it. It was one of her favorite TV shows, yet she could not seem to get excited about it anymore.

Her phone went off. Mats name flashed on the screen. She stared at it for a while, the ringtone sounded so loud, too loud in the living room.

After a while the phone went silent again.

She stared at her phone, thinking that maybe Mats would just be like the other people. Those people who would leave her anyway at the end.

(People always left her anyway. No one wanted to stay with her anyway.)

(Can You Hold Me)

Utami is originally from Indonesia, but she has been in the US since 2013 to do a postgrad degree in Environmental Engineering. She is currently having a massive crush on Asa Taccone, the vocalist from Electric Guest, and spends her times listening to songs from Troye Sivan and Fall Out Boy while waiting for Voltron S05 to be released. She is a supporter of Manchester City and Real Madrid. Those of you who might have checked her blog out would not be surprised to find that her favorite player is David Silva.

She started writing by writing her thoughts in a diary since she was 8 years old, because she said that it had always been easier for her to express what she felt by writing it. In late 2009, she found a fansite for a talent show in her country where she found some fanfics posted there. Out of curiosity, she tried to post the first chapter of a fic there. She ended up writing more and more for that fandom. She said that even though the fandom faded out slowly after the talent show ended, she would still remember it as her first experience in writing fics.

Writing is something that she enjoys because she said that it’s really a good way for her to express herself. She has always had a wild imagination since she was a kid, probably because she loved reading so much. She often has imaginary scenes and conversations in her head, and writing them out is something she find to be soothing. “Lately, I also try to remember what my therapist once told me, that I should see writing as a self-care method and coping mechanism for me, as I feel through writing, I can be a better version of myself.”

Even though she has been watching football ever since she was a kid, the first time she encountered football fics was in 2012. She read the fics and started wondering whether she could also do one. In December 2012, she decided to give it a try, and her first football fic was about David Silva with an OFC. “I cringed whenever I read it,” she said. “I changed the POV every 2 paragraphs, the dialogue was unnatural, and the description was so so bland.” However, she said that it was her fic that was written in English so she felt like it’s something that she should be proud of.

Besides one-shot, she also used to do requests where she would write 100-word drabble based on a song requested by someone. “I love the challenge of trying to understand the meaning behind the songs, then put it into a limited number of words,” she said. Since 2015, she also started writing slash fics. She personally found that it had a different kind of challenge. “In slash fics, the pairing usually already had some sort of chemistry that’s shown through their interactions in real life. So the real challenge is how to put those chemistry into words.” Besides the football fandom, since last year, she has also written for the riordanverse fandom. For this fandom then, she said that there is another kind of challenge, which was how put the characters into her story and head-canon without making them OOC.

Her inspirations mainly come from songs, and music videos. Whenever she found a song that she liked, she would look up the meaning of that song and try to analyze each line of the song. “I love MVs that have some sort of story line,” she said. “Some of my fics for the riordanverse fandom were inspired by MVs, like Wildfire from Seafret, and First Time He Kissed a Boy by Kadie Elder.”

Once she gets an idea for a fic, she will jot down some things that she thought would be essential in the fic in her journal. Music is a big must whenever she writes a fic, along with a cup of coffee. One of her strategies in writing is by making herself write at least 500 words every day. She finds it to be quite effective, especially when she is working on a multi-chaptered fic.

While she really enjoys writing fluff, she said that she can’t write some angst. According to her, real life is already hard enough, so she doesn’t want to put more sadness into something that supposed to be an escape. She particularly loves AU fics. “It takes quite a lot of imagination to put the characters into a whole different set of universe, yet you still have to write them as who they really are canonically. I enjoy both reading it and writing it.” When it comes to the kind of AU that she likes, she said that she is a sucker for Soulmate!AU fic and Coffee Shop AU (Well, considering that she drinks at least 4 cups of coffee a day, we was not really surprised about this).  She also mentioned that one of her favorite tropes is Fake Dating. She told us that one of her fics that she’s most proud of is The Thin Line. “It’s about  David/Joe which is one of my favorite pairings, it’s an AU fic, and it’s a fake dating one. And somehow I managed to squeeze in Fernando Torres to give a shovel talk in the fic.” Here’s an excerpt of that fic:

David looked up at Joe and his eyes were wide and warm. But the look in those caramel eyes were a mix of longing and sincerity and something vulnerable. Joe absently thought whether it was the same kind of look that David found in his eyes. Joe cupped David’s cheek with one hand, gently ran the pad of his thumb over David’s jaw. They were still swaying along with the music but their feet moved slower and slower, like the way the final notes of a symphony faded away before it ended. He slowly leaned forward and everything was starting to blur into slow motion. Joe could see each and every single one of David’s lashes. A little part of his mind realized that at some point they had stopped moving but at the moment Joe also felt like they were inside an invisible bubble, mist and cloud around them. Joe stopped moving right when the tip of his nose touched David’s. David’s breathing was warmly ghosting, almost like teasing, against his skin.

David’s eyes fluttered closed and his hands slid up Joe’s neck, threading his fingers between Joe’s curls. Joe closed his eyes but behind his eyelids he saw the cherry red of David’s cheeks, the rosy red of David’s lips.

In her writing, some of the lines can come in such a lyrical, almost poetical way, even when she was only using simple words. For example, let’s have a look at an excerpt from one of her fics here:

They were close enough that their shoulders sometimes brush each other. But the silence between them stretched like an unbearable distance.

They were so close, Marco could reach out for her hand to hold it.

He didn’t.

(He knew he wouldn’t be able to let it go had he done it)

She never asked him to stay anyway. So Marco left.

(That night Marco dreamt about winning the Champions League with Real Madrid. He won the cup and brought the cup home with him. The home was big and beautiful but it was empty. Marco hated the dream)

(Dream)

Utami said that one of her biggest insecurities in writing is her English. She said that she always finds her grammar is all over the place, especially when it comes to tenses. She also admitted that she felt her vocabulary is really limited, and she often scared whether she’s using the right word with the right context. “But I guess, one of the ways that I can do to improve is by reading even more and just keep on writing,” she said.

At the moment, she is working on two fics for the riordanverse fandom, in which one of them is a Musician!AU. She also mentioned that she has started a Creative Writing challenge last year, and she is considering to continue the challenge this year for the football fics.

We asked her for one tips she would like to share with us, and this is what she gave us.

The best way to improve in writing is just by doing it. It would be much better if you like, really write something, anything, other than just keep on saying that you want to write. Start small. Having 100 words scribbled on a piece of paper is still much better than nothing.

Well people, it has been a great pleasure to know more about Utami. And we hope that you also enjoy it as much as we do!

And as always. Let’s close this with another excerpt from one of her works, that she claimed to be one of the fics that was really dear to her

“So,” James said as they both standing on the pavement. “Well… It was… Nice…” he said, turning his head to look at David.

“Uh. Yeah,” David said, nervously smiled back at James.

His heartbeat started racing like crazy.

Thump thump thump.

He couldn’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. It was barely two weeks ago he had his heart broken. He was not ready for this.

(What was this, anyway?)

( The Color of the Sky)

[actualfanficdumpster]

Best Friends, for ever? Part 1

Best Friends, since I could remember.

Fandom: 13 Reasons Why

Pairing: Zach Dempsey x Reader

Chapter: 1 / ? (Still unsure, let’s see where it goes)

Words: 1,427

A/N: I suck at summaries and I suck at describing things. No names mentioned, other than Zach’s and other characters that are associated with him. Reader’s Character and everyone associated with her are nameless for (almost) believable immersion.

Summary: He’s my best friend, though I haven’t played the part for a few years. Why? Because I couldn’t handle being just the best friend. I’ve been in love with him for as long as I can remember, but after drifting apart, I thought I would never have the chance to, until I did.

-----

I wake up to the sound of my alarm, blaring, ordering me to get my ass up because it's another school day. I let out a groan, reach for my phone and turn the alarm off. A few moments passed, right before I drifted off to sleep after my meager attempt to get out of bed, I heard knocks on my door and a soft voice followed, "Hey, Breakfast is ready. Mom asked me to call you..." sounding unsure, she continued, "...and he's waiting for you downstairs."

I force myself to speak, dread washing over me while I listened to what my sister was saying. The text from last night came to my mind. "Yeah, I'll be right down."

"Okay. Don't take too long, please. Mom said you're taking me to school." What followed that was a series of footsteps slowly fading.

I sit up, making an effort to actually get up. I put my feet on the wooden floor, stood up, walked to the bathroom and showered. I didn't take much time deciding what to wear, but then again, I never did. I put jeans on, wore a white shirt and grabbed a hoodie. 5 minutes later, I was making my way down the stairs, hand-combing my soaked hair, I stopped midway. From where I stood, I saw him. He stood near the door, looking at his feet like they're the most interesting thing, fidgeting and playing with the snap of his letterman jacket. To say that it's unlike him is an understatement.

He's always standing tall - taller than everyone else with his height being 6'3". He walks around, towering over everyone with his head held high and that's what everyone around him saw. Seeing him this pensive almost broke my heart into even smaller pieces.

But this isn't the first time I've seen him show the person behind his facade. It was a year ago, during junior year. It was an ordinary day, same old pattern at the same old place with the same old people. Not once did it occur to me that what happened that afternoon could happen.

I still remember it, clear as day. It was lunch and I went back to the classroom to get a book I forgot but what I found was a sight I thought I wouldn't forget - a sight that I later on found out that I couldn't forget.

The room was empty besides a figure, standing with his hands on the window sill. He seemed to be watching the people outside but what, at first, I thought was a creep, turned out to be a soul who's mourning. His back was shaking and he let out a few soft sobs. I tried my best not to take him by surprise, so I knocked lightly on the desk closest to me. That plan wasn't as brilliant as I though it was. He jumped, turned to me and wiped his eyes vigorously. "H- How long have you been standing there, creep?" His face was against the light and I couldn't see his features, but his voice is not something anyone could easily forget. It was the voice you hear whenever he scores at games, the voice you hear when he talks through a mic during a pep rally, the voice you hear together with a few more when he walks along the hallway with his friends. The voice that used to calm me down whenever my parents fought when I was younger. It was the voice of Zach Dempsey. "Oh, it's you. Aren't you supposed to be eating lunch with your posse?"

It took a few seconds for me to react and a bit longer for my eyes to adjust. It's not everyday that you see The Zach Dempsey crying. "First of all, I do not have a posse. Second, I should be asking you that. And third, I haven't been here long... Because I didn't see the joint you were smoking. I mean, look at your eyes!" I tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke and a small laugh. For a second, I saw a hint of a smile and I hoped it was helpful. I walked closer to where he stood.

"Well, too bad. I wouldn't have been opposed to sharing said joint." There he was again, the Zach Dempsey you see everyday. When I was standing close enough, he sat down on the floor, out of view from the windows and the doors.

I sat beside him. "Well, too bad I don't smoke."

"Well, too ba- wait, you don't smoke?" Disbelief flashed across his face for a moment. I assured him with a nod and he smirked, "Are you sure? I swear I've seen you smoking before!"

"What lies! I think you took me for somebody else, Zach. I've never even tried to smoke. Ever. My parents are heavy smokers, remember?" I waved my hands for emphasis.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, probably trying to rummage through his mind. "I do, but I saw you at a party! I'm sure it was you. You don't exactly look like anybody else, you know."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I exclaimed as I slapped his arm.

He laughed, almost playfully. "What the hell?! I totally meant that as a compliment!"

"You're an i-" I was cut off by the familiar ring of a bell, signaling that lunch was over. "diot. Well, I guess that's my cue to leave. It was nice talking to you, Zach."

"Nah, I should be the one thanking you. Thanks for brightening up my day. I kinda feel stupid, you know? Crying in school and all." We both stood up, picked up our bags and headed for the door.

I stared at him, eyes wide, feigning surprise. "What?! You were crying? I didn't know!"

He laughed as he opened the door, looking and sounding a lot better than he did a while ago. "Yeah, right!"

"All kidding aside though, You do know that you can talk to me if you need to, right?" I stopped and looked him in the eye.

"Yeah. I know. And I'm thankful for that. Maybe we can meet after school, at Rosie's?"

"Deal." After the word came out of my mouth, he took me by surprise with a hug. Something he's never done - to me, at least since we were 12 years old.

"I gotta get to class, I've already been late so many times. See you later! 5-ish!" He shouted as he ran towards the other direction, headed to class.

I stood there, glued for a moment, as I processed what just happened. Slightly questioning his sudden eagerness to get to class, and sudden generosity of hugs. Zach and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. With our mothers being close friends. We spent a lot of time together as kids. When we were in middle school, he taught me how to play basketball while I taught him how to play chess. But like almost every other friendship, we grew apart as the years went by. I focused on music, while he focused on sports. He gained popularity as he gained height and mad basketball skills, while I got into completely different things.

The rest of the afternoon went by fast. After my last class, as I was walking to my locker, I found a post-it note with the word 'Later.' and signed '-ZSY'

With all that's happening, papers due, exams, and the untimely death of 2 students, the only good thing I can cling on was the hope that maybe, Zach and I could grow closer again. He was, after all, my best friend."

He was my best friend.

It felt like I woke up for the second time while I was standing at the landing of the stairs. I blinked twice, and he still hasn't looked up, eyes still glued to the floor. It wasn't until I cleared my throat that he looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep. "You look like shit."

"You showered." He smiled, but it faltered as quickly as it appeared. "I-I kept calling you last night. I left you messages, I sent texts, why did you shut me out?"

"We have the time to talk on the way to school. Do you want to eat before we go?" I kept it as casual, and as civil I could. I mustered up all the courage I had to face him without breaking down in tears.

[beautifulramblingbrains]

Crush - Chapter 1. Daydreaming.

Pairing: Eric/OC *Abbey* Fandom: Divergent Rating: M

A memory from Eric's past plays tricks on him. And it's all about the girl, Abbey Ainsworth.

A/N: So, as I’m in a state of limbo, I’ve taken it upon myself to slowly edit my way through my old work. This is my first fanfiction I ever did and I think it’s about time I began uploading it on here.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Fuck. He hadn't thought of that name in over three years. If it wasn't for the number boy he probably wouldn't have thought of it for another ten.

But today is different. Today he has the time to sit in remembrance. He has time to reminisce about what was - even if the memories give him a heated inner core and a bad case of the Monday's.

Stretching his legs leisurely under the table and sitting further back in his recliner chair, he has no further duties that require his personal attention for a good hour. He was enclosed and cocooned by the safety of his dimly-lit office with the blinds half-mast. He was safe here to empty the trashy thoughts that seemed to have crept up on him out of the hazy mist of his youthful brain.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Eric lazily flops his arm down to the drawer on the side of the desk, pulling the secret cigarettes that he always kept there. In fact, they weren't really a secret, he would smoke if he wanted and wouldn't care for who's say so. But he liked to think for his health that it was his dirty little secret, and right now, there didn't seem any better time than to pull one, bite the filter and light the damn thing. It was a need, a must, and he's already blazing it habitually as the name seems to simper back into his brain again.

Abbey Ainsworth.

He couldn't really remember when they became friends back at Erudite. It just, sort of, happened…

She used to be in his class. Brown bob, skinny, and her teeth too big for her head. They hadn't even spoken in between the years, he didn't even really know she existed and treated her to that same effect.

Eric regarded her as any other little annoying girl and that boys didn't hang around with girls, they were disgusting, vile, whiners.

That's until they got put together randomly in biology.

He'd just turned thirteen and honestly, couldn't think of anything worse than having to discuss with her the ecology and evolution of life through frog dissection. Having a girl as his lab partner… he all but groaned as he imagined her freaking out or possibly hurling like Sandy Morrison. But she didn't.

In fact, she'd taken the knife out of his gloved hands, smiled up at him through her vented safety goggles and sliced the stomach open before the teacher even gave them the go-ahead.

It was in that moment, the little annoying girl with the brown bob and teeth too big for her head, professionally and enthrallingly slicing and pulling apart the frog's skin like she was a complete psychopath - It was in that moment he knew they would be the best of friends.

It only seemed to get better as the year passed.

She helped him cheat in his Math's test at fourteen. They had devised a unique tap of the foot in the silenced room, to which she swirled numbers on her back with a finger once he'd alerted her to his entrapment, sometimes throwing a coy smile over her shoulder when authority wasn't looking. Afterward, they ditched all further lessons and took to the biggest oak tree they could find.

It was her idea.

She climbed first, swinging her bright blue bag over her shoulder and tying her woolen knitted jumper to her waist, calling him "Chicken shit," when he didn't attempt to climb in the first instance. But to be fair, he was just trying not to look up her dress as she uncaringly climbed from branch to branch.

There, they sat for hours until their asses felt raw, talking nothing but utter nonsense and mocking over the nerdy freaks in their class. Soon, it seemed to become a regular thing, so much so, that one day they both carved their names at the top - No hearts or any other drivel, just their names. But she drew a smiley face…

At one point when they were fifteen Abbey never turned up for school one day. It wasn't like her, she always turned up and he couldn't understand why.

It wasn't like he could message her - he got his phone confiscated by his parents when it got reported they had prank-called Desmond Drip too many times in one night.

But in the one day, he'd never felt so lost. Not even his other friends shared the same sense of indulgent humor as they did, and it was a plain fact he'd clock watched the entire day until he could go looking for her.

He'd found her, eventually. She was at home, and she'd answered the door barely able to look at him.

"What happened to your face?" he asked, and she diverted her eyes to the floor. There was one specific eye blackened and shining as a massive indicator of injustice, and the mere thought and sight made his blood boil to an inhuman temperature.

He knew by the way she was looking indirectly to the floor, that nothing was alright in the life of Abbey Ainsworth. He knew this look, it was a look he did himself, one of loss of pride, but also something she'd been trying to hide.

"Sarah Mackey." The words fall from her quivered but rosy lips.

"Why?" He watches as her eyes well up, but she won't cry, won't allow herself to, not in front of him.

"Because she says I'm a whore for hanging around with boys."

He'd left her that evening having found the new knowledge of deep personal interest. He'd found Sarah Mackey's older brother by the bench of the south entrance the next morning and, quite frankly, beat the living shit out of him.

"That's for Abbey!" he let bellow from the pit of his stomach once he'd dropped him. But it also earned him a matching black eye amid the chaos - that he wasn't too pleased with. It didn't matter though, as when he went to see Abbey later on that day, they matched…

Her smile beamed from ear to ear and strangely she threw her arms around his neck for thanks. It was their first ever hug… but it wasn't their last.

At sixteen, Abbey's hair was long. She'd filled out perfectly and she sported breasts, whereas he sported half-decent facial hair for once. But they still acted as if they were thirteen, name-calling, jinxing, free-hits.

They had their aptitude tests at the beginning of the year, and Eric was unsurprised to find that he wasn't Erudite after swiping the knife in the fear simulation and easily obliterating the dog. They weren't allowed to say what they got, but it didn't mean he hadn't the insatiable urge to ask Abbey. They settled for: "Not Erudite" instead, and that's the way it stayed.

Eric's father passed halfway through that year from a sudden heart attack.

The news was delivered to him after being escorted from their English class by their main professor and he was sent home accordingly. She turned up later that night, she didn't say anything, didn't have to. He saw she was already aware of the news. Instead of offering her condolences, Abbey pulled him into her arms, his face in her peppermint hair, her nose against his neck. He couldn't figure out how long they stood like that, but it was a long time. But it was enough, being with her at that moment was enough…

Then one day everything changed.

Abbey found him after class and jingled a cigarette in his face, well, what he thought was a cigarette. It was not until they were back at their tree within the ruined cities wilderness that he actually found out it was a joint.

They smoked that shit till their lungs burned and eyes bled.

They practiced blowbacks and he'd burnt his lip. She tried to teach him to blow rings but he Just. Simply. Couldn't. However, that didn't matter, they laughed highly for what seemed like hours at practically nothing. And it was the best time of his life.

Laying softly on the small pit of earth beneath the tree, watching the branches sway in the light breeze as the moon decided to make an appearance. He remembers it being a full moon, the dewy blue haze settling upon them softly and deliciously cool - that eventually he felt cold fingers slide over the back of his hand, placing themselves entwined with his.

The breath practically hitched in his throat and he'd froze, but it didn't stop him from turning his head and noticing the way she was looking at him. When their eyes met she'd smiled softly and chastely said:

"You're my moon."

Before slowly turning her gaze back up towards the tree and the sky and whatever else she was looking at. However, he didn't, he allowed him a few extra minutes to take in her never-noticed-before features. The gradual slope of her nose, the puckered lips, her long lazily blinking eyelashes as she was pooled by a pillow of her own chestnut hair framed around her head. It was in that moment, he realized how beautiful she was and wondered why he'd never seen it before.

They held hands in silence until midnight.

Eric's life came to a blazing, sharp, gut-wrenching, panicky ball of nerves when Abbey's parents invited him to dinner. He'd spent the whole day of the Friday panicking. He'd gone home and changed between four shades of blue before finalizing on something parent-worthy but utterly, boringly, blue... But what got to him the most was how he couldn't really figure out why this bothered him so much…

Of course, he'd met her parents, but briefly. And usually, it was because they were in trouble or he was coming to see if she was home. It was never formal, however.

All night he put on his best behavior and told them stories about himself, how he was doing in his classes, things he liked and didn't like. But in his side-view, Abbey just smiled at him from across the table as he spoke. He would almost say it was as if they were the only people in the room and his gray eyes would hold hers for moments far too long.

Till she slid her foot up his leg…

And continued to do so through dessert, earning him a temporary cough and marks in between his fingers from his own nails.

At seventeen, they had one year left to the choosing ceremony. And this seemed to pain Eric more than he would like.

He hadn't told her about which faction he was planning on joining after Erudite. He was far too broad and significantly provoked in the Erudite navy uniform with his great height and strong jawline. He wasn't in the slightest muscular, just athletic, but better built than the average men he'd seen milling around. But it wasn't just that…

Eric wanted more. He wanted freedom. He wanted power. He wanted to be Dauntless… But all those things he wanted with Abbey. However, the unknown faction of her choice was simpering on the fine edge of earth shattering heartache.

However, he could never find the right words to tell Abbey appropriately, even when every inch of him screamed him to out it. And when he felt that perhaps he had stumbled upon them and was about to let them slip, she turns and smiles at him, holds his hand, plays with his hair. It's like she knew what he was thinking.

At break, with his head in her lap and under the familiar oak tree. She lazily picks the petals from a flower. Nipping the petals softly, letting them flutter past his head, while he stares between her face and the puny white monstrosities of flower spawn. Then unexpectedly, she meets his eye.

"I want to show you something…" Abbey's cheeks ignite, and a million things run through his head. Had he missed something? Nothing usually gets by him.

She pushes him to sit and he drawls "Okkkay," unsurely.

Abbey blushes as she looks to the floor again and Eric hides his embarrassment for her.

She shrugs off her cardigan and slowly, her dainty fingers work at the buttons of her white shirt, painstakingly leisurely. All he can seem to do is stare with his Adam's apple bobbing repeatedly as he tries to swallow the saliva that's decided to form quicker.

She throws off her shirt and sits in a white lacy bra in front of him with her milky skin exposed. He tries his hardest to keep her gaze but he can't help the momentary acts of defiance his eyes seem to make.

"Wh-" Eric tries to talk with his jaw slack, but she hushes him quickly.

"Shh." She shuffles closer on her knees. "Don't ruin it." Slowly, she moves forwards, her eyes searching each of his and he stares back with the same passionate glint that he sees beginning to form in hers.

She kisses him.

His first kiss.

Her lips were hot and lusciously soft against his own, and he let his eyes close along with hers.

She bites at his bottom lip while pulling away slowly. He was surprised at first, but smiles when she tilts her head back to roam over his face briefly, maybe checking if he was possibly still breathing.

"Chicken shit," she says. "You're supposed to kiss me first."

"You're not exactly conventional." And she kisses his smile. This time he opens his mouth a little and she responds instantly, sliding her sweet tongue to search out his, hands sliding round to the back of his head and through his hair. He grips at her waist and pulls her forward, sliding a hand up her back and finding the lacy material of her bra, mentally trying to figure out just exactly how he's found himself in this scenario and whether he's the most luckiest son of a bitch on this planet.

"Take it off," she practically purrs, moving back a little to catch his reaction.

"What if someone sees us?"

"What if…" She shrugs. And like a classical school-boy, he fumbles for about five minutes trying to figure out the stupid clasp and can't fathom why it won't naturally move the way he wants it to. She merely giggles, and with a special superhuman ability – unclasps it with one hand.

Eric doesn't want to look out of courtesy but just can't help it. Perfectly pert, untouched skin sits before him, the nipple hardened and tempestuously pink.

"I want you to touch me, Eric." And he didn't need telling twice. The soft skin sits pleasantly against his palm as he lightly squeezes. Abbey leans in and kisses him again, pushing him further and further backward until he's almost lying flat and she hovers over him.

That day she tells him.

"I think – I think I love you…"

But he doesn't say it back, and she doesn't appear to be disheartened. She knows him too well to be put off by his uniquely restrictive mind. To be honest, he didn't even really know what love was, so how could he say it? Was this love?

Abbey had always been more openly emotional in front of him to some extent, she was a blunt girl when it came to him. Apart from physically showing emotional attachment, they'd never really talked about it…

But not only that, she didn't know that he was planning on choosing Dauntless next year. That's where his mind took him and it would be unfair to whisper the sweet nothings to her if he had no plan on staying.

Being with Abbey here was ultimately pleasing too, but he was so sure she would pick Dauntless. She had all the strengths and cunning, and if he was going, she would be going too. He could feel it, he knew it, no doubts.

Things became serious the day before the choosing ceremony.

Abbey shows up at his parent's place and is shown to his room by his mom throwing the door open unexpectedly. "Thank you, Mrs Coulter," Abbey says sweetly and smiles while stepping into his room.

Eric throws the book he was reading to one side and takes a minute to take in her appearance. She's sodden, walked there in the rain.

"I wanted to see you… before tomorrow, in case…" She shivers.

He signals for her to sit on the bed and throws her his towel. Her damp, flattened locks lay limp by her face. She looks pale, almost frightened.

"Don't, we shouldn't say…"

"That's not the only reason why I'm here. Lock the door," she talks very seriously and he complies - with a little sense of hesitation. She holds her hand out as the lock clicks and sighing lightly under the unknown, he walks over and holds it. "Lie down with me." Her eyes appear watery, hazy and he wonders what exactly is going through her mind right now. He moves, but she stops him. "Without your clothes."

"Are you sure?" He wasn't going to detest.

"I've never been so sure."

He would like to say that it was the most perfect sex anyone could have for their first time, but he would be lying. They were a giggling set of fools, clumsily roaming parts of their bodies that he'd never thought he would have the delight of seeing… or feeling. He'd made her squirm uncomfortably on their first try and he pulled out apologizing only to be dragged back with Abbey's natural stubbornness.

What was more thrilling was the fact that they could've been caught. However, they were lucky on this night, his mother had left them to their own devices. He did think that perhaps she maybe knew why Abbey was here and that was the reason she had let them be. Eric guessed he would never know and for in that moment – didn't care either…

Abbey gets called to choose before him, throwing him a long look before fixing a sturdy gaze towards the bowls of factions.

Eric can't help the nervous shifts and racing heart as he waits somewhat patiently, his mother's hand lightly laying on his knee for small comfort.

"She's a smart girl," his mother tells him. "And I know how close you two are but you have to do what's right for you, not for others…" At the time he didn't think too much of it, but his mother had openly predicted their fate.

…Abbey chooses Amity.

Every inch of skin on him is ablaze as he watches her make her way to sickening pink and yellow. looney nut-jobs. She looks utterly lost and tries to look back for him but is pulled into one of the open seats with the Amity faction. Abbey smiles to other members, but it's not her usual, he should know, he knew her better than anyone else. However, he didn't expect this, never knew which way her heart was taking her.

If he'd thought about it hard enough, the signs were there: Their oak tree, the outdoors and love of flowers, hate of violence with Sarah Mackey, the relaxing smoke they took together under the moonlight and hugging him obsessively for the last three years.

He'd always classed it is a warped sense of Dauntless, never Amity.

His blood burned with a sense of betrayal. It felt like she had lied all this time, but he knew she hadn't and that he couldn't truly be mad of her choice in all respect. The anger was more at himself for feeling how he did towards her, and for the main element – he'd have to let her go.

The last time they saw each other, he shared an expressionless look towards her watery eyes as they parted ways on their journey to their new factions.

Dauntless was his new home.

Sighing as he pulls himself from his lost thoughts, he once again curses Four for his untimely reminder of Abbey Ainsworth and wiggles the mouse of the computer to check the time.

11.50AM

Eric clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth in annoyed anticipation that he would have to deal with this onslaught of deliverance. Amity would be arriving soon. Their trucks dirtied and thick tiered tires crunching the broken concrete of Dauntless instead of their plush fields, laden with the hippies of Amity and batches of produce for the glutinous warrior faction.

Just fucking dandy.

Every vertebra clicks as he stands, his room washed with the smell of a chain-smoker and an awful temper for inconveniences. He doesn't bother to pick up his phone, but he attaches his gun to his right thigh and an A4 page of the checklist he will no doubt develop a headache over.

The walk from his office to the warehouses isn't long, and he's never bothered by anyone. No one now would dare talk to him when he was in this mood, nor even make eye contact, and that was the way he liked it these days, a far cry to how he was in Erudite.

He supposed the behavior was always there in a way. He spat at the youngsters and she would laugh. He would fetch the ball from the moat and she would stay by the shore and dry. He would physically beat anyone that touched his Abbey and was always rewarded by her smile.

Eric shakes his head vigorously; he's not going back down that road again. That was a hell of enough for one day.

"So glad you could join us, Eric." Max stares out to the trucks rolling up in front of them. "I had a feeling you might not even turn up."

"Is that a sense of sarcasm I'm hearing?" Eric places his hands behind his back and imitates the strong look towards the truck, unbothered by the small questioning glance to his rather unusual passive state. "Let's just get this done."

The few subordinate Dauntless soldiers run a-mock as they divert the trucks to their certain bays. The heavy beeping and shouting drowning out even the deepest of thoughts as the gassy smoke from the exhausts back-fire and smolder the burning oil towards his nostrils.

Eric has stood here and overlooked this arrangement fifty times over, and as far as he was aware everything was working out the way it should before him and he didn't feel the need to intervene.

…Until one of the trucks stall and the backdoor unhinges, sending bags of produce tumbling out the back and smashing onto the floor, spilling ungracefully across the lot.

"Fuck," Eric mutters and Max sends him an incredulous look, unmoving from his position. "Fine. I'll go then."

Eric closes the gap brutally with his swift stride and arms himself for the onslaught of abuse that he's going to send the clumsy Amity packing-with. The Amity and Dauntless alike in the nearest vicinity move hastily in retreat and he doesn't bless them with even a small act of acknowledgment.

Instead, he grips the door handle of the red rust-bucket truck and yanks on it with limited grace. "You want to tell me what the fuck-"

He stops mid-sentence.

Eric must've have smoked too much tobacco and daydreamed far too much to be imagining her blushing down at him from the wrecked material seats of the truck.

Abbey.

It was her, he was sure of it, albeit a little more mature and magnificently filled out to the svelte of her curves. It was her.

Abbey's hair was still chestnut, her eyes still green and flecked with hazel, her adorable pout, and perfect nose. But she had bangs, side-swept bangs that were the only difference.

"I'm really sorry…" She begins and he wished he could have said anything other than:

"Abbey?" The word was so out of character and soft that he didn't believe he'd even said it. He naturally pulls his features into his usual frown, but the eyes are less intense, it was all about the eyes.

He physically hadn't said her name in years, it was all mainly in his thoughts from earlier. Fuck, he hadn't even thought of her since - until today…

Abbey's face is a maze of assumptions as she mulls over exactly who's standing in front of her. Slowly, but surely, disbelief arises. "…No way…" She whispers under her breath and his skin prickles at the sound. "Eric?"

He takes a small look around him to make sure no one's really paying attention before shifting closer. "What are you- why are you here?"

And as casually as ever, she laughs, smiling that familiar smile he remembered so well. "What does it look like?" He could bite his own tongue off for his stupid questions and stupid face so pitifully brimming on a long-lost hope.

Abbey slides down the seats and roams over his attire, curling her nose up a little and probably taking in the thick tattoos swamping his neck along with the piercings above his brow and multiple ear pieces. "Wow, Eric, you look…huge…like…really big…" Her eyes light up as she talks and expresses each word specifically. "Buff."

She looks pretty, too fucking pretty at this moment in time and every inch of him is trying to suppress the urge to grab her by the arm and take her all the way back to his apartment and bite at her skin and relish all the ways that he missed that knotted feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You know me, full of surprises…"

"I heard you got ranked really highly… a Leader… Wow, look at you…" She rubs his arm and he thinks perhaps she doesn't know how offensive that would be if it were anyone else, but he lets her anyway.

Eric breaks the intense study he's performing over her appearance and directs a sharp look to the Amity standing around. "Well, don't just stand there, clean it up!" he snaps and Abbey shifts beside him, turning fractionally to do as he says. "Not you." He should say something else, something casual. However, he's somewhat out of practice. "You haven't changed a bit…" Good one.

"You certainly have. I mean, I barely recognized you. It's been-" She peers off in thought, her lips pouting slightly.

"Three years."

"Somebody has been counting…" She devours him with her eyes and he's actually nervous… nervous… he is never nervous. But he supposes every monster has their weaknesses.

"I, er, have been thinking about you…" Eric practically whispers, breaking any personal contact with her. "-because of the deliveries and Amity, and I knew you were-"

"I've been thinking about you, too." She stops his murmuring and lightly touches his arm again. "I hoped I'd get the chance to see you again."

His expression must ask the question 'why' as she answers anyway.

"I want you…" She hesitates for a split second. "I want you to come to my wedding…"

What. The. Fuck.

"No!" Eric spits the word venomously, a heat running from the base of his spine and blanching onto his neck. "Don't be stupid, you're not getting married."

"Erm, yes I am… In two weeks."

Eric knew she couldn't possibly love her fiancé; he wouldn't be enough for her, no one ever would be. Only Eric was meant for the girl. - This girl of all his firsts. This girl that spent far too much time clogging his mind today and sculpting his childhood.

The possessiveness was beginning to peak under the new assault of jealousy and lust. He would rip any person that would touch his Abbey, from limb to limb and enjoy himself while doing it.

"No," he says gruffly. "No I will not come to your wedding and you're an idiot for thinking so…" He leaves the words to linger in the air and it physically hurts when her face unravels in absolute surprise at his outburst and brutal honesty.

"Have I… done something to offend you?" She shrugs with her palms towards him in great apology, but it's not enough.

Eric beats down the eloping misery and turns away from her, feeling her eyes burn into the back of his head and the ripping sensation in his chest.

Loudly he snarls, "I hope you have a very happy life together."

This was not what he planned, not what he wanted to say, but the monster that was him couldn't bare her anywhere near him anymore. Not with those hideously exposed revelations.

Abbey will not marry another man… not while he still breathed.

He just needed time to figure out how. Marking his own words, he'll fucking stop her from devoting herself to someone else. He had the power swaying heavily in his favor and contacts heavily primed in Amity to help him do so.

Mark my words, Abbey Ainsworth will be mine.

[pendragonfics]

Part Two

Perhaps: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Paring: Mycroft Holmes/Reader

Tags: female reader, reader is an author, references to other fandoms (like Doctor Who), coffee shops, POV Mycroft, POV reader, feels, loneliness, fluff, bad matchmaking, tea makes everything better, kissing.

Summary: Three times in which you come across and into the life of Mycroft Holmes, and he in your own.

...by word of mouth, Mycroft Holmes is interested in this writer, and takes it upon himself to investigate her. And, purely because ______ cannot let stones go un-turned from her curious nature, she investigates him -- the only way she knows how.

Word Count: 1,625

Posting Date:  2017-03-28

Current Date: 2017-06-16

The best part about being a famous author, was perhaps that few people cared to read the last page of the book, wherein your face was nestled amongst text that read things about your life and the comings to be in print. Because of this, there was a high chance that people did not take note of your face, often so that just as they left an elevator, or you were out of gaze that they realised it was the _______ ________, and had a little story to tell their friends in the office that afternoon. It was a novelty, at first, coming from a home where there had never been enough money for milk and bread bought at once. But that life had been ages and ages ago - or, at least, it felt like it. But truly, the best part about being unnoticed, also meant you could take yourself in your favourite coat to the homey coffee shop a block away from your home, and type to your heart's content.

At best, the cafe was never truly busy; there was often a lonely-heart in the corner, sipping their cappuccino, composing poetry that would never see daylight, and the milkman, who'd sweet talk the barista, who in turn would give a grin to all his patrons. Not a soul would dare interrupt a person at work on their laptop - after all, they were in London, a place teeming with keyboard-clackers and faceless suits.

The man who sat before you, though, was not face-less. He was clean-shaven, with immaculately parted hair and a tie so neat it looked as if it could cut someone if touched. Everything about him screamed posh and upper-class or perhaps vaguely important politician and there you were, dressed as if you'd run out of the house at three in the morning upon hearing a Nana had been hospitalised.

"Ms. __________," he started, hooking an umbrella to the side of the table, inspecting every detail of your soul upon sitting down. "I thought I could find you here."

You raised a brow, and slowly, lowered the face of the laptop. "Are you lost, Mr. ...?"

He shook his head. "Mr. Holmes. And no, I am not. You met my younger brother a week or so ago, whilst working on the Finnegan Heroin case," he introduces, and extends a hand across the table to yours, to shake. "I'm here to consider your side of the events as a favour to Sherlock."

"So, I take it that you're the cleverer one who pulls strings, aren't you?" You ask him, folding your hands under your chin to watch the elder Mr. Holmes as he took in your information. "I was a fan of Agatha Christie as a child, I can read people like your family seems to do," you smile, "However, not as well, evidently. So, what questions do you have for me?"

He quirks his head, and sliding a hand inside his coat pocket, withdraws a small piece of paper. The handwriting on it is pristine, the best cursive you've seen despite being a calligraphy admirer online. "Just ... if you ever noticed anything strange about Mr. Finnegan, that's all," he pushes the paper toward you, which now you can focus on the words, see what they read. "And why the greatest author in London alive was living in that apartment."

"Mr. Finnegan never struck me as odd, just a man who never took guests, and left every morning at ten for tea down in the park with his paper," you reply, pointedly ignoring the other end of the question. "He was never rude or frightening ... but if you really want all I know about him, he'd often vacuum his floors very early, and sung too high for his vocal range in the shower."

He sits there. It's quiet between the two of you - the strange man who had just appeared with his umbrella and quizzical brow, and the author with nothing better to do than type her days away - until he coughs into his fist. "Er - thank you, Ms. ________."

You lean toward him, inspecting his green eyes, "I don't suppose you have a first name, do you, Mr. Holmes?" You hum, and go to open your laptop once more to start up the tool of your trade just once more.

Mr. Holmes seems flustered at the remark, a little rosy blush staining his cheeks. "Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mycroft," you grin, and disappear behind the screen of the laptop. I have a feeling I will see you again eventually.

---

The best part about being a politician like he was, was that not a soul mentioned his names on the whimsy of a breath - he was a consultant, a political grab, a man who steered the world from disaster with a flick of his finger and a thwart of an enemy. There wasn't a mention of his name on the internet save for archives of school records from when he graduated from university. It was good - he could go places with his familiar scowl and invitation from a high up known entity in government, or browse the public library without a single person interrupting his session around the paperback world.

But if Mycroft Homes had the time for browsing carelessly in libraries, let alone deviating his attention from the current upcoming crisis (tensions brewing in Antarctica for more base stations, or something) to the little (h/c) haired writer who drank her coffee the same way he did was located beside the investigation he was dragged into by his brother. It wasn't that he was getting slower in his years and needed whole attention to task to focus, no. It was that there was just something about the writer who made him want to sit down and hear all about her mind, because it must be hard to have a world stuck inside your head, to have it all in there before publication.

He sat in his office, once more absorbed in the work splayed before him. There was a meeting coming up soon, and Anthea would grab him on the way to it as to not be late. Thus, it left Mycroft to be at will staring at the manila folders before him, sorting out the figures mentally.

It wasn't until the chair opposite his desk creaked that he realised that somebody had managed to slip into his office without being detected. But with a glance, he could not help but be confused - it was none other than Ms. ________ _________. She wore a sweater with little bees embroidered into the collar, and dark blue jeans, and her best smile.

"I don't suppose this is a good time," she frowned, leaning forward. "Your assistant got in contact with me, said there was a need for follow-up meeting from what we did the other week in the cafe," she supported.

Mycroft raised a brow. "I didn't tell her ... perhaps you received this address from someone else?" But the woman before him pulls out a yellow flip phone, and shows the number it came from. Anthea's. It suddenly occurs to him that the time of the text coincides with the last time he made a home visit to 221b Baker Street, and the occasion that Sherlock pick-pocked his assistant to snoop. "My brother did this."

"I assumed so. Your assistant said it was okay to bring this in," she grabs a disposable cup from the floor beside the chair leg, and passes it to him, "I saw you eyeing my cup last time we met, Mr. Holmes." _______ beams.

He accepts the coffee, grateful for the warmth, the aroma of the cup in his hands. "Thank you very much, Ms. ________."

She laughs. "Please. Call me ________. It makes me feel a little more normal."

Mycroft can't help but know what that feels just like. "In that case, don't call me Mr. Holmes for the same reason." He goes to ask the author before him something, but she gets there first.

"I live in that apartment complex beside the elderly drug lord because I can't really see myself being alone in a fantastically big place where my pay packet can afford." She can't hold eyesight with him at this moment, staring at her hands rather than him. "I come from a family of no money, no reputation and no need for frivolity. I was the first in my bloodline to be in university, you know, Mycroft - and because of it, I do all I can to be unchanged from what I grew from." She takes a deep breath, and adds, "I may just be a great author, but I'm still the girl who grew up with welfare."

Mycroft sits there, the cup in his hands growing cold. "_________ -,"

She nods. "It's not pretty. And it can't be read in the book, I did my best to remove that part of myself from it. That's why I need to hurry up and write the second one before that part of me leaves me."

Mycroft understands, but not in the way an empathetic person would, but as someone who has seen terrible things, and knows what they are like without dipping a toe in the blood of another brother's sadness. He scribbles something on a faded yellow post-it-note, and passes it toward the woman sitting before him, Ms. ________, the tragically beautiful __________ who likes her coffee the same way he does.

"I should think I could call you again sometime, for another of these chats," he offers, the paper being folded into her palm.

She nods, "I should think so too."

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